historical interest

things back in the day

Dubious Distinctions, Freud Would Have a Field Day, and It’s Cougar Pool Time Again

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I have not set up the Cougar Pool again, but I have everything ready to go- chlorine, shock, a brand new floatie, and a new filter kit.  I do not swim – at least I don’t dare dunk my head- in unchlorinated water.  I learned the lesson long, long ago when I got a wicked as hell ear infection from swimming at one of the reservoirs.   I should be thankful the water in the reservoirs is chlorinated before it ends up coming through my faucet if it’s that filthy.  I might go to a public beach at the reservoir, and I may consider wading, but I sure as hell am not dunking my head.  Never again.  I like the Cougar Pool water to be crystal clear and Ph perfect.  That way if I do want to dunk my head- or if I fall off the floatie- it’s all cool.  I shouldn’t catch any diseases at least.

So as soon as I clean off the back patio and make sure Jerry hasn’t left anything sharp lying around, it will be ready to go. I should know that Central Ohio in May is generally still Monsoon Season, and that the temperature still hasn’t quite stabilized at Stygian Heat yet.  We don’t put in vegetable plants until those two weeks or so between May 15 and Memorial Day for that reason.  It can snow in May.  Jerry will be a busy little camper with planting next week, but this week it’s supposed to rain and temperatures will only be in the 70’s at best.

Highs at 80° and above (somewhat consistently) are required to use the Cougar Pool.  There’s no heater, so if temperatures dip into the 50s at night, that will be one frigid pool the next day even with the greenhouse effect of the sun and the pool cover.

Isabel is 5# of all black feline sweetness- when she’s not being evil, that is.

I have to wonder about some of my dreams lately.  I think that I’m going to have to close the bedroom door so I don’t wake up to Isabel chewing on my hair again.  I don’t know why she does that, but it’s highly annoying.  Generally Clara and/or Lilo, and all the cats are quite welcome on the bed.  Sheena doesn’t attempt to get on the beds because her bad hips do not allow her to jump high enough, which is fine with me, because she lacks the precise motor skills the other dogs have.

Maybe Sheena’s a total klutz because she has no hip sockets, and the ball portions of her femurs just sort of free-float.

Even if it’s not painful- and it probably is- such a condition can’t allow for terribly fluid movement, but Sheena is what Sheena is.  Sheena usually simply flops at the side of the bed and splays out on the floor, occasionally grunting and snoring, but she’s a sound sleeper.  Clara and Lilo both are attentive to every little noise, and sleep very lightly, but when Sheena’s out, she’s out.  The cats usually simply curl up and purr and sleep and don’t give me any trouble.  Usually when the cats get annoying at night, it’s because their food bowl is empty, but I had filled the cats’ food bowl and the water bowl before I went to bed.  So who knows what Isabel’s problem was last night, but I really don’t need to have dreams of assorted men-I-think-are-hot chewing on my hair.

I really don’t think (at least I hope not) that Neal Schon would really want to chew on my hair (ewwwww) and spy on me in the shower.  I really don’t think any man alive would really want to do either of those things, (and one that would want to do either of those things would scare the hell out of me,) but dreams are weird.  When the old man puts a bottle nipple on a Heineken so he can drink beer whilst horizontal, well, that’s scary too.  Fortunately that too was a dream.  Jerry would never dream of drinking anything more highbrow than Bud Light, he doesn’t like beer in the bottle anyway, and if he could remain horizontal whilst drinking beer, he’d never leave the bed.

I was thinking about it this morning and realized I have the most bizarre luck.  It’s not necessarily bad, it’s not necessarily good- but my life seems to be an ode to Murphy’s Law.

1.  If I am “lucky” enough to get the last of a highly sought item, it will either be broken, missing pieces, or entirely not the thing pictured on the box.  I really couldn’t use *and should have checked, shame on me* the “last” pair of  size 7 sandals, on the clearance rack that I really wanted, only to get home and discover that there was one 7 and one 9 in the box.   I may be ill-proportioned, and the instep on my right foot is slightly higher than the left, but both feet are generally happy in a size 7.  9 is way the fark too big even for my higher-instepped right foot.   Bastards.  But, I should have checked.

2. If I remember to bring the DS when I have something boring to do that potentially involves sitting and waiting, I get right in.  If I forget the DS, I will encounter every imaginable delay and will get to spend an eternity either immersed in the abyss of daytime TV or buried in vapid, aged, so-called women’s magazines.   I don’t really get into too many periodicals.  At least the Vet has some good ones- Dog Fancy, Cat Fancy, and various scientific and veterinary journals and such.  But I really can’t take Glamour, People, Good Housekeeping or any of those “parenting” magazines.   That crud makes me want to vomit.   The good gossip rags ended when they stopped printing the Weekly World News.   That was Great-Grandma’s favorite gossip paper, even though she subscribed to them all for the entertainment value, and for the hope that they would lampoon Ted Kennedy yet again.  She really despised Ted Kennedy. WWN is still available online, but you have to have Internet access, and most Dr.s offices and such do not have free wi-fi.  It is nice to know, however, that someone is keeping track of who has the World’s Biggest Butt.  That piece of knowledge could be important.

