gratuitous self pity

Jesus Loves All the Little A-Holes, Friends are Forgiven, and Serenity is an Incontinence Pad

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I have absolutely no illusions concerning my own lack of patience when people act stupid.   I do not suffer fools gladly, if ever, except for maybe trying to keep from throttling them by making fun of them. I’m not trying to be blasphemous when I say Jesus loves the people we (rightfully or wrongfully) assume to be assholes.  I’m just saying that He has a whole lot more patience than I ever could have.  He is God, I’m not, and that is a very fortunate thing for both the chronically and situationally stupid.

Speaking of the situationally stupid, Jerry enjoyed his Monday night beer and bitch session with Bob last night.  I’ve found that it’s a lot easier for me to endure those bitch sessions if I take the DS and play Freecell or Bookworm or Scrabble while Jerry whines and cries to Bob about how stupid his illustrious co-workers are.   I hope Bob finds it amusing.  I think he and Debbie are just happy to have company- even if said company does whine and cry, fill up the ashtrays, piss on the toilet seat, and leave empty beer cans.  It must suck to be old if that’s the best kind of company you get.  Jerry’s B&B sessions at Bob’s (for me at least) are usually an hour and a half of listening to the pot call the kettle black.  It gets more outrageous and whiny and paranoid the drunker he gets.  It’s painful to observe.    I am one of those annoying people who always has to be doing something- call it a nervous habit.  I like to watch TV and read at the same time, or troll on-line and watch TV, or play the DS while I’m watching TV.  Maybe I’m just hard wired to multitask all the time. 

It’s been way too long since I’ve had an evening of intelligent conversation, one on one with a friend.  It’s been so long that said conversation included a drink or two and not a few chain-smoked cigarettes.  I don’t regret for one moment being set free of the cigarette vice – which I will always attribute to the grace of God- but for a time reference only, it’s been eight and a half years since I’ve lit one up and even longer since I had an evening out somewhere nice with a friend.  I don’t think I would know how to behave.   Jerry’s idea of “dinner out” is either Waffle House or the pizza joint (one of the few places where he doesn’t bitch) or sending me to the Chinese joint for takeout.  While the pizza joint is good, and I do adore good Chinese food,  it would be fun to actually dress nice and go somewhere nice and be treated like a lady for a change.  However, I am sure that those in hell might welcome a snowball fight, and I’m not seeing that happening anytime soon either. 

Some women are treated to candlelight dinners and intelligent conversation from time to time.  I am treated to Captain Wastoid passed out on the bathroom floor, whitey-tighties hanging from the bed post (??? ’cause I was sober and I know I didn’t bother to take them off of him) and if it’s a really special occasion, really bad country music blaring from the stereo just to complete the ambience.  I was lucky last night to be spared the country music, but he managed to scare the living daylights out of Clara, which really pissed me off.

Clara has some issues in her history, one of which is that somewhere in her past- before she was rescued and came to us- she was beaten.  When we got her she was wary of almost all humans.  She preferred Kayla’s company to anyone’s and she felt safer with other dogs.   She was a bit better with women than men, and I slowly gained her trust.  Over time she has gotten to where she will tolerate certain men- generally she is good with Jerry, but she can’t stand to be around him when he’s drunk.  Last night he found a leather whip he had in the closet (Lord only knows why he has a leather whip, but he does.)  If he had actually used it on any of the dogs or even threatened to I would most assuredly beat the living hell out of him or at the very least zapped his ass with the stun gun, and I would do either of those things to anyone who would even remotely think about using a whip on my dogs.  Especially Clara.  But all she had to do was see him take the whip out of the closet and she freaked out.  Clara reads people better than people read people.  She knew he was drunk, and she knows he’s an asshole when he’s drunk.  Even though he did not threaten her with the whip ,(I would have had to severely mess his daytime up had he made that bad a choice) all she had to see was him, drunk, and a whip, and that did it for her.  I am going to make it a point to hide the whip in the same place I hide the stun gun so he can’t find either one when he’s wasted.

Poor Clara made a beeline for the bathtub (?certainly not her favorite place) and was cowering behind the bath curtain.  When Jerry staggered back to his room and flopped on his bed, I ended up convincing Clara to go to my room, where she promptly curled up all the way under the bed where no one can reach her.  She stayed there for an hour or two, until Captain Wastoid was passed out.  Then she got up on the bed with me, and was my personal 65# cling-on the rest of the night.  Clara is one of those rare and special dogs who respond to the most subtle commands and are (for good or ill) exquisitely tuned to their surroundings.  This is why police and military love the Malinois breed. Those dogs can read your mind, they are devoted to their handlers, and they don’t miss anything.  Clara seldom requires correction, and it is not necessary to raise one’s voice with her.  All it takes is a quiet “no” or a disapproving glance for me to correct her.

I will say Clara seemed none the worse for wear this morning, but I don’t like anyone upsetting her.  She is a good dog, and doesn’t deserve to have to put up with stupid shit. 

I shouldn’t find humor in bladder control products, especially as I am at risk for accidents myself, should I sneeze or cough or laugh the wrong way.   I should get some of these for Jerry, but he doesn’t normally just piss his pants, even if he’s really shitfaced.  He just pisses in unorthodox places such as closets, floors or drawers.  I just get to find the dampened whitey-tighties as a reminder the following morning.

Oh, for an evening in the company of adults.  I’ve done my time with those of the diaper set.

All of us are examples.  Some of us are bad ones.

