Things I Should Not Be Allowed to Do, and What a Nostalgic Feeling

January 30, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

The Right to Bear Arms Shall Not be Infringed…

Hello Kitty supports the 2nd Amendment. Do you?

I need to stay away from my granddaughter’s coloring books.

I have to say I got the idea from a lovely website called Coloring Book Corruptions and it is funny. Hello Kitty with grenades and mortars and an M-16. Shame on me. I probably shouldn’t show her getting a contact buzz from a field mouse either.

Terrible, I know.

I remember how much fun I used to have with old magazines scribbling on the faces and making people look like they drooled or had snot all over them. Puerile and sophomoric, yes, I get that, but I need some kind of harmless artistic outlet. It’s cool that I’ve discovered one can do a similar thing with cross-stitch patterns, where you stitch samplers of skulls and knives and gory images with off color and pithy sayings. There are books out there with the patterns ready made, but before I buy those I’d like to experiment with a few of my own.

It’s been a long time since I really sat down and enjoyed some cross-stitch. That’s a shame because it can be relaxing.

Oh, yes they will.

I may have some time for such relaxing pursuits this weekend, as we are supposed to get a big old dose of the White Death here in beautiful Central Ohio on Sunday. Joy and rapture. I am not going anywhere in it even if I am driving a 4X4. What people don’t realize is that 4 wheel drive does not make you invincible. It gives you a bit more traction on snow, but it is not worth a tinker’s damn on freezing rain or ice. The last thing I need is to have something happen to Jerry’s truck. He’s rather cavalier when it’s my car involved, but if it’s his truck, that’s a whole different situation. I’m sure he wouldn’t be sitting around for a month waiting on it to get fixed.

I’m still waiting on my car to be finished. The last I saw it, they were repairing the decklid and the finish panel under the decklid that is beneath the rear fascia. The new rear fascia hasn’t been painted yet and neither has the decklid or finish panel. I am satisfied, however, that the small dent in the finish panel has been duly repaired, treated and primed so the back of my car doesn’t rust out from the inside.

My freaking out about whether or not my car is repaired correctly is worse than when medical people have to be patients in a hospital or doctor’s office. I’ve been around automotive repair my entire life and I am all too aware of what can and does go wrong. I see it every flipping day.

Nasty.

And yes, I have seen cars fall off of racks. This is not pretty, and in both instances that I witnessed, it was only the Hand of God that kept the unfortunate techie from being splattered.

Surprisingly, the vehicles usually aren’t that horribly damaged when they fall.

Unless they fall into something else…

I want my car back. I also want the White Death to go away, so I can not be as paranoid about my car once I do get it back. Only the White Death won’t go away for awhile yet. It has yet to fade to the snowbooger grey sticky muck. Here begins the February Funk, and it sucks ass.

Longing and Pathos, the Truth Behind the Masks

January 22, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I don’t generally admit to emotional weakness…but-

There are days in which the melancholy threatens to take over and I’m afraid that if I start crying I might never stop. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think it’s really a sort of mental catharsis that happens when I’ve repressed too much stuff or there’s just a back log of unresolved emotional detritus that I need to try to address and resolve- or at least name. Even though I navigate fairly well in the “world of normal,” I’ve got to love the Asperger’s/HFA/autistic disconnect between the feeling and thinking parts of my brain. If I can’t name it, I can’t deal with it- but the rational side of my head doesn’t communicate well with the nameless, wordless emotional side. Not at all. Don’t ask me to be rational when emotional has control. I lose whatever eloquence and reason I thought I had, as well as any words I thought I could use to express what I don’t think words can express.

In other words, I simply have to accept the disappointment and regret and that old favorite, guilt, that I live with, or somehow learn to get past all of that. It’s easier said than done.

There’s always the fact that I have absolutely no courage. It’s hard to say that but it’s absolutely true. I loathe conflict. That’s probably why I get taken advantage of so easily. Despite all the knowledge that feeding alligators only makes them bolder and hungrier, that’s exactly what I do. I know I’m being exploited in many ways by just about every person I have dealings with, but I don’t speak out against it because I don’t know how to do it without the emotional side of my head butting in and making me forget the perfectly rational arguments I’ve prepared in self-defense.

I’m reduced to whatever it takes for you (meaning anyone who’s not me) to shut up and stop making demands of me…except that it’s never enough.