3. I probably have more medical anomalies than 99% of the population.  While this makes me really popular when I’m in a medical setting, it can make my healthcare become a real circus.  I have had medical students, nursing students, ophthalmology students, phlebotomy students, you name it, get to observe my bizarre body as a instructional exercise.  Usually I don’t mind, because hey, maybe something about my bizarreness might benefit the cause of science, but sometimes it’s a bit off-putting.  The medical student who freaked out at being shown my CT scan before I had sinus surgery was priceless.  He stood there next to my family Dr., wide eyed, simply saying, “OH MY GOD, how does this poor woman stay standing???”  Not very well, I assure you.  It was even more fun when I went to the cardiologist for an echocardiogram several years ago, and of course, it was his day for the medical students.  They glared  at my beating heart on the monitor (which was kind of cool to watch,) as the Dr. (who seemed as excited as a kid in a candy store,) informed them, “This is classic rheumatic heart disease.  You usually don’t get to see this outside of the third world,”  as he pointed out my two damaged heart valves.  Special.  He also said that I probably won’t need them replaced until I’m 75 or so.  If I live that long, that is.  This doctor obviously didn’t know that for all intents and purposes I did grow up in the third world.   Just like Deliverance, only without the benefit of mountains or banjos.

Now, class, don’t put ’em in the bed like this. They might snap their necks, and that would make us look bad.

Drunken Tilling! Everyone Has a Double, and Here’s to the Mysteries of Life!

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Sometimes I am truly amazed and humbled by things I don’t understand. 

Especially how Jerry has managed to live 55 years and still has all of his fingers and toes.  Then again, since he only has ten of each, he may have lost some in the past.  It’s probably in poor taste for me to make a West Virginia joke, but it’s not uncommon in some parts of WV for entire families to have six or seven toes on each foot.  Maybe he had more genetic diversity in his family than in others, because I think he was born with the customary ten toes and ten fingers, which is a good thing.  I went to school with a guy who had six toes on each foot, and he also had a thing for eating boogers, paint and dead bugs.  I don’t think extra digits=extra intelligence, but I’m no geneticist, so there may not be any correlation between having too many toes and whether or not your mamma and your sister are the same woman.  (“Aunt Mom??”)

Anyway, back to more of Jerry’s drunken activities.  Last night’s drunken activity of the evening was tilling.  For those who are extremely urban and have never grown a garden, or observed someone grow a garden, tilling is what you have to do to break up the ground so you can put seeds or plants in it.  Our garden plot is somewhat large, which means manual tilling, with a shovel or hoe (also a digging tool, but not to be confused with “ho”) is not practical.  Tilling a large garden plot requires a roto-tiller, which is a funky thing that is powered by a lawnmower engine, but in the front of it there are vertical, rotating tines that dig up the ground (versus a horizontal blade like a lawnmower.) 

It would be in one’s best interest to be relatively sober when operating such a potentially dangerous machine, but Jerry was at least a 12 pack into it.  So he is traipsing through the mud with the tiller dragging him along.  His shoes ended up so caked with mud that I am surprised the dog shit he stepped in on the way in the house managed to stick to them, but of course, dog shit sticks to anything.  I could have killed him for tracking in dog shit (again) but in his defense I don’t think he could see it and I’d be surprised if he could have smelled it as shitfaced as he was.  I retrieved the shoes, tossed them on the back porch and of course, had to clean up the shit that got tracked all over the floor.

Just a quick passing observation.  Legend has it everyone has a double.  Even Obama.  I couldn’t stop laughing the other night when Jerry and I were watching “The Legend of Awesomest Maximus,” which is about the most corny spoof of Greek mythology I’ve ever seen in my life.  The movie was funny in a puerile, sophomoric way as most National Lampoon humor is- nothing highbrow here-but my uncontrollable, blow-iced-tea-out-my-nose laughter was caused by the uncanny resemblance shown here:

This is King Erotic, the evil king of Greece (from “The Legend of Awesomest Maximus”)

I think they look alike.  Too alike. Creepy.

 

Despair, Venting and Cool 80’s Music

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I’m trying really hard not to fall into the trap of despair.  I know I should be seeing the glass as half full rather than half empty and all that, and I’m responsible for my own attitude.  This being said, I’m trying to stay out of that festering pit of gratituous self pity that I can get mired in if I’m not paying attention.  Chronic depression, the mental disorder that keeps on giving.

I’m dreading my excursion to the Dr. on Monday.  I know that even though I’ve gained some ground in the Snot Wars that whole business has thrown both my blood sugar and blood pressure off whack, and neither of those have gone back down to where they should be.  I really, really can’t afford any more meds and tests and such, and it’s frustrating that I try to do the right things and I’m still screwed.  Sometimes I just wish I could just quit taking all the damned pills and shots and going through all the bullshit and just drop dead, but it’s not that easy.  Knowing my bad luck I’d just turn into a drooling vegetable and/or end up a double amputee or something and then be even more screwed, so I’m not going to take that path.