Be Careful What You Wish For, Grinning Like the Cheshire Cat, and Take a Look Around

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I swear I didn’t send yesterday’s list with Jerry to the Dr.’s office- the one with the line about scheduling a colonoscopy and prostate exam with Extreme Prejudice.  It was a tempting thought, but I restrained myself.  He still has to schedule the colonoscopy, but he got his prostate exam right there.  I had to assure Jerry that no, it’s not a full arm ordeal like what Mike Rowe had to do to cows on Dirty Jobs. It might feel like a full arm ordeal, but hey, it’s all about your health.  At least now we know that’s not where Jimmy Hoffa ended up.  Besides, look at what women are supposed to have done every year once they turn 21.  And guys whine because they have to have their nether parts inspected from time to time once they turn 50.  Get over it, boys.

I should try to find Jerry some of those full-arm veterinary gloves just in the name of humor.

I shouldn’t be grinning like the Cheshire Cat, but it’s sort of funny in a way.  Maybe that’s what the Cheshire Cat thought to be so funny- a sort of cosmic justification.  Now you see, grasshopper, a little bit of what the other side sees.

I can verify that the exam Jerry had yesterday involved probably only one finger if the illustration is correct.  Unless he was mistaken for a horse.  Then it’s back to the veterinary gloves.

I am glad that Monsoon season here in Central Ohio is at least giving way to warm temperatures with the rain.  It’s almost time for the dogwoods to bloom, and I look forward to that every year.

The rose bushes are actually getting leaves on them and hopefully they will be budding soon.  I gave them some of that rose food stuff last night.  Jerry was still hyper and all traumatized last night so I ended up doing various chores to shut him up.  I really hate that because I am dead tired in the evening, and the last thing I want to do is sweep up leaves and crap but he did clear out the front flower beds so I can get some annuals and some mulch to finish them off- when it stops raining for a few hours again.

So I will have to have a triple threat evening tonight- hair, face Nair, and nails.  Hopefully he will decide to leave me alone long enough to get these things done.  I would hate to have bushier eyebrows and a thicker beard than his.  I’ve done them all in the same night before.  It’s worth it not to overly frighten young children and dogs.  I would be afraid of some old geezer lady like myself too, especially when the facial hair and the Unibrow gets out of control.  Nasty.  Trust me on that one.

A good friend of mine once told me to be careful what I wish for.  I understand what he means by that- sometimes what we might think to be a blessing ends up being a curse.  Reality might not be what I wish for, but as Mick Jagger put it, “You can’t always get what you want/You can try sometimes/You just might find/You get what you need.”  Again, the pragmatic approach works here.  Take what you’re given and run with it and don’t spend a whole lot of time and energy lamenting the roads not traveled or the opportunities missed.  Sometimes what we thought we wanted wasn’t what we needed at all, and something we would have never wanted ends up being exactly what we needed. I’ll try to remember that little cosmic tidbit the next time Isabel decides to puke on the kitchen counter or some other completely inappropriate place.

Wish in one hand, shit in the other- which one fills up first?  And cat puke is universal.

I’m hoping for a quiet and peaceful weekend, and maybe a moment or two of solitude here and there.  I need some ivory tower time.  I’ve not gotten much of that lately and it shows.  Perhaps I will have more time to troll the National Archives website and look at pictures, if that doesn’t get shut down this weekend.  I just thought of that.  Then again, I will always find something to do in my solitude.  Drawing- I enjoy drawing, but hardly ever do it anymore, or cross-stitch, or perhaps revisiting one of the many books in my collection.  Who knows?  I enjoy the quiet and the autonomy more than anything.

Pragmatic and Loving It, More Things I Need to Do, and Aging (Crankily)

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I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve been on the theme lately of history and real life (thanks, WildBill for pointing that out.)  I think most of us have a really good idea what our own personal utopia would and would not contain, (I know I would not pre-empt World’s Dumbest on TruTV in order to televise basketball games and the endless commentary on them, for starters)  but the practical application is that we have to live in the dystopia we find ourselves in. 

I wish I knew where to buy the Darth Vader condoms.  I would have an econo-box shipped to Steve-o, anonymously of course, as if he wouldn’t be able to figure out who was behind such a practical gift. 

I don’t condone pre-marital fornication, and in my ideal world Steve-o would save himself for marriage.  Reality is not my ideal world.  I try to maintain an open dialogue with my offspring, even when I don’t agree with him or condone what he does.  I have to love him regardless of what he does or how he screws up.  I would rather know the truth, and I would rather for him to feel safe to be honest with me. The worst thing I can do is to go into an apoplectic fit whenever he does something I don’t agree with so he feels motivated to hide things from me.  My mother still does that, (she is very Catholic, after all) and I’ve never felt comfortable sharing anything in regard to my love life with her for that reason- even back in the day when I did have juicy tidbits to share.  I still remember Mom’s epic tantrum when she found my evil sadistic sister’s birth control pills.  I was glad that firestorm was not pointed at me.  I knew to hide mine better than that- and to keep my escapades to myself.   Although I’m not a huge fan of situational ethics, I don’t want Steve-o fathering offspring he can’t afford to support.  If that means strongly recommending he use prophylactics when he fornicates, that’s what it means. Of course, if he were to slip up and surprise me with an unplanned grandchild, I would hope that he would trust me enough to know that I would help him do the right things to support that girl and that child in any way I could.

So far, so good.  I should go ahead and send out those condoms though, even though at the current moment he’s living in a sausage farm.  I should pay him that surprise visit to his apartment in Lima too, just to satisfy my own curiosity at how nasty any domicile with three young men living in it can be.  I’m visualizing something along the lines of the Delta House.  (Remember, from the movie Animal House?) I am sure Martha Stewart would not approve.

I know enough to understand that reality is dystopia.  If I had any say in how the world works, I would be six feet tall, 120# , look like Demi Moore, and Jerry would be transformed into a non-drinking, non-smoking doting husband with the body (and libido) of a scrumptious young boy toy.   Obviously, there are a lot of things in this world I have no control over.  How I deal with the fact that reality doesn’t always follow my rules is going to determine my effectiveness and my happiness in life.  I think Clint Eastwood said it in the movie Heartbreak Ridge: Improvise, adapt and overcome.