I’ll talk for hours about things automotive, things I find funny, the weather, politics, whatever- but don’t ask me how I feel. Most of the time I really don’t know how I feel, and I don’t usually take the time to analyze my emotional state. I enjoy good intellectual, rational conversation, but, I try not to feel- much less talk about the whole vexing realm of feelings. It’s less painful that way. The really bad thing about that is that I really need to do exactly that- some old fashioned venting- but I don’t really have anyone available to me that I can trust with that kind of stuff. I don’t want to admit to such a depth of vulnerability.

There is a saying that denial is not just an old river in Egypt, but for me I think repression is a better term than denial. I know I have tons of emotional garbage that have accumulated for decades, but I have absolutely no clue how to deal with it. I know binge drinking and chronic overwork aren’t healthy ways to deal with it (gave up binge drinking years ago, the chronic overwork…eh, I still have issues with that at times…)

It just keeps piling up…

There are a lot of things I wish I weren’t too afraid to do. It’s not so much about seeking revenge or retribution. I have no desire to inflict the same aggravation I’ve endured on anyone else. As angry as I can get, (and my primary emotions are fear and anger) even if I have the rare opportunity to get retribution, it’s usually hollowly unsatisfying.

I know I can wish in one hand and shit in the other and we all know which one will fill up first.

I don’t want to disappoint anyone or reject anyone. I really just want to fade into the wall and leave as little of an imprint as I can- not offending anyone or intruding on anyone’s space.

Kyrie elaison – God have mercy. God knows I need it.

Maybe the reason for my recent fascination with the life and times of General George S. Patton is that he represents the exact opposite of someone like me. I think he had the ability to work through the emotional discord that has to result from the love of battle versus the love of life (or in at least some consideration for the self preservation instinct.) I don’t have that courage or that love of conflict, but in some ways I wish I did. I almost wish I could be more ruthless and staid instead of just putting forth a bland and unfeeling façade. I wish I had passion, but any passion I might have had withered away and blew off years ago. I’m not kidding when I say that living in the garden of memory is not only safer for me, but sometimes it’s the only place where I can really feel alive.

I wish I could be that ruthless, but in honesty, I can’t.

Self-Restraint is Not One of My Strong Skills, and Isolation is Good for Me (and Everyone Else!)

January 14, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m having a currently shitty run so far this year. Never mind I’ve been bloody sick with the screaming snots since New Year’s Day and sleeping every moment that I possibly can manage to- when I’m either not at work or hawking up snot. The past two weekends I’ve not bothered to move much beyond my bed.

There is no way I’m calling off for spewing snots, because everyone else (conveniently) already has. I think the guys around here call off for hangnails, zits and even excessive vaginal sand, as wussy as they are.

As long as I can somewhat remain vertical and I’m not puking or having a hate/hate relationship with Montezuma, I will function, even if it is by being jacked up on cold medicine and Sinus Plumber spray. It sucks. At least I did finagle a 10 day antibiotic script, and the sinus infection part of it is starting to clear up. The green snot is going away anyway. The clear, and brown, and bloody snot is still stringing along though.

This stuff burns like hell, but breathing is worth the burn!

Then to add a fantastic steaming hot turd to the top of this phlegmy mess is that I got rear-ended in the Target parking lot last Wednesday. I’m sicker than hell, strung out from another stressful short-staffed day at work, it’s 3º below zero, and then some foreigner rear ends me. I can only imagine the vision of the she-behemoth-bitch-beast that jumped out of the driver’s door on that fateful evening. The only good parts: a.) wasn’t my fault, and the other guy’s insurance (yes he had it) has to pay, and b.) the other vehicle was an SUV and has not even a mark on it.

The bad news? I was in the Corolla and my rear bumper fascia is toast, and the left quarter panel and decklid are damaged. It’s about $2500 worth of aggravation and God only knows how long to get it fixed. I’m consigned to driving the truck (no, a 2010 Tacoma 4X4 is not a bad ride at all) which is not so bad except the interior smells like a dragon’s colon thanks to Jerry using it as a smoking lounge.

Jerry also has no sense of vehicle interior feng shui. I found loser lottery tickets from 2011, various food wrappers from a variety of establishments, including Taco Bell and Waffle House, Pepsi Max cans, used Kleenex, a flannel shirt, an NRA ball cap, and assorted flotsam and detritus. I’m sure he will love the fact that I douched the whole interior really good with lavender Febreze.