I’m also quite pissed off about the POMC and the financial aid bullshit he’s going through.  Supposedly he is still a “dependent student” even though a.) he works full time, b.) he pays all his own bills, and c.) is supporting his own child on top of everything else.  Where in the hell did they get this noise that he’s still a “dependent”- he doesn’t live with me and I can’t claim him or his expenses for tax purposes- SO why in the flying effing hell do they need my farking tax information if I”M NOT PAYING FOR HIM?????  Hello?  Obama, you jackass, is this what you call “education reform”- counting a student’s parents’  income  as if it were the student’s, even if the student doesn’t live with and/or isn’t financially supported by his parents so that it’s harder for the kid to get financial aid?   Of course this is his last year of school (YAY!) but every single time the kid has applied for financial aid he- and me by  proxy- has gotten nine kinds of shit.  Why do they have to make it so damned difficult?  Why the hell am I involved at all?  He’s a farking adult!!!!  Is he supposed to be a 21 year old titty baby?   He supports himself and provides a good deal of support for his own kid.  If anyone needs/deserves a break it’s someone like him who is 21 and NOT still leeching off his parents.  Does the government really think it’s a good idea for parents to support their adult children ad infinitum?  Is this their answer for lazy, ill-educated thugs who want everything handed to them and for their parents to cover for them until they’re 40?  It really gets on my freaking nerves.

 

I thought cutting him off the teat once he got teeth was the right thing to do, but apparently the government doesn’t think so!

Anyway, now that I’ve got that venting out of the way, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so pissed.  It could always be worse, but I guess the frustration is that I deal with the same shit over and over and over and it keeps coming back. 

On the bright side, I have been trolling about for even more MP3s for my collection to add to my cloud drive and player.  I was never much of a Rod Stewart fan back in the 80’s- I always thought him a bit too on the mellow side- but I’m enjoying some of his stuff now.  I have a lovely eclectic mix of tunes- mostly because I really can’t stand most of the local radio stations, and I can’t really narrow down all the music I like to one particular genre.  I like classical, I like blues and jazz and funk, and of course I get into rock and metal- especially the orchestral, grandiose rock of the 70’s and 80’s.  Maybe it’s because I played music long ago, and I studied classical voice, that I tend to be a bit fussy and perhaps even a bit highbrow at times.   I wonder if I could remember how to play bass after 15+ years of not playing at all.  I still have a voice and I still have the range (a little over 3 1/2 octaves- alto II through soprano I, believe that) but my age, lack of stamina and constant snots pretty much keep me from doing much more with that besides singing in the car and at church.  Yes I sing it loud and sing it proud in church.  Lutherans can get away with that.  I’m kind of curious to see on Sunday- I have to go to my nephew’s Confirmation- if the Methodists can crank it out. 🙂

I’ve got to get in a better state of mind.  Maybe a few rounds of “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” might help.

All the cool musicians looked better in 1981.

I have a good time with that- until I remember that Rod Stewart is older than my Dad.  Then I get kinda sorta creeped out. 

 

 

 

 

Walk Briskly, and Wear Rubber-Soled Shoes (Life Lesson #1)

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In most things I’m all about practical application.  Having the dubious distinction of having lived and worked with hot-tempered people (and even having worked for a few people with white powder* problems) I have had to learn the art survival skill of subtlety.  This is not a skill that comes naturally.  By nature I am a very literal person, and unless I have a compelling reason to do otherwise, I say what I think.  Even so, I also have a very strong self-preservation instinct.  I learned this from my Dad, who didn’t have mental or chemical problems- but he did have a hot temper and a damned fine aim.  There are some people you just don’t piss off.  He falls into that category.  I got a refresher course on treading lightly when the psycho coke head from hell tried to throttle me in the service drive because our technician took it upon himself to complete some (free) warranty work on his car.

Of course self-preservation trumps most other instincts most of the time.  When I’m at work I do best if I am told what is expected of me and then I’m left alone to get it done.  I do not require micromanagement, and the more autonomy I have, the more I get done.  

I really don’t need any bullshit from the chemically impaired.  I learned very quickly how to spot when one of my former bosses had spent the night with a hooker, some cheap liquor and a LOT of toot-toot.  I learned to make myself very scarce and only respond when spoken to.  This was a guy who could go from being the greatest guy in the world one minute to the world’s biggest prick in 1.2 seconds.  This was the same guy who spent most days in the titty bar while I did his work and he conveniently took the credit (and the hefty bonus checks) for it.  I avoided him like the plague- but especially when he came in while riding the toot-toot train. 