I improvise and adapt quite a LOT.  Overcoming, well, sometimes that’s a crap shoot.

Tonight I need to Nair my face and dye my hair again.  Tomorrow night it’s time to re-do the claws.  I have to do what I can with what I have, which is sort of a scary thought.  Reminds me of the days when I held that old Subaru together with duct tape, pop rivets and bumper stickers.

I still have some of the pink glitter polish.  That’s always fun.

The main reason why I even bother with acrylic nails (other than my natural nails are flimsy and don’t grow well) and funky nail polish is that longer nails sort of offset my big, meaty man-hands.  I’m proportioned like some sort of bizarre troll.  I’m all upper body and torso with really short arms and legs.  My feet are normal sized (7B, which these days is actually considered small) but my hands are behemoth, which makes no sense.  I usually can’t wear womens’ gloves, which is a source of frustration because I like nice leather driving gloves in the winter.  I found a pair that fit well a couple of years ago, and miraculously, I haven’t lost either one of that pair.  I will play hell replacing those, although I have to say I do like the Isotoner gloves Mom got me, even though they are not leather.  They do fit well. 

From the waist up (except for the shortness of my arms) I look like I should be 6′ tall.  From the waist down, I have very short legs.  God has a sense of humor.  All I have to do to see that is to look in the mirror- or try to find pants that are the correct length.  Petites are high-waters, and “Average” length pants scrape the ground.

Jerry had his happy fun bi-annual Dr. appointment today.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.  He wanted me to make him a list of stuff to bring up to the Dr. so that he wouldn’t forget. I did, but it was a pretty tame list.   I should have sent my version of the list, but I would have to have written it in very small print and then hid his glasses.

Here’s my version of “Things to ask the Dr. Regarding Jerry’s Health”-

Which blood tests are you doing today and why? 

Please schedule a colonoscopy and prostate exam.  With Extreme Prejudice.

Is drinking a 12 pack of Natties 3-5 nights a week normal?

Does Jerry still have a liver? Or lungs?

Is there any medication that stops incessant bitching?  Dilaudid worked pretty good for this when he broke his ribs.  He slept good, and he was so quiet he didn’t bother me much at all.  That was Good Stuff.  I haven’t slept so good since.

Do you have any free samples of Viagra?  Can Jerry have a few of them?

I should have sent my list.  I did put “depression” on his list but I bet he won’t have the balls to be honest about it.  In all seriousness, Jerry is depressed, and he has been for so long he thinks being depressed is normal.  I used to think that too, but somehow I know better.  Again, it’s that difference between what my utopia would look like and the dystopia I live in.  Jerry hasn’t got the clue that he will never live in a perfect world and he is unwilling to adapt to the one he lives in.  Maybe Prozac would help.  I know it helps me. 

Then again, I have to admit I really enjoyed that week when he was on the Dilaudids.  It’s never been so quiet.

Trolling for Ephemera, Space and Time, and Other Things I Don’t Understand

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I found a wonderful new place to troll for old pics and related ephemera- believe it or not, the Library of Congress’ website is a vast treasure trove of scanned digital images of cool old stuff (most of it is OK to save or print, as most of it is public domain.)  I have merely skimmed the surface of this treasure trove. 

It only reminds me of how I should get busy with the scanner myself while Dad still remembers who some of the people are in all those piles and piles of pictures my grandma hoarded over the years.  She had literally tons of pictures in her stash of stuff.  Grandma never threw anything away.  Some of those pics go back to the late 19th century, most of them are family members, and I would love to have scans of them, especially if I can find out who they are.  It doesn’t help that my scanner is ancient and slow (that doesn’t help my motivation factor at all) and that I would probably have to take a few stacks home here and there and spend some late nights scanning them, uploading them to Shutterfly, and then going through the Shutterfly albums with Dad so he can identify as many of them as possible for me.

Perhaps I can do some of this on my next vacation, if Jerry doesn’t find me “better” things to do. 

I’ve learned long ago that if I want an actual vacation, I need to take it by myself.  Otherwise I simply become Jerry’s personal gofer for the duration, and I end up looking forward to going back to work so I can get some rest.

I volunteered myself to take Mom and Dad down to North Carolina for my niece’s half-sister’s graduation.  I know that sounds complicated but it’s not terribly difficult.  She and my niece have the same father (my sister’s ex-husband) but they have different mothers.  Technically I would assume this would mean she’s not really related to me in any way, but my sister is still close with her ex’s kids.  I don’t know her terribly well but any excuse for a road trip in early June is an excuse for a road trip.  I can put up with Mom as long as Dad is with her to keep her somewhat under control.  Besides, I really don’t want them: 1. driving down there in either one of their elderly, high-mileage vans, or 2. making that long of a road trip through mostly boonies by themselves.   My car gets far better gas mileage, and it’s a 2010 with 11K on it versus either of their 1998 vans, one has 180K and the other over 200K.  Dad’s van would be particularly fun on a long trip because the fuel sender doesn’t work.  It’s nice to know how much gasoline you have left from time to time when the nearest gas station is sixty miles out or more.  Granted, anything made by humans or machines can fail at any time, but failure is less likely in a newer vehicle, and even if there is a failure it is less likely to be a catastrophic one.  

I also know how to use the GPS function on my phone.  Yay!