I guess I’m just not supposed to have anything nice.

I’m sure this poor foreign guy and his wife probably thought I was some sort of snotting, rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth bitch when I got out of the car. Even though his English skills weren’t the greatest, he was shoving that insurance card at me with the quickness. It probably didn’t help that I refused to move the car until I at least called the police, (and apparently the word “police” is pretty high on the list of words taught in ESL classes… because the guy was really freaked when I said, “I’m calling the police,”) who conveniently won’t come out in inclement weather unless you have to call the squad.

I could have feigned injury, but then I would have been transported to the same hospital where the (hot, but clueless) male nurse in the exam room called me Mildred and asked about my diarrhea, and I would probably rather be dead than experience that particular medical facility ever again. That, and I really don’t want to end up paying for a meaningless and aggravating trip to any ER unless I am near death or already dead, and not just suffering from the screaming snots and the fuming anger that accompanies having to deal with a trashed car. Ironically, any other time in beautiful Central Ohio there would be cops and fire trucks and squads and sirens galore, unbidden, stopping traffic for miles for the least of fender benders, but apparently not when it’s 3º below.

The moral of the story- only get rear ended if it’s a bright, sunny day!

I’m sure my family is sort of pissed at me too because for the past 2 weeks I’ve felt too shitty to make the trip up there. I also don’t want to share my mucoid maladies with anyone up there, especially Dad, who gets sinus infections and pneumonia easily enough anyway. This weekend I probably won’t either, even if I am feeling better, because I’m sure Jerry might like to use his truck for something. I know it sounds bad because I really do miss my granddaughter, but going up north every Sunday is a bit of a pain in the ass, and usually costs me money I’d rather not have to spend. This weekend I might just lock myself in my room and troll for new reading material and enjoy my DVR’d episodes of Brickleberry. Isolation might be healthier for me and for anyone who might surround me for awhile anyway.

I hope so. Because I’m rather despondent at the moment.

Granted, Jerry works at the body shop that is going to be (someday?) fixing my car. The bad part of this is that it’s winter and there’s been ice storms, so every body shop in a 50 mile radius is booked at least 6 weeks out, and this isn’t getting done anytime soon. Technically I can drive my car the way it is even though it looks like shit, but that could make things more complicated to fix, and I really don’t want to screw with it until the other guy’s insurance adjuster approves all the (proper) repairs. This car is a 2014 with less than 10 K on it, and they aren’t going to get away with a half ass job. I didn’t ask for this shit and it wasn’t my fault. I need my car back the way it was before Julio or whatever his name was saw fit to ruin the ass end of it.

Holiday Survival, Still Remaining Vertical, and Pragmatic as Usual

December 30, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

Winter. Pretty, but it kinda sux. At least the holidays are almost over.

I survived.

I purposely avoided making any holiday commentary this year, because I’ve been there before. I’ve seen and photographed endless tacky Christmas light displays. I’ve already dished on the annoying relatives I’d rather avoid. I’ve said my peace regarding the big gropy gatherings where someone always thinks that 800º F is an acceptable room temperature, as I’m sweating to death in the corner, wishing I’d left hours ago. I smile and put on my best behavior when Jerry is channeling his inner asshole for the yuletide festivities, and as usual, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I make myself scarce while he gets blitzed and feels sorry for himself.

I should do this the next time Jerry passes out- so I can keep the mess confined to one place.

Jerry doesn’t interact well with my family, and I feel obligated to go hang out with them on holidays, so I choose the lesser of two evils. The house is positively untenable when Jerry’s ripped and on a rant, which is guaranteed during the holidays. My family are mostly loud and obnoxious people, and it’s generally not pleasant being surrounded by their noise and bickering, but they are mild compared to Jerry when he’s going on and on about how much ____ sucks or how I don’t “do enough” for him. Most of my family, with the exceptions of Steve-o and Dad, get on my nerves, but they drink a lot less than Jerry does. I really didn’t want to hang out and watch Jerry go the zoo on his first Christmas without both his mother and his best friend Bob. That’s an experience I was good to do without, and since I’m sure he doesn’t remember much beyond the first 12 pack, I see it (even though I loathe sports analogies) as no harm, no foul. Jerry’s lonely drunk-and-stupids remind me of that age old quandary: If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, was there a noise? If he’s drunk and stupid but I don’t have to hear it, then it didn’t happen, no?