If this dude confronted me when he was like that I would usually get stuck climbing around scrubbing down the tops of parts bins when I had more productive and profitable things that I should be doing, but this dude was anal like that.  I understand that you want your work area to be reasonably clean and organized, but the reality of any sort of automotive parts warehouse – especially a parts department in a dealership that’s right next to the mechanical shop- is that it is neither a surgical unit nor a kitchen and it isn’t going to be that clean.   I had a severe distaste for this kind of time-wasting for two reasons: one, you can scrub and Clorox it down one day and between the exhaust fumes and the techies (who aren’t exactly Mr. Clean) it’s going to be dirty again the next.  It’s an exercise in futility. 

The other reason I hated his little cleaning rants is his behavior reminded me of Mom when she used to go on the manic cleaning rampages.  Mom is bi-polar and when we were kids, unmedicated.  Although she exhibited a lot of the same bizarre behaviors as a coke head on a bender, Mom did not do coke, thank God.  Dad didn’t have that kind of cash, and Mom was far too näive to go trolling for drugs.  Hindsight being 20/20 I wish someone would have had some Valiums or Xanaxs handy when she got on a roll.   I shudder to imagine a bi-polar person in manic phase AND on coke.  Believe it or not the behavior of a bi-polar person in manic phase and of a coke head in full coke rage is remarkably similar.  I’ve had the bad fortune to be the target of both, and it’s taught me how to make myself scarce.

Blending into the wall can be a handy survival skill.  So can walking briskly and wearing rubber-soled shoes.  I find myself doing that a lot lately.  Do my job, flit about from here to there, as quickly and quietly as someone with dismal gross motor skills can, and go along my merry way.  I have to do a lot less explaining, a lot less chatting, and I get sidetracked a lot less if I can just plow right on through.

Thankfully I’ve not had to work for the cocaine addicted for many years.  It’s a bit stressful going to work not knowing if your boss is going to be:

1. At the titty bar/brothel.  This was the best place for him to be, because I didn’t have to deal with him, and since I had to do his job anyway, it was nice to be left alone to do it.  The only bad part was I felt guilty lying to his wife when she called.  I knew damned good and well he wasn’t “in a meeting,” but it was a lot less messy than telling her the truth.  She found out anyway where he’d been going- when she ended up with a rather nasty social disease. 

2. At work.  This was a crap shoot. When he wasn’t jacked up on coke, he was usually OK.  That was the time to corner him for the few things that he had to authorize, etc. although I pretty much could do everything he did- even though I didn’t get the recognition or the compensation for it.  Even if he was coked up he could be decent -unless he started getting paranoid or something (and that could be anything) pissed him off.  Then he could go from your best buddy to the guy who’s having a screaming tirade about dust bunnies behind the oil filters.

3. Sick.  It was really bad if this dude came to work “sick,” because here was a dude who could turn a hangnail into a Shakespearian tragedy.  And on top of being the world’s biggest coke head, this dude was the world’s biggest hypochondriac.  I swear he asked me to inspect bumps on his scalp and arms (ewwwwwwwww!!!) and creepiness like that.  Yeah, you hired me to inspect your zits and dandruff.  Acck.  I am NOT a doctor.  I am NOT any kind of health professional.  If you are in doubt, stay home, quarantine yourself, or just skip the middle man.  Call 911 and have them take your ass to the ER.  Ironically, he didn’t say anything to me about the symptoms of the social disease that he (and his now ex-wife) had to go get shots and such for.  Go figure.  I hope it fell off.

I have to say I was delighted when I was offered alternative employment far, far away from this dude.  However, the life lesson that the hot-heads, bi-polar, and chemically enhanced people in my life have taught me still stands.  It is better to lurk quietly in the shadows and avoid attention than to be singled out and browbeaten. 

*white powder=cocaine

Leave Uncle Ted Alone (He’s Actually Read the Constitution) and Deal With the Issues Already!

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I’ve never been a huge Ted Nugent fan- I always cranked up “Cat Scratch Fever” when Mom was around because she hated that song even worse than Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell,”  but I was into the more melodic, grandiose, orchestral rock and metal.  I adored (and still do adore) Journey, Rush, Led Zeppelin, ELO, REO Speedwagon, Meatloaf, and such, and I even got into the hard core stuff like Iron Maiden and Metallica.  I never disliked Uncle Ted- but I wasn’t really into his music either.

I do agree with Ted’s political views for the most part.  I might be a bit more subtle in my language, but I understand where he’s coming from.  The far-left is evil and they are doing some pretty nasty things in this country that shouldn’t be allowed to continue.  I’m glad he had the courage to tell the truth about our self proclaimed emperor.  Obama’s  the Emperor With No Clothes. He’s naked, he’s likely not even eligible under the Constitution to hold the office of President, he panders to terrorists, he is deadly to American jobs and commerce, he’s anti-life, and he needs to be voted out.  The First Amendment protects an American citizen’s right to state the facts.  I will expound upon them myself:

1. Obama cannot prove in a satisfactory manner that he is a natural born citizen (as opposed to a person born with dual citizenship or a naturalized citizen) who is eligible to hold the office of President (see Article II, Section 1 of the US Constitution : No person except for a Natural Born Citizen or a Citizen of the United States at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution shall be eligible to this Office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.)