One thing I’ve not been able to get a good understanding on is the one thing on a car that seems to wear faster than anything- the tires.  It amazes me that “run flat” tires aren’t standard equipment, given how often tires go flat and fail at the most inopportune times.  I wish I could afford run flat tires, and that’s probably why they aren’t standard equipment. I’ve been stranded by having flat tires and not being able to remove the lugs so I could install the spare.  Now I have a breaker bar so if the lugs are properly torqued (and they better be, because I make them note the torque specs on the RO when I get my tires rotated or any other time the wheels are taken off) I should be able to change it out.  I should check to see if I have one of those damned donut things as a factory spare, and if I do, I should go trolling for a full-size wheel and tire.   I did that when I had my Corolla- after, of course, I had a blowout and had to drive forty miles on a damned donut- after I paid a tow company $75 to change the tire because somebody at the shop overtorqued my lug nuts and I couldn’t get the tire off.   The poor tow driver must have been at least 300# and he was jumping on the dinky little wrench that came from the factory tool kit (this was also before I got my breaker bar) to break the lugs loose.   That wrench was bent at almost a right angle by the time the dude got through with it. 

I learned my lesson well from that.  Any tech who overtorques my lug nuts because he just grabs the impact and goes at it (too lazy to use a torque wrench on the proper setting) will be a very sorry puppy should I find out about it the hard way.

There are certain modern innovations I can’t function without, but I still have a fascination for history.  It’s interesting to observe, but perhaps it wouldn’t have been so fascinating up close and personal.  I know bathing wasn’t incredibly popular back in the day, there was a lot of communicable disease, and no indoor plumbing.  No wonder people died young, and of things that would be preventable today.

As I was trolling through pages of old Civil War pictures- mostly of people whose identities have been forgotten, I came across two pictures that haunted me a little bit. 

This was a mother’s picture of her son taken long before he died in battle at age 18.  I can’t imagine the heartbreak.   The irony is that death in battle is probably one of the most preventable causes of death- but it’s still happening today.  There are still soldiers dying in battle today.  There are still mothers whose sons aren’t coming home.

And a little girl whose father never came home…

Intellectually, I understand that there is such a concept of  “just war,” and that there are times where the only morally correct thing to do is to fight for one’s country.  Emotionally, I have a lot harder time with that concept.  I’m thankful that Dad got out of having to go to Vietnam at the 11th hour (a long story, but one reason why I should be thankful for my sadistic oldest sister- she was the reason he got exempted from service) and I am grateful that barring any unforseen apocalypse, Steve-o will likely not serve in the military.  I don’t think as things are now that he could get an exemption for the nerve injury in his hand even if he would try (again) to enlist.

I have nothing but respect for military Veterans.  I don’t know if I would have the psychological strength to do what people in the armed forces do every day.  I highly doubt it, even if I had been physically sound enough to serve.  My leaky heart valves pretty much nixed my chances for any type of military service.   So I am, like every other common American citizen, beholden to those who were willing, and who were put in the position to make the ultimate sacrifice. 

I do certainly hope that the quality of military chow has improved since this pic was taken:

That kitchen set up looks like Montezuma’s Revenge just waiting to happen.

Please, Reattach Body Parts Should They Fall Off, and Other Things I Should Never Have to Request

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I’ve been a sort-of fan of impressionist art. I can appreciate Van Gogh and Monet, but then I can also appreciate cats playing poker. I certainly wouldn’t call myself an art snob.  My tastes in art are varied and eclectic for what it’s worth.

 About the only “art” I draw the line on involves the use of bodily effluvia (snot, poo, pee, etc. are not artistic, sorry) and/or the portrayal of Elvis and/or Dale Earnhardt.

It seems that Jerry must have mistaken himself for Van Gogh last night.  He made another poor decision to go the hell hole to get hammered (what’s so unusual about that?) and managed to inflict bodily injury on himself (again.)  This time it was his ear lobe.  He didn’t come close to actually ripping it off but he fell into something and managed to get about  a 1/2″ cut in it.  It’s not a life threatening cut, and it’s not even in a place that can be stitched, but every time he so much as brushed against it this morning it would bleed.  The pillowcase looks like Freddy Krueger had actually gotten to him in his sleep from the amount of bloodstains on it.  Remember what they said about not going to sleep or Freddy will get you? (Man, I loved the 80’s slasher flicks back in the day…just couldn’t get enough of that slashtastic action.)   

I should have really freaked him out with that observation, but I was busy enough trying to get him to let me put a band-aid on it or something.  One would  have thought from the drama that Freddy really did come in and slash him last night.

I put a little note in his lunch for the guys to read.  Today’s should be very funny.

Dear Guys:

Please be extra nice to Jerry today.  Last night he was so confused and distraught he mistook himself for Vincent Van Gogh and tried to cut his ear off.  Should it actually fall off, please take him to the ER so it can be reattached.  Thank you for your patience and understanding.

I thought it was weird when I had to leave messages with Steve-o’s sitter such as:

Please do not allow Stephan to eat all five boxes of Pop-Tarts I sent in one day.  He is permitted one package of two Pop-Tarts per day.  Thanks!  (This was actually a note to my mother, who for some reason thought it was OK to let a six year old free-forage in the kitchen.)

Please do not allow Stephan to eat more than two (2) Fig Newtons with any given meal.  Figs give him Montezuma’s Revenge.

Please do not allow Stephan to chew on your dog’s toys unless you sanitize them.  I wouldn’t want your dog getting any diseases.

Of course, I still think that my request directly to Steve-o to just put the dirty pants in the wash without sniffing the crotch as a “freshness” test, takes the prize.   I never imagined I would ever have to say this to a 17 year old.

I’ve had to request some strange things in my lifetime, but I’m used to it.  Not too many things shock me anymore. 

I’m sure I’ll think of some though.