The pink tree complete with the buzzard on the top will stay lit up in the living room until New Year’s, then I will put that stuff away for another year. Then I get to settle in for two months (or so) of Februarys- dark, dismal and blessedly (hopefully) quiet, until about the middle of March. I can only hope in the mid-to-late winter funk that somewhere I will find time to read and think and just be. I’ve been scattered in so many directions lately that I really need that ivory tower time in a bad way.

I need solitude, but I can never seem to get enough of it.

This year wasn’t as depressing as Christmases go. I actually had the resources to gift people in a reasonably acceptable manner, which is a big deal to me. I like to treat people well when I can and be generous if I can, and I am thankful for having the means to do so at least in a small way. I am not a wealthy woman by any stretch of the imagination, so nobody got anything really awesome from me, but if nothing else they got a little something useful.

So another year bites the dust. Another day (year) closer to death (if I may sort of paraphrase Roger Waters and Pink Floyd) and not too much to show for it. I can, however, take solace in the truth that I can’t take it with me. The inevitability of death isn’t as depressing knowing that I’m not leaving behind a mansion, pool boy, or a garage full of tasty performance cars. That attitude is pragmatism at work. All I can do is try to do the best I can today.

Dancing in My Mind, and Memory is Bittersweet

November 26, 2014Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

No, I don’t believe in that “Happy Ever After” shit.

I’m one of those people who does a lot of living behind my own eyes. I can be remarkably scatterbrained when it comes to things such as “where’s my stuff?” or “what’s that dude’s name?, ” but when I happen upon an experience or an event that I want to remember, those memories remain vivid and in living, breathing color. Believe that.

For me the garden of memory is almost more alive than the real thing, if that’s possible. Sometimes that’s not so good, especially if I am stuck on a scene of disappointment or rejection, or mourning, but some trips to the garden of memory are positively magical.

Over the past few years I’ve allowed myself to fall into the pattern of being constrained by what I see as the limitations of my circumstances. Admittedly being married to a chronic boozer who has ED and a laundry list of other physical and psychological issues is a huge downer, and not exactly good for one’s self-esteem.

Jerry enjoys his beer drinking- and isn’t compelled to do anything about it.

I’m not referring to self-esteem in the vapid sense of “feeling good about yourself,” as in the phenomenon where some people treat their kids as though they deserve a prize for remaining vertical and continuing to suck up valuable oxygen. I’m talking about self image in a realistic way: I may be scatterbrained and wired differently than most people, but I manage to function somewhat effectively. I might be plain and proportioned like a mutant troll, but fuglier people than I still manage to have relationships, and fuglier people than I still manage to get laid from time to time. So I may not be “normal,” but I’m not that screwed up, I hope.

Old, yes, but I’m really, really, really low mileage.

It’s as if his dysfunction colors my outlook, and to a degree it does. I can’t say that going years without participating in the horizontal mambo is a good thing. I didn’t ask for the celibate life, and I truly don’t care for it. Being treated as a glorified maid and gopher doesn’t do much for feeling feminine or desirable or any of that business that I would like to say doesn’t matter, but deep down on some level it does.

A big part of me feels like a failure because in the back of my mind I guilt trip- what if I’d done more? What if I’d been more perceptive, more loving, or maybe less frumpy and boring? I guilt trip because maybe I shouldn’t feel the way I do (and I don’t acknowledge my feelings all too often, and when I do, I try not to give them much credence, which is probably a good thing) and that I should just suck it up and be glad Jerry can still dress and feed himself-for now.

I don’t think I could handle the guilt trip if I just picked up and left, and that’s messed up too. I said I would stay with him, though it’s been a very long almost 20 years. I feel like the life has been sucked out of me- to the point that a mere acknowledgment from a ghost from the past left me almost euphoric yesterday. Someone still gives half a shit! A half of a drink of water in an endless desert! It’s a sad state of affairs when I get that little affirmation.

But there is life beyond my limitations. I did have a life in front of my eyes, at one time. And I did enjoy myself for a moment in the garden of a particularly sweet memory yesterday and it did lift my spirits more than it probably should have.