Since we know Obama wasn’t around in 1789 when the Constitution was ratified, then he has to prove he was actually born in the US.  The Hawaii birth certificate thing seems shady at best, and downright contrived at worst.  Too many things don’t add up as Joe Arpaio and others have pointed out.  However, I don’t think it’s of primary necessity (though proving one’s eligibility for office is Constitutionally sound) to question Obama’s eligibility.  I would rather let his flawed ideology- and his own ineptitude- speak for itself.

2. Obama has consistently abused executive power to override the other three branches of government- to stifle private industry, to obstruct the development of domestic natural resources, and to squander taxpayers’ money on (Michelle’s vacations, Secret Service trips to the whorehouse, campaign fundraisers…and) various other personal pork projects.

3. Obama has bowed down to terrorist nations and offered apologies where apologies were not called for.  There is something in the Constitution about “giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”  (US Constitution, Article III, Section 3: Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession in open Court.)

4. Obama has consistently supported the pro-death lobby (aka: abortion and euthanasia)  in this country by upholding funding and legislation facilitating easy access to abortion- and at the same time supporting legislation and policies that make legitimate health care both more expensive and more cumbersome for working people to obtain.

Yes, even raging right-wingers like myself have First Amendment rights.  At least for now!

Obama needs to be voted out for any one of the four points I’ve raised above.  The first and third points violate the Constitution itself.  The second and fourth more or less reflect my own personal distaste for the far-left, but those are valid points of opposition as well.   Notice that none of them have anything to do with what color the guy is.

I find it incredibly disturbing that the first charge levied against those who oppose Obama is racism.  I would oppose anyone who is doing what Obama’s doing to this country be he/she white, black, green or paisley.  Why does being black or in Obama’s case, being half black, give him a pass?  Isn’t affirmative action just an insidious form of racism/sexism that says, “Well, since you are a minority or a woman or a person who has to work around a disability, then we’ll lower the standard for you, give you preferential treatment, and give you a pass on everything you screw up?”  Is Obama beyond scrutiny because there’s a double standard in play?  Obviously the media loves and agrees with him, so they are not going to go to any great lengths to expose him for what he is.

I’ve had people question my critiques of Obama by citing all the expensive pieces of paper he has, as if all of his degrees and accolades from high faluting universities are supposed to put him above the scrutiny of working class automotive parts purveyors and other obscure, non influential white people who happened to be born with a plastic spoon in their mouths, such as I am.  The problem I have with such credentials is that  they probably aren’t authentic, and even if they are, it’s also likely Obama didn’t earn those either- I can almost guarantee he was “affirmative actioned” in his educational history as well as in his political career.

But the real question for the future of this country- Is it really OK to screw up, to espouse anti-American ideologies, to implement policies that are killing economic development and punishing working people for actually being productive, and not be held accountable for your failure – simply because you’re half black?  Entitlement is an experiment that this nation can no longer afford.

I know that I want to be held to a high standard and not given any sort of preferential treatment in my professional life.  I’m female, I have various and sundry chronic health issues, and I work with an atypically wired mind- however- those facts do not change the standard I hold myself to.  I don’t use the way I happened to be dropped on this earth as an excuse for mediocrity.  I don’t get a pass.  I don’t want one.  I’m not entitled to jack shit beyond what I earn.  The main problem I have is that more than half of what I earn is taken away from me before I ever see it, to pay for those who sit back and make excuses- and for those who squander taxpayers’ money with impunity and arrogance just because they can.

Obama should not get a pass and be excused for his massive ideological and practical failures simply for being half-black, arrogant and heartless.   Martin Luther King’s dream was that people be judged for the content of their character, not that black people (or half black people) be given a pity party and have everything handed to them whether they deserve it or not, all because their ancestors might or might not have been slaves at one time.

The pity party needs to end.  Like it or not, messengers like Uncle Ted are telling the truth. It’s time to listen.  It’s time to speak out and do something.  B.O. Must Go!

Any Color (As Long As It’s Black,) Medical Curiosities, and Dark Despondency

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I’m not sure if  “Any color as long as it’s black” is a direct quote of Henry Ford’s, but I mention Henry Ford because I can sort of identify with him.  He was the type of person who thought outside the box- to a degree- and then defined the box according to his own personal boundaries.  All Model T Fords came from the factory in one color- black- because that was the most economical color of paint available at that time.   I dye my hair black for pretty similar reasons- I don’t end up with dark ends from trying to match the original mousy brown, nor do I end up looking completely ridiculous with platinum blonde hair- and dark roots.  Black is black and that is easy to match.  It prevents me from having to go to a salon twice a month for color, which I can’t afford.  Then again I wonder what I can afford.  Not very damned much.  I can’t even afford the farking nasal spray to treat my incorrigible sinus problems that costs $120, but in theory would prevent me from choking to death on snot.  So if I drown in my own snot, the world knows why.