Masks of the Heart, Real Life, and Breakfast in Bed

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I can’t say that any of my facades are this lovely, but I do appreciate a good Venetian mask.  I can put up a heavy front when I feel it is required, which is most of the time, but there’s not much I can do to mask my poor coordination and bad proportions or exceptionally plain face.  It’s just not possible to polish a turd, unless of course you have watched the episode of Mythbusters where Adam and Jamie do exactly that to make a point.  It can technically be done, but why?

I hide behind a lot of masks.  Sarcasm is one of my favorites.  So is assuming intellectual superiority where possible, which is more often than it probably should be.  I’ve never claimed to be some sort of great mind- the more I learn the more I discover I don’t know- but the ignorance and/or stupidity of the populace at large is frightening.  Just because stupidity is rampant doesn’t make me any smarter than I was before.  Rampant stupidity only means that most other people are more stupid than I am, which is scary on a number of levels.   Here’s how I see it.  I am no great intellect, but in comparison to the average Joe or Jane Blow on the street, I’m a flipping rocket scientist.  That should be frightening to anyone who has ever witnessed me in one of my absent-minded fits where I’ve misplaced and then had to try to find things like my car keys, my phone, my Bluetooth headset, or my MP3 player.  I should have Velcro embedded into my skin and likewise a patch of Velcro stuck to these essential objects so I can just stick those objects to my body.  That way, maybe, I can remember where they are.  It could make showering a challenge though.

In reality, I’m certainly not a rocket scientist.  I played hell getting through high school algebra.  I wonder to this day how I not only made it through three quarters of accounting in college, but managed to do it with high “B”s.  I may be one of those geeky analytical types, but for some reason higher math never clicked with me.  I’m doing good to balance my checkbook so I can freak out over all the money I don’t have.

Money and intelligence don’t always go together either.  Especially inherited or married-into money.  I never had any kind of advantage in that department- having been born not only with a plastic spoon in my mouth AND looks that could stop a thousand trucks.  So I never got any scratch from relatives, and I certainly didn’t have the bait to attract a rich sugar daddy.  I’m fortunate to have landed a man with Dad’s minimum criteria.  Dad would always ask three questions when my sisters would talk about getting serious with a guy:

1. Is it white? (Racist?  Probably, but Dad is not at all PC, and in his mind marrying a Catholic was as close to “mixed marriage” and moving past the traditional WASP couple paradigm as he ever chose to contemplate.  He just about lost it when one of my sisters went out on a date with a guy who was half Mexican.  For some reason, though, he didn’t object to Jerry, who is probably 9/10ths or more Cherokee.)

2. Is it male? (Homophobic?  Definitely- but Dad does come from a backwater town- and a very conservative, old school, Regular Baptist upbringing. I am most certainly a straight woman anyway, so I can forgive him that. I may have brought home some dismal trollings in my time, but they were always male.)

3. Is it employed? (Dad has no use for deadbeats, and I really don’t blame him for that either.)

To his three minimum qualifications (though #1 is a grey area as far as I’m concerned- I really don’t get hung up on race or ethnicity) I would add “hair” and “teeth.”  Jerry does have hair and teeth (the teeth are mostly implants, but not dentures at least) which at almost 54 is rather amazing.  I am a bit curious, though I hesitate to investigate the statistics.  I wonder how many men over the age of 50 are afflicted with ED?  I bet it’s more than half, and I bet very few of them either admit it or do anything about it, regardless of the popularity of  the Viagra and Cialis commercials.  Guys just don’t like to face it.  I can add an FYI: neither do women.  We just suffer in involuntarily celibate silence- unless we have the money (and the lack of scruples and absence of shame) to hire a boytoy.  I have neither the money nor the lack of conscience to find myself a boytoy, cougar jokes with Steve-o’s friends aside, so it is what it is.  Thankfully, I have hobbies, and early menopause has pretty much done away with any desire I had anyway.   My idea of a romantic evening is TruTV and an early bedtime.  It’s easier that way anyway.

Dad never said anything about ED.  He should have warned me, but I can’t imagine someone as modest and straight laced as Dad about such things making a statement like this:

“Just so you know, when your old man gets to be about 45 or so, his Johnson won’t work any more.  Sorry.”

There’s just some things you have to learn as you go, apparently.

I’ve got to stop putting myself through that kind of noise.  The whole weekend breakfast routine.  I don’t even like breakfast, and I usually only gag down some yogurt and oatmeal to keep my sugar in line in the mornings.  (Diabetes sucks, but it does make you pay attention to nutrition and exercise and all that health nut stuff.) Jerry enjoys the Behemoth Breakfast which means I have to get up early on a weekend morning to fix it for him, and serve it to his happy ass- in bed.  I don’t know how someone can drink that much alcohol and eat that much grease and still be above ground.  Maybe I’m the one who has it backwards.  Jerry might be like those Russian dudes who drink vodka all day and smoke cigars one right after the other and live to be 115.  That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

All That Really Matters, a Crack in the Armor, and Leash Training

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Sheena is a beautiful dog, but she is as stubborn and willful as she is beautiful.  We decided (or should I say Jerry decided, because I am not at all hyper like he is in the evenings) to take the dogs out on leashes, which we haven’t done for some time.  Clara and Lilo were not too bad, although Clara always does better on a leash with her harness.  I should have taken the extra minute or two to put Clara in her harness.  I refuse to use choke chains or pinch collars on my dogs, although I’ve seen a lot of people who handle Malinois use choke chains or pinch collars to keep the dogs under better control.   Clara simply wants to run.  The aim is to get her to stay back and walk politely which she does when she knows she has the harness on and I can pull her back if I need to.  Lilo was her usual self, laid back and trotting along with her peculiar little bow-legged, sideways gait.  I wonder sometimes if she tracks sideways because she’s cross-eyed or because she’s bow-legged, or maybe a combination of both.