There was a time- and maybe this is just my own wishful thinking- that I was desired and wanted and pursued. As much as I don’t want to admit to having a need to be wanted by men or even by a man (this reminds me way too much of the fairy tale bullshit shoved down little girls’ throats as they’re growing up) even I want to be more than just the one who gets to clean up the cat puke or dog shit, (Jerry’s really good at spotting it, but apparently unable to pick it up for some unfathomable reason) or the only one to run errands because I’m the only one who’s sober. Living like that – as a sort of an indentured servant- doesn’t do much for one’s emotional and spiritual wellbeing. I’ve said it before that my marriage at best is sort of a symbiotic relationship, but at worst, is more like a parasite-host relationship, which is sad but often true. I try to regard Jerry’s indifference in context because he really does care more about beer and football and cigarettes than pretty much anything else. Therefore I need to stick to my own agenda and interests- and fantasy life if that’s all I have, if I have any hope of staying remotely sane.

I wish I had the courage to reach out to an old friend (though paramour would probably be a more accurate word) and lay it on the line. Even if I risk rejection (oh, and believe me, I do,) my heart hasn’t changed in over 20 years. I have to come clean with how I felt then and still feel today, and admit it, even though the time and the circumstances probably aren’t any more “right” than they were back then.

That sort of honesty has always seemed to me to have far more risk than reward. I am so terrible at reading the motives and behavior of others. I have enough trouble with my own motivations to try to figure out what sort of mischief is brewing in other people’s minds.

Extra Early White Death! Yay!- And Don’t Smoke on the Bus!

November 18, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I don’t mind winter as much as some people do. The cold really doesn’t get to me that bad, but I do get wigged out by the dark. Dark when I wake up (but then again, it’s always dark when I get up, usually between 4:15 and 4:30,) dark when I go to work, dark when I get home. The only time I see daylight is on the weekends between November and April, and that is depressing.

November 17th is quite early for a first significant snow in beautiful Central Ohio. Usually the greater Columbus area is spared from the White Death until at least mid-December, because we sit in a valley and most of the weather goes either north or south of us, but not this time. We got about 4″ of snow, which isn’t as bad as further north, but it’s not typical this early. It doesn’t break my heart that we miss most of the epic snowfalls that occur in Northeast Ohio. Cleveland can have it.

Just another public service announcement from the 1940’s.

Wrap that rascal, bub!

I have to wonder about the state of this crazy assed world. I still wonder why they let school buses stop on the major thoroughfares during rush hour when there are parking lots close by where the buses can pull in and pick up kids without a.) stopping traffic, and b.) endangering kids by having them wander out close to the major thoroughfares. I don’t see where stopping traffic for miles is a time saver for anyone.

I do remember that when I was a little kid and had to ride the bus that the bus driver set the rules. Period. I had no problems at all while I was on the bus. My problems with riding the bus were before the bus got there and after the bus left. That’s when I ended up either head first in the bushes or head first in the trash barrel. When I was on the bus and in my place in the geeky-nerd-kid-with-thick-glasses-and-bad-clothes-seat- directly behind the driver- I was fine. Big John was the driver, and he didn’t take any crap from any kids. If you misbehaved on Big John’s bus, you got thrown off. Literally. As far as I was concerned, the seat behind the driver was the Safest Seat, and the one I took every time. I wasn’t going to have any conflict with Big John.

One morning two of the older boys, neither of whom were terribly bright, and both of whom were known trouble makers, decided to sit in the very back seat of the bus and fire up their Marlboros. This was a highly unwise move. I no sooner smelled a faint whiff of smoke than Big John slammed the brakes, flipped down the aisle, opened the back door and tossed both boys right out the back of the bus. Then Big John turned around and addressed the remaining kids on the bus with, “You smoke on my bus, I throw you out. Get it?”

Go take your cigs anywhere but Big John’s bus.

Today that would be a lawsuit. Someone today would stir up some kind of horse shit about the two boys being learning disabled (they were, but even they had enough upstairs to understand the bus rules) and therefore completely unaccountable for their actions. Back then, whether you were in the LD class or not, there were consequences for breaking the rules. Those two boys, to my knowledge, never rode Big John’s bus again.

But I think it is perfectly OK to throw miscreant boys off the bus for lighting up a smoke.

That was a much simpler world.

Now the rest of society is stuck having to pander to this or that special condition or bullshit excuse as to why person X doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that are applicable to everyone else.

I know I’m not “normal” or anywhere close to it. I’ve always known that. I’ve also discovered that it’s on me to adjust. I’m not the one running the train, or the one ringing the bell.