Yesterday I got to see my new primary care Dr. (after going to the same one for 17 years it really sucks to have to switch) and as far as I can see, he’s OK.  I will discern more as time goes by, and I know that he will probably want to play around with my meds once he gets my labs back.  Joy and rapture- and I’m already bracing for the medication-induced narcolepsy, because that’s often what happens when my blood pressure meds are changed.  There is nothing like an involuntary nap at 2PM to make one realize just how befuggered their internal clockwork really is.    I feel sorry for the guy.  I did notice a bit of bewilderment as he perused my current scripts.  Yes, I know the combinations and dosages of just my blood pressure meds alone are enough to kill a normal person.  It’s been that way for years.  In dog years I’m dead, and I often wonder exactly why I’ve been left on this earth to consume valuable oxygen, but it’s not my question to ask.   Maybe I should just stop taking all that shit and see how long it takes for me to drop dead.  The only problem with that is knowing me, I wouldn’t just drop dead.  Something else would fail or go wrong- enough to make me deadly ill, but not enough to kill me. It would be just enough to keep contributing to my suffering. 

It seems the snots have been around for a long, long time.  Catarrh is the old time word for “hacking cough.” Apparently that shit didn’t work either.

I feel sorry for any medical professional who has to deal with me given my funky assed history.  I don’t fit- not even remotely- into anyone’s definition of normal.  Science can provide few clues as to what to do with my sorry carcass except to comment when there are medical students nearby to observe, and to make sure I get billed for everything they can possibly bill me for.  I can only imagine, but they should be paying me for getting to enjoy the freak show.

If anyone could be the poster child for medical anomalies it would be me.  I think it would be cool if I could observe my own autopsy and see just how bizarre my physical body really is.  That’s what I get for watching too many episodes of Dr. G.  I may be twisted, but Dr. G is the shizzle.  I bet she would have fun with my autopsy.

I know what it is!  I’m WHITE!  I need a cure for being WHITE!

As long as we look to legislation to cure poverty or to abolish special privilege we are going to see poverty spread and special privilege grow. – Henry Ford, from his autobiography, My Life and Work.

I’ve said the same thing myself only in a slightly different way: You get more of whatever you subsidize.  Lyndon Johnson’s “War on Poverty” has actually become subsidized poverty.   Why are people going to bother to work to provide for themselves when the government takes what they earn away from them so that other people can have what working people can’t afford- for free?   Socialism doesn’t work.  Eventually those of us who do have some sort of work ethic will get demoralized and just say, “aw, screw it,” like the rest of the denizens of the trailer park.   Then no one will get anything for free, because the ones who used to pay for their freebies decided it wasn’t worth it anymore.

I sincerely wish that the entitlement crowd would take a good hard look at the people like me who are driven into the ground as we are forced to finance their pork projects.  I’m sure they are, as they’re laughing their asses off, enjoying free health care and government cheese on my dime.  I can’t even afford my own scripts. 

Admittedly I’ve not been this depressed in a long time.  I think it might have to do with whatever this interminable head cold? allergy hell? chronic sinus drainage? is.  I always have some degree of snot and drainage from my sinuses, but ever since a week ago Monday the back of my throat has been a snot Niagara Falls.  I choke on it sitting up. I’ve gotten maybe three hours of sleep since a week ago Monday between the snotting and the hacking and there is no medication out there so far (antihistamines, Nyquil, cough syrup, be it OTC or scripts, etc.) that will touch it.  Both the urgent care joint and the new Dr. I saw yesterday claim that this noise is all allergies and is nothing I can spread to others, but that is cold comfort.  I can suffer, but buck up- no matter how miserable I am, at least I’m not going to spread the joy?  As if hawking up a gallon of snot won’t clear a room?

Then to add some icing to the cake I can’t find my damned debit card.   I am hoping like hell that I left it in my pants pocket and I don’t have to report it lost and go through that noise again of getting it replaced.

You’re Supposed to Do What with WHAT?

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Just when I start waxing nostalgic on the “good old days” I happen across this lovely ad from the early-to-mid 20th century.  Now I understand where Jerry’s Dad gets the kerosene-as-hemorrhoid-cure idea from.  I guess you can’t have hemorrhoids if your asshole is burned shut.  I guess a man can’t smell a dirty pussy if you load it up with disinfectant.  Sounds somewhat logical, eh?

I shudder to think of the effect of douching with Lysol cleaner.  If I discovered my snatch is reeking like a tuna boat in high summer, obviously, I would be either a). wondering if I should be showering once or twice a day rather than once a month, and barring infrequent bathing as the cause of the malodorous affliction, I’d b.) start wondering if dear old Tom had been doing some tomcatting on the side and brought home a not so nice social disease.  Maybe that hair pie smells rancid because of the clap?  Does Tom have some ‘splainin’ to do?  Did his mother not warn him of the hazards of dipping his wick in some strange without wrapping it?