The few times I’ve had Sheena on her leash she has been relatively obedient for me.  She does surprisingly well in spite of her lack of socialization and formal training.  Then again, Sheena is a bit of a cling-on with me anyway, so that makes leash training, even with a conventional collar, a breeze.  Until Jerry takes her leash.

Sheena did not want to be on the leash with Jerry.  I can’t blame her.  I don’t like it either, and he only has me leashed in a figurative way.  I had Clara, and without her harness she was enough of a handful.  So Sheena decided that if she had to be with Jerry, she was simply going to sit and dig her big, splayed feet into the ground.  I never knew this about Huskies until we got Sheena.  They have huge, insulated, clompy paws that are reminiscent of polar bears’.  Sheena is a huge klutz on dry land, but surprisingly graceful on snow and ice.  Sheena, however, does not do anything Sheena does not want to do. It’s funny.  She’s just as stubborn as Jerry is.

Yesterday was a very pleasant day.  Steve-o got rid of that monstrosity of a hoopty Mitsubishi that I had been hoping he would do ever since he ended up with that piece of mess.  Somebody was even dumb enough to give him money for that POS, which I welcome, but fail to understand.   Now all I need to hear from him is that he’s spending his weeks keeping up his GPA, and his weekends cooking up that taco meat and shoveling it into those tacos and burritos.  I don’t want him to work at Taco Bell forever, but a few hours or so on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays- until  he finishes school- is not too much to ask.   If he could do 20 or 30 hours a week at $9 an hour, that would certainly help, and they don’t even have to train him because he’s worked there before.  Then he can worry about buying his own food and gasoline and cigarettes for a change.

Adding to yesterday’s pleasantness, I had an unexpected, but welcome, conversation with an old friend.  I still have a heart in there somewhere after all.  I know, I know, how things could have, should have been. Wish in one hand and crap in the other, which one fills up first- but it’s nice to know that old connection is still there, and that I do have at least one friend that is thicker than water.   Since my true friends are few and far between and delightfully rare, as I have said before, I should take care not to neglect them.

Memory and imagination both serve me well- probably too much so- but hearing a voice from the past and even engaging in surface-level pleasantries was a rare delight.  There are a lot of people I have to talk to and with out of necessity, but very few I enjoy talking with.  I hope sometime in the near future that we can talk in private over dinner and a drink rather than a little too publicly over the phone, but that might be a bit hard for me to take.  I would be the one in need of the leash instead of the dogs, and that’s not a place where I need to go.

Balance is the key word.  Usually I am quite the example of reserve and restraint, but it’s been a long time since- well, a lot of things- but I miss intelligent conversation the most.  I also miss being treated like a lady and not just someone’s housekeeper/babysitter/gofer/indentured servant.   There is something to be said for spending an evening in civilized conversation with a friend versus spending an evening effectively alone cranking up the MP3 player with the noise-cancelling headphones to drown out the lovely infernal racket of Drunk and Stupid meets Boxcar Willie. 

I have to be careful how far I let my mind wander, and I need to set some boundaries on just how much lingering in the garden of memory I’m allowed.  Still, there’s nothing like a bit of an oasis in a very hot, vast desert.

I have to find a balance between maintaining those relationships that challenge me and energize me (very few and far between) and tossing the albatrosses around my neck overboard.  I tend to forget when to toss the albatross.

I’m too old to start over even if I could, and whatever fiery passions of youth I once had are pretty well extinguished.  As the old joke says, “In my youth I wanted a nice BMW.” -” Today I’ll settle for it without the W. ” 

Besides, anyone interested in dinner and conversation with a crusty old cougar like me has likely long-since been relegated to the “coyote-style” crowd, so crossing the line in a carnal fashion is highly unlikely to occur.  It’s not as if I am still some horny teenager or twenty-something, and all of my friends are significantly older than me.   Hopefully the POMC is enjoying “Willie on Demand” while he can (even though in conscience I can’t approve of him fornicating) because there will come a day when Johnson won’t stand at attention any more. 

Unless of course, by the time Steve-o gets old, Medicare is still paying for geezers’ pecker pumps.  That would be his luck.

The Three “Esses,” a Walk in the Graveyard, and a Limited Time Offer

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I always knew that guys had it easier in regard to a lot of every day things.  Their morning get-ready routine goes as follows: Shit. Shower. Shave., which are known collectively as “The Three Esses.”    No fussing about with makeup or hair styling or any of that noise.  Their haircuts cost less.  They don’t have to fuss over clothing choices (usually) and generally aren’t that picky as to whether or not their clothing is clean.  It took me years to convince Steve-o that sniffing the crotch of one’s pants is not an acceptable method to discern the difference between “soiled” and “fresh.”   They eat anything as long as it contains the three food groups- caffeine, nicotine, sugar and grease, remembering always that alcohol is a sugar.

The bad thing is that some of the guys I know probably have to have someone write down the Three Esses on their bathroom mirror, lest they forget them.  Of course I would have to add a bit of a dental hygiene regimen to that- please brush your teeth, and Listerine is not a bad idea either!

I finally figured out what the major advantage is to being born male:

When a male child is born it is as if the universe makes a statement to him. You are made exempt from household chores by the magical power of possessing the Twig and Berries!  Schwing! Jerry never literally spelled it out that way, but in practical application he might as well have. A swinging Johnson apparently gets nearly half of the human population out of a LOT of work.

I did manage to take a nice, long wander about in the Marion Cemetery yesterday.  I dumped a lot of the crap in my memory card (several times) and still didn’t scratch the surface as to cool old gravestones to take pics of.  The angel (above) really struck me.  I hadn’t noticed it there before, but the entire cemetery is about two square miles which is a lot of wandering about.  Most of my wanderings yesterday were in the old / high faluting part of the cemetery with the really over the top monuments.  For those who think old ostentatious grave markers are really way cool also, you can view the slideshow on Shutterfly .  Nobody did death like the Victorians.