If I have a dietary restriction, then I need to bring my own meals, or make do with the available edibles. Being diabetic I am well aware of that. Either I bring suitable comestibles or adjust my dining experience accordingly. If I know my friends don’t have diet soda, for example, then I’ll either a.) bring my own, or b.) drink plain water or black coffee. I’m not going to pitch a fit because someone didn’t make an exception to accommodate my need for sugar free drinks. I don’t expect people to go out of their way to have Tab or Diet Dr. Pepper just for me. The same principle goes for people with dietary sensitivities or allergies. If you know it will kill you to eat peanuts, then don’t go diving into the cookies and desserts unless you know ahead of time what’s in them- or bring your own peanut-free ones.

Just don’t eat it if you know it might kill you.

I know I’ve gone on and on about the entitlement mentality, and the whole concept of special privileges for the mollycoddled few, and it really pisses me off. Now I get to deal with parents with young kids who think that other people should do their work for them while they stay home with their kids and get paid to do it. What makes their kids more special than my son? The kid I had to leave with a sitter (on my dime, of course) or in daycare for 8-12 hours a day, 5 days a week (or more) from the age of 8 weeks until he was about 13 (unless he was in school), because I had to work? I’m sorry, but that torques me. Why are your child care issues my problem? Either stay at home with your kid and suck it up, or do what everyone else had to do- put your kid in daycare and drag your ass to work. You can’t have it both ways. I sure didn’t. And I’m not (willingly) going to cover for you.

So, if you’ve decided to breast feed until the kid hits puberty, sorry about your luck.

Unless you are independently wealthy, that is.

Something Missing, Something Wrong

November 17, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I loved you the best that I was able. I could never be the fawning admirer you wanted. I could not bring myself to that depth of surrender. I am not good at putting up faςades. I wasn’t really made for maudlin sentiment or to shower forth vapid praise.

I became jaded and pragmatic and utilitarian out of practicality and necessity. Living in the embers of unrequited love is just too bitter if you hold on to baseless optimism. Some things are once in a lifetime offers, and once that flower blooms and fades it’s gone forever.

Even so, I remember. I remember in vivid, living, breathing color. I remember all too much and all too well beneath the banality of day to day, in my raw core, beneath the faςades I have to maintain. We were for a moment lost in that timeless, breathless universe of two, where time stopped and for a moment there was only you and me. This we cannot deny, and I cannot forget.

I remember the intensity, the passion, and the fire. I know you remember too. I walk through your dreams. I’m there when you least expect me, a reminder of what was, what could have been, and what will never be.

A Tenuous Equilibrium, The Way of Mercy, and Screwed Again

October 8, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I shouldn’t be so nice.

Nor should I confuse “nice” with “moral” or “Christian.”

But sometimes I do.

I had three days of much desperately needed vacation (sanity!!!) time scheduled. So with my luck, according to Murphy’s Law, one of my co-workers had to leave and will be out the rest of the week because his Dad died. There went my Brickleberry DVR marathon and road trip to points TBA.

I could literally watch these episodes all day. And I was going to.

Granted, death sucks, and realistically, you can’t expect someone to care about work in that situation, but mustering up sympathy is pretty hard for me when I’m stuck covering for this same guy through his kid’s endless sports events and various other frequent bullshit call-offs. It’s like crying wolf.

This is how I feel about this guy:
Now you have a valid reason to be gone, but you blew both your vacation time and my patience a long time ago. Save the calling off and pawning off your work on me for real emergencies – and maybe I’d be more understanding when you have an actual crisis. Your kid’s ball games and your conflicts with Time Warner and your cable boxes, and whatever other stupid shit you come up with to get out of work shouldn’t be my problem. Then again, I am not the boss. If I were, there would be no calling off for bullshit- if you wish to remain employed. It’s simply not fair to everyone else.

Technically, I could have went ahead and taken my vacation- but it would have put other people in a bad spot as well as giving me a first class ticket on the guilt train.

But there is a bright side. If I’d decided to go ahead and take my vacation time, I’d have been trying to escape from Jerry and his endless to-do lists, and pain in the ass micromanagement- all while feeling miserable that other people have to do what I should be doing anyway. Even so, I’m screwed again.

It’s almost sort of sad when one is better off just staying at work. Then again, it beats running Jerry’s errands. I’ve not forgotten the 20 mile (one way) road trip to score him KFC in the middle of the night whilst in the middle of nowhere, WV. If only I could just get paid for it, but not actually take vacation time, that would be moderately OK with me. Unless of course, I can take an actual solitary vacation, which I don’t see happening.