I have no problem cleaning the floor with Lysol cleaner, or even adding it to a load of laundry that’s really skanky, (you can still buy liquid Lysol cleaner today) but methinks Lysol is a bit too harsh for feminine hygiene purposes even if you dilute it a bit.

It makes me so glad that I live in a somewhat more enlightened time.  Now if we only had some polite way of telling the guys that the order of things is: shower, then BJ.  If you’re really hot, you might get one in the shower.

New Happenings,Getting Used to the Grandma Thing, and Advice for New Cougars

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I am thankful that my new granddaughter (yes, the prognosticatory machinations of modern science were correct, so no need to take back any of the pink and/or Hello Kitty goodies) has arrived safely and in good health.  Mom and Dad both came out of The Birth Experience pretty well, except for I had to have a few come to Jesus talks with Steve-o about why it’s a good idea to let Mom choose when and how much pain relief is necessary.   I certainly can’t imagine drug-free childbirth in any circumstance, let alone when the child is over 8#.  I’m glad she did opt for pain relief, and I’m glad that she didn’t end up needing a c-section.  I only wish that in the Murphy’s Law Childbirth Experience from Hell that I had when Steve-o was born that they would have bypassed the futile and painful 18 hours of induced labor and skipped right to the general anesthetic and c-section.  It would have been a whole lot easier that way.  Humans discovered painkillers- and surgical techniques- for just such circumstances, because there’s nothing natural about childbirth.  Unless you are a masochist and get off on pain, that is. 

Different strokes for different folks, but as far as I’m concerned, childbirth is a time to break out the good stuff like Demerol, etc.  They offer you Vicodin for a broken arm- which is nothing compared to labor pain, believe that.  I think Steve-o got the message when I suggested to him that he should have had his root canals done “natural and drug free.” Then his tune sort of changed to: “Damn straight, get the epidural!”

On the plus side, Steve-o stuck out all the messy parts including cutting the cord, so I have to say his curiosity must have won out in the end.  It’s a bonus that unlike most newborns she didn’t come out looking like a space alien or, considering that she has some of my DNA, a miniature mutant troll. Since Steve-o is a man who likes to voice his opinion, I gave him fair warning that even if the child came out looking like something from the Gremlins movie or worse, that he better at least say she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  I am glad he didn’t have to lie, because he is a really terrible liar.  Her head wasn’t even deformed, and she has long legs. Most of her mother’s family are tall people, and Steve-o, by some luck in the genetic draw, has normal sized limbs, so hopefully she might end up with better proportions than mine.   

For three days old she doesn’t look too bad.

Admittedly it’s hard to get used to the grandma thing. My grandmothers were well into their 50’s when I was born, so they were always little old ladies to me.  I still like cranking up Metallica in the car and going to the waterpark, and I still have all my teeth save my wisdom teeth that I had to have chiselled out of my jaw when I was 17. I am pleasantly surprised that Steve-o at least waited to spawn until I was over 40.  An hour and four minutes later and she would have arrived exactly on my 43rd birthday.  I am glad for the distraction.  Nobody gave a rat’s ass about my birthday, (for different reasons than usual, because my birthday is usually forgotten anyway) which was quite fine with me.

I’ve noticed a few things since I’ve joined the cougar set, as far as little survival tips.  Of course my focus is on the things the glamour mags and those horrible vapid “women’s helper” type publications never bring to light. 

Facial and Body Hair- My Personal Nemesis

One of the worst indignities associated with impending menopause and menopause itself is the proliferation of facial and body hair.  For a woman who has always viewed hair in unauthorized places to be vulgar and just plain gross, this is a difficult situation to face. It’s bad enough to have furry armpits.  A moustache on a woman- especially one of Anglo-Saxon heritage- is entirely beyond the pale.  There are only a few ways to remove said superfluous fur (that poor women like me can afford, anyway) and they all have their advantages and disadvantages. 

Shaving Pros: Relatively inexpensive, relatively effective.  Shaving Cons: Has to be re-done as often as every other day, carries some risk of inflicting injury and drawing blood. 

Tweezing Pros: Extremely inexpensive, moderately effective. Tweezing Cons: Somewhat painful, only effective for small surface areas, time consuming.

Depilatory (aka- Nair) Pros: Extremely effective, can be used over a large surface area, moderately fast. Depilatory Cons: Stinks to holy high heaven, can burn holes in your face if you leave it on too long, messy.

Waxing Pros: Extremely effective, lasts a long time.  Waxing Cons: Hurts like a son of a bitch, can’t even be done until the hair grows way out and you look like Sasquatch.