I was shocked by the number of stillborn infants, very young children, and women who died in their early-to-mid twenties, though I shouldn’t have been.  In the 19th and early 20th centuries one in four women died in childbirth and infant mortality was at times almost 50%.   Usually there were no causes of death on the gravestones except for the some of the Civil War Veterans who were killed in action.

I find this one particularly sad.  Either Wallie was an only child, his parents had a lot of money, or both.  It’s beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

Life is a limited time offer.  I guess that is the lesson to take away from an afternoon in the graveyard.

Lust?  What’s that?

Oh, yeah.  It’s been a very long time.

 

I Don’t Need No Stinking Brackets! Next Time, Try the Oprah Channel!

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Ok, now I’m pissed.  Last night I was denied my fix of  World’s Dumbest due to freaking basketball. Why take away my TruTV- one of my favorite channels, that is normally gloriously devoid of all things sport- and have basketball instead of  World’s Dumbest?  Why can’t they put the extra sports (yes I know it’s March Madness- it’s all I hear from Jerry and it’s all I hear at work) on the Oprah Channel or some other channel I don’t watch, like the Fishing Network or better yet, one of the 8 different ESPNs?  The only thing about putting sports games on the Oprah Channel is that little old bitties like my Mom would probably have a coronary.  Mom needs gossip, scandal and treacly pathos like a fish needs to be in water.   Then again, there’s always the Hallmark Channel if you want to watch those dreadful tear-jerker chick flicks that Mom adores, but I just plain can’t stand. 

To be fair, TruTV did air two episodes of World’s Dumbest before the games were supposed to start, but it really disturbs my little world when it’s Thursday night and I don’t get a new episode of World’s Dumbest.  I know, I need to either get a hobby, or better yet, get a life.  I did make use of the time to watch a documentary on the reasons why the Titanic failed on National Geographic Channel, so at least I learned something.  I also cleaned up and defragged my home computer, which kept me offline last night, but thankfully it’s a LOT faster this morning.  It’s old, and I’d love to have one of those new tablet PCs, but I can’t afford a new one.  I can’t even afford a memory card and/or an external hard drive for the one I have.  So from time to time I have to houseclean and defrag it, otherwise it would be so stinking slow it wouldn’t matter whether I have Roadrunner or not.  Since I am paying out the wazoo for both premium cable and Roadrunner, I might as well get my use out of both of them.

I am hoping for a very quiet and sports-free weekend. 

Jerry of course will be watching all the basketball and NASCAR, etc. he possibly can all weekend, but this is the beauty of having two TVs.  I’ll either be catching up on my napping, or I’ll be watching the Discovery Channel, Science Channel, History Channel, National Geographic, etc. whilst he is being occupied with sports.

I have come to the conclusion that the Thinking Woman is a rather rare beast.  I’m talking about women who take the a predominantly rational approach to life rather than a predominantly emotional approach.  Most women (even the prevailing emotionally dominant types) are more intelligent than most men.  When I say Thinker, I’m not referring to intelligence per se, but to a method for getting through life.   For those who are familiar with the Myers-Briggs test, there are Feelers- people who act primarily on their emotions, and there are Thinkers, who act primarily on logical thought.  Neither of these orientations is right or wrong, better or worse- they’re just different perspectives and ways of operating. Most women are Feelers, while most men are Thinkers, at least according to the minds behind Myers-Briggs.  From experience I would have to say I agree with that general assertion, though I know there are exceptions.  Jerry is more emotional than any woman I’ve ever encountered, and I’m probably the least emotionally driven person I know.

I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs.  Twice.  Both times the result was the same.  My type is INTP, which really is no surprise, especially the Thinking and Introverted elements.  I am about as warm and fuzzy as a tire iron. 

I enjoy time with people (sometimes) but I prefer one-on-one discourse instead of being in a crowd- especially if the group is loud.  Most of the time I’d really rather be by myself.  If there’s something I need to do, leave me alone and let me do it.  I have a really hard time with group projects.  I don’t mind doing my fair share…but let leave me alone and let me do it.

There are all sorts of entertainments for the Feeling Woman out there- Oprah, Hallmark, Home and Garden, TV talk shows, those dreadful chick magazines like Cosmopolitan, ad nauseam.  The Thinking Woman gravitates toward some of the same stuff as Thinking Men- true crime, documentaries, history, and so forth, but most of us really can’t get wrapped up in sports.  The Thinking Man embraces all the players’ names, team names, standings, statistics and all that sort of crud that would just clog up my brain.  It wouldn’t be crud to me if I were interested in sports, but I’m not, so it doesn’t make any sense for me to memorize any of that stuff.  I did find out amidst all the March Madness banter that there is actually a college named Morehead.  I normally don’t feel sorry for cheerleaders, but I feel sorry for the Morehead cheerleaders.  Believe that.

I know I am not the only Thinking Woman out there, but I’ve not met very many in my lifetime. 

I know the basketball deluge is only temporary, but I’ll be glad when I get to go back to my Thursday night new episode of World’s Dumbest.