I know, forgive and forget, and know that I’d have been strongarmed into forgoing any attempts at rest and solitude anyway, and it was better to volunteer for the inevitable. It either makes me look “nice” or just affirms that I’d rather avoid conflict than stand my ground. Either way, the outcome would have been the same.

This One Goes Up to Eleven, Reality Bites, and the Diesel Beast

October 1, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

For those not familiar with the wisdom of Nigel Tufnel from Spinal Tap, he claims that his particular Marshall amplifiers are better because they “go up to eleven.” I guess I need that “little extra push over the cliff” myself.

For what it’s worth, Marshall amplifiers are both classic and choice, for both guitar and bass. Back in the dark ages when I played bass, I had a 400 watt full stack that pretty much never got turned up past three. That’s probably more of a commentary on the fact that I never got very far in the rock and roll endeavor than the quality of the amplifier. I had the power to play in large venues- but not the opportunity. Success in the performance business is based on a number of factors, and actual talent isn’t terribly high on the list. Stage presence, one’s connections, and just being in the right place at the right time matter more than how well one can play or sing.

I have no stage presence, I am not well connected, and when my ship comes in it’s guaranteed I’ll be at the airport. I am not going to claim that I am or was the best thing in the world since sliced bread either. I was a decent singer and a pretty good bass player, but who cares when you are female and have the body of a mutant troll? It worked for Angus Young, but he was both British and a dude. For women in performance and music it’s a “damn, she looks fine, but can’t sing a note,” world out there- and the staircase matters more than what’s upstairs and/or what kind of voice projects from said staircase. There are plenty of talented people out there that the world will never see or hear. Cronyism and nepotism remain alive and well in many spheres, and a pretty face trumps a good voice, musical talent and/or a brain every time. Vapid, marginally talented (or even no-talented) beauties have far better odds of success in this world than talented homely people, which partially explains the Kardashians.

Pretty, but a combined IQ of 12.

Suffice to say that I don’t have the pretty face. I let the rock and roll dream go when my son was born because I had to get down to reality sooner rather than later. It’s fun but (with the exception of a very elite few) it doesn’t pay the bills. It was a lot of work and time and money that I didn’t have to spend.

On a brighter note, the POMC bought his very first new car Saturday. He went to the dark side a long time ago (he’s enamored of the Germans, even when I won’t drive anything unless it’s built by Toyota) so I wasn’t surprised by his choice. After endless research, test drives, perusing online reviews and three hours going back and forth with the poor finance guy at the dealership, he bought a loaded out 2014 VW Jetta- diesel.

Black on black, very conservative…but still the German performance thing.

I can’t blame him at all for wanting the fuel economy. 50MPG+ is enticing, even with the knowledge that maintenance on a diesel is both more frequent and more costly than on a gasoline car. The car doesn’t sound like a diesel and doesn’t stink like a diesel, but my frame of reference on diesel cars goes back to the old VW Rabbits from the early ’80s that rattled to beat hell and stunk to holy high heaven. Over all he ended up with most of the same features as my Corolla (including the obligatory manual transmission), only I have a bit better navi unit and I have automatic climate control. He has a cute little sunglass holder over the rear view mirror and a bigger trunk. He also ended up with about a $7000 higher price tag than the Corolla- but he has a turbo and more low end torque, which means his car has more power. Then again, when the German stuff fails it does so in a blaze of expensive and inconvenient glory. The Japanese stuff doesn’t have quite the performance edge, but it’s generally more reliable and easier to maintain over time.

As I told him, it’s about trade offs. For me the Corolla has plenty of power. After all, I live in Ohio. I usually see at least three cops every morning just driving the three miles from my house to the Y. I can’t afford to speed.

~”Not one state of the fifty has the death penalty for speeding . . . although I’m not so sure about Ohio!”- Brock Yates

Not me. Not in a little black Corolla. Not ever.

So when he was finally done torturing the finance people at the dealership and he was satisfied that it was OK to sign, we made a little road trip in the diesel beast to try it out. On the WV turnpike, of course. I must say in this car’s favor that this was the only time I’ve been down the WV turnpike without being scared shitless from Charleston to Beckley. Even at 70 MPH there’s no body roll whatsoever on those curves and grades. I have not driven the WV turnpike in the Corolla for comparison (yet) but the Corolla did surprisingly well on I-40 in Tennessee and NC with similar grades, curves and speed limits.

He’s happy with what he got and I’m happy with what I got. Different strokes for different folks. Now if he’d been eyeballing a Kia or a Hyundai, Mommy and the POMC would have had to have a sit-down heart-to-heart regarding why we don’t buy shitty cars, but he knows better. Way better.

Coping Mechanisms, Dark Pragmatism and More Postmortem Pics

September 23, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I did draw hatchets, skulls and heavy metal band logos in my extensive high school boredom doodlings. This is why I know not to do it now.

When I get bored, I scribble and doodle. Sometimes I do it in a more figurative sense- typing is so much faster than writing long hand, at least for me- but drawing can only really be done the old fashioned way, with pens and pencils and markers.

The psychologists and guidance counselors had a field day with me in middle school and high school because of my rather dark themed scribblings and doodlings. When your primary emotion is “terror,” the secondary is almost always “rage.” (Repressed anger, anyone?- and this was decades before Columbine.) I would buy plain notebooks (even better if they had a canvas finish) and then I would draw macabre scenes all over them in a variety of colors. If the discussion went too slow or I got bored in class (pretty much every day) then I would write little snippets of prose or poetry along with whatever notes I was pretending to take inside the notebook. I didn’t have the advantage of having a laptop or a tablet or a smart phone in school. I graduated in 1986, when the entire school had three computers, all of which had a cassette player serving as a hard drive. By comparison, the Note 3 smart phone I have today would have been a supercomputer.

I should have learned my lesson regarding concealing incriminating evidence of my twisted thought life when I was in 8th grade. One of the boys decided to appropriate one of my more risqué notebooks and share its contents with the other boys. This was Not a Good Thing. The notebook got confiscated by a nosy teacher who wondered what the boys were laughing about. I ended up in an extremely awkward and embarrassing meeting with the guidance counselor that led to several months of camping out in the psychologist’s office every Tuesday afternoon. Since my mother worked for the school system and knew every single one of the teachers and staff, the repercussions of that indiscretion really sucked.

I still kept my funky notebooks with the outlandish scribbles on them, but I was more careful about what I wrote in them in high school, just in case someone would dare to screw with them. No one ever dared to. In high school, I found that when I ended up with large friends, who took a special delight in beating the daylights out of people who screwed with me, that my confidential items remained that way. I didn’t receive any unauthorized touching, spindling or mutilation to my person either, not after one unfortunate thug got her head shaved for spitting Skoal in my hair. The Skoal Incident- which took place toward the end of my freshman year in high school- marked the end of many years of harassment and beatings from my cohorts in school.

Some of my friends liked to fight. I didn’t. But by the time I had a car and smokes, I didn’t have to fight.

Granted, I was probably buying friends, (often with cigarettes) which isn’t a healthy thing to do, but it did save me from more than one ass-thumping, I’m sure. I was in survival mode back then, and it was refreshing to be able to go to school without being dumped head-first into garbage cans, having my hair set on fire, or being shoved up the stairs. The thought of being shoved up the stairs (concrete stairs with metal caps on the edges) makes my knee caps hurt even now.

Survival is what it is.

I probably shouldn’t have such a fascination for postmortem pics and/or the plight of the unfortunates of Walmart, but I do.

Pictures are expensive- sooooo- jump right on in there with the stiff!

She doesn’t look terribly fresh, but then again, she’s DEAD. How fast can the photographer get there on a horse?

The Victorians did pathos and high drama in a way that we just can’t stomach today, but as I’ve said before, back in the times before flush toilets and Clorox, death was in your living room. Death was your bunkie in more ways than one.

Maybe I should consider it an improvement in my emotional health that my primary emotion is “fear” opposed to “terror.” That might just be the mitigating effect of Prozac. I’ve noticed that my secondary emotion- “rage” – has sort of settled into a pragmatic anger. I try not to get angry unless that anger will do some good, but there are times when I just plain get pissed for no apparent reason.

I actually have some ivory tower time scheduled, although it seems sort of shitty that I have to schedule it in advance rather than just being able to drop off the planet for awhile, unannounced. This time I hope Jerry leaves me alone for at least a day or two. I could really use some peace and quiet with just Clara as company for a few days (months…yeah right) but I know Jerry too well. If I go to the campground he will feel compelled to follow me so I can fetch beer and make trips into town for KFC and so forth.

Man, that sounds good.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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gratuitous self pity