Tires, Testicles and Trouble, with Some Pent-Up Angst Too

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Sometimes old pics are creepy, especially if they are high quality color pics.  The above postcard of Downtown Marion from the early 1950’s reflects that not terribly much has changed other than the cars and a couple of the buildings.  I know exactly where that pic was taken- right in front of the south side of the Courthouse looking west.  I can see the cigar store (on the south side of Center Street, on the east corner of the intersection) and what is now the Ohio State Bank across the street from it.  Further west on the south side of Center Street is the Harding Hotel, which is also still there but has been made into senior citizen apartments.  The Taft Hotel (on the north west corner of the intersection) was torn down in  1969.  The National City Bank built their ugly boxy windowless monstrosity of a bank there (which burned down in 1985 or thereabouts) and rebuilt another hideous modern architectural disaster piece there on the same exact spot, which PNC Bank inherited.  The Bank Fire was almost a funny thing to watch as the digital thermometer on the outside of the bank skyrocketed to over 500 degrees (F) before it melted.  Then again, when you live in a backwater town, excitement is where you find it.  One would think a bank of all places would be built of relatively fireproof material, but I guess as long as the vault holds, who cares?

The WWII In Color episodes are fascinating, but they are almost too personal, as if they are bringing something too antique and faded into real life.  Some things are better viewed through the distance of black and white.

Some things are just too powerful and frightening to experience in all their details.

Admittedly I have been more depressed than usual lately.  Part of it I know is coming off of the Late Winter Funk that lasts from the beginning of February until usually the middle of April or so. I just can’t get enthused about much of anything as the snowbooger grey days drag by, overcast, rainy and dismal.  My perpetual state of poverty does nothing to brighten the picture, especially when Jerry’s groundbreaking suggestions for “saving money” include options such as getting rid of my car, and cancelling cable except for the basic channels -so he won’t miss any sports.  At no time were curtailing beer-drinking, eschewing gambling or getting serious about quitting smoking put on the table.  Then again, I don’t drink beer, I hate gambling, and thanks be to God I quit smoking several years ago.  Jerry isn’t going to address cutting back on his vices but it’s OK to cut back on my base essentials.  Imagine that.  I am disappointed, but not surprised at his zeal to make my life as miserable as he possibly can.  He wonders why I absolutely can’t stand to ask him for anything- not even basic, common sense things like paying for his own scripts and for a reasonable amount of his own expenses.  However, I am not going to give up the car. If worse comes to worse he can cram the cell phone where the sun don’t shine. I can live without the electronic leash, but as far as I can help it I am not going to put myself in a position that I have to beg for the use of his truck.  Being at his mercy for transportation is just not a good idea.  Not happening.

But as I said yesterday, I am thankful that things aren’t any worse.  Maybe I can beat some sense into his head if he’s sober- or just ignore him as usual if he’s drunk.

I don’t know why he is so jealous of any social contact I have with people other than him, even women.  It’s a fight for me to go to church and other activities at church.  Maybe in his mind he sees that he’s missing his “live-in maid” or gopher and he resents not being able to order me around or bitch at me for an hour or two here and there.  Maybe deeper down he’s afraid that I’m trolling for his replacement.  Being with Jerry is sort of like driving an old hoopty. You get none of the options that make having a car fun or comfortable (no A/C, no stereo, etc.) but all of the problems inherent to an old POS. (POS: Piece Of Shit)  He reminds me of my ’79 Rabbit that I spent $800 in repairs on in one month.  It did have a good stereo but no air conditioner, and it was a crap shoot as to whether or not it would start and run from one day to the next without something major failing. Why the hell keep on dumping money, time and frustration into a lost cause?

If I’m going to pay out the ass to drive a car,I want one that works, and one that doesn’t give me fits.  The same goes for men. I had enough of nickel and diming away my life on pathetic hooptys in high school and college- and enough of nickel and diming away my life on mooching trolls from there forward.  I hate to admit it, but Jerry has simply followed the pattern- taking advantage, draining me dry, and browbeating me into feeling like a total shit every minute I am not actively kissing his ass.  It gets old.

I take responsibility for this in so much as I allow it and I have allowed it to continue for years.  I don’t know how to make it stop other than simply disappearing, which I can’t do because I have no money and nowhere to go (also my fault) so it’s a catch-22.  The vicious cycle continues.

I’ve never been able to find a trouble free man.  If anyone could find me one who isn’t a complete troll, please let me know by commenting on this post.  Seriously.  But then again, perhaps I would be better off alone.  I would be, if I could afford it.

It’s not that I am inherently anti-men.  I love men.  I love to look at hot dudes.  If memory serves me right, I like a lot of activities involving men.  I simply have a problem with being used and guilt tripped and ignored and made to feel as if I only have value if I’m either earning money or doing endless chores.  The minute I don’t have enough money to just pay for everything or I’m exhausted and can’t do anything else then the hell with me as far as Jerry’s concerned.  Steve-o treats me the same way.  As long as Mommy’s footing the bill everything is roses, but the minute Mommy’s broke it’s F.U. this and F.U. that.  At least my poverty and lack of stamina have served me in two important ways: to let me know I am not worth a tinker’s damn to anyone, and I’m pretty much destined to die alone.  If the dogs don’t eat me, I’ll be left to decompose for months until the guy who comes to read the water meter can’t get in and as he’s banging on the door he notices a funky smell.   That’s what happened to the creepy old lady who lived across from Mom and Dad.  She used to bitch at us kids for “stealing her snow” if you scraped up a handful of snow from her yard as you went down the sidewalk.  It was thought she died sometime in February, but they didn’t find her body and fumigate the house until high summer- the middle of July.  It took two weeks for the health department to fumigate that house.

I wonder if the “I’ve Fallen and Can’t Get Up” alarm people have an alarm for old people who live alone and whose relatives are either dead already and/or don’t give a rat’s ass about them?  If I live to be old, I will be one of those people I am afraid.  When said geezers die in their sleep the alarm could go off and call the coroner to come and get the corpse before it festers and rots for months or the deceased’s dogs start munching on it.  I’m going to need one of those, or should I say the poor suckers who eventually happen upon my remains would probably be grateful for an early warning.

Maybe that could be the invention that makes me rich- the Dead Geezer Warning System.  So the coroner gets to you before the smell gets to everyone else.