There are only a few areas that are acceptable for hair growth on women.  The scalp, a finely sculptured brow, and eyelashes.  Everything else (and I do mean everything) should be devoid of fur. At least if all the unacceptable fuzz is removed there is no quandary as to whether or not the curtains match the carpet- and no need for the hair dye that is supposedly available to tint the hair that grows in unmentionable areas. I find it hard to imagine worrying about whether or not I have grey pubes.  Better to shave all that off for aesthetic and hygienic reasons.  It’s just not right for women to scratch their business in public.  A dude may finger his package in public with impunity, but impulsive crotchal scratching is not considered to be suitable etiquette for the fairer gender.

There are some things that we cougars can get away with though.  Ogling hot young stud muffins for instance.  What sweet young treat would be intimidated by an old bitty who’s old enough to be his mother?

Yes we look.  We still undress you with our eyes, believe that, boys.

 

 

Greetings from Nattyvana- Wish You Were Here!- and Sometimes The Possum Really is Dead

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Nattyvana: That drunk-and-stupid state of mind one reaches after consuming a 12 pack or more of Jerry’s favorite Anheuser-Busch product- Natural Lite.

Never mind that Natty is only 4.2% alcohol. Never mind, but I can only imagine that horse piss has more flavor.  It is a “value priced” beer after all.  It takes persistence, but if you drink enough of it, you can get shitfaced.   Personally if my aim were to get shitfaced, I’d go for something with a lot more punch, like Jägermeister (35%- 70 proof)- if you can get past the fact it tastes just like Formula 44-  or just plain straight vodka (Stolichnaya is 40% or 80 proof.) 

To me drinking beer to get drunk is like driving through the ghetto to get to work.  You’ll get there eventually, but it takes longer, smells worse, and carries a higher element of danger than taking the freeway.  I don’t like the taste of beer anyway.  Natty isn’t the worst beer out there (take it from someone who used to party with people who drank Schaefer Light) but it’s pretty nasty even for beer.   It’s chock full of all-natural formaldehyde, with a wispy aroma vaguely reminscent of onion-tainted sweat socks and a despondent resignation to a life of obscurity and ignominy.  Whether or not Natural Lite is derived from anything “natural” I don’t know.  I do know that “all-natural” does not always mean “beneficial” or “healthy.”

All-Natural Ways to Die (for instance)

*Arsenic is an all-natural heavy-metal poison. (not to be confused with the 80’s heavy-metal band, Poison, though I can cite far better examples of that music genre)

*Ebola is an all-natural deadly virus.

*Black Mamba venom is an all-natural venomous poison.

*You can be eaten by an all-natural shark, should you choose to go into the water.

*You can be mauled and partially devoured by an all-natural grizzly bear.

*You can fall off of an all-natural cliff, or asphyxiate on all-natural bat guano fumes in an all-natural bat cave.

If you’re a possum, you can have the (mostly) all-natural Lilo the GSD/Chow mix snap your neck for you.

I’m glad I don’t get drunk anymore, if only because I have to be somewhat aware and sane to handle stuff like this.  The dogs do occasionally bring home some rather grisly finds. 

I really do feel sorry for the woodland creatures who dare to venture into our back yard.  This I think is probably Possum #4 for Lilo.  Her possum kill rate is rather surprising given that Lilo is 1. crosseyed, 2. bow-legged, and 3. slow.  Yet Lilo (unlike most dogs) is primarily an ambush hunter.  She lies in wait and then springs on her prey when they are unaware.  Clara and Sheena hunt like regular dogs- flushing and chasing.  Perhaps Lilo has had success with possums because they too are slow and low to the ground and can’t see that well.  I still feel sorry for the critters, though.

This poor unfortunate beast was immobile but still appeared to be breathing when Lilo deposited it in front of the kitchen door.  Jerry assumed that it was simply “playing possum” and acting dead so he scooped it up and put it back outside.  Sadly I found it the following morning, deader than a doornail.  Apparently it wasn’t just an act, or it was too badly injured to recover.  I tried to tell Jerry that I thought Lilo had snapped its neck, but hope springs eternal.  I was hoping she hadn’t mortally wounded it. If it did wake up I wanted it to be outside in its natural habitat, so if it were just stunned or playing possum it wouldn’t be waking up out in the foyer.  That’s all I need, some wild critter staring up at me with a mouthful (possums have 50 teeth- 8 more than dogs- which is a scary thought) of razor sharp teeth snarling at me as I’m trying to let the dogs out for their morning constitutional.

I very seldom drink anyway, and when I do, I drink wine, because I like the taste of wine.  Just a small glass will take me on a trip to mellow town. I don’t need to get shitfaced on it.  The last time I was truly shitfaced was almost 20 years ago, and I have no desire to wake up submerged in freezing water in a motel room bathtub with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza sitting on the ledge. 

It’s good that my health pretty much forbids me from doing much drinking.  I’m on enough blood pressure meds to kill most people outright, so I usually fall asleep before I can really start pounding ’em.  When I did drink to excess, back in the day, I was a forget-it-all drunk.  All I remember about one drinking party I went to in college was that yes- I did finish the whole fifth of MD 20/20, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I had slept with one of my friends’ skanky, geeky twin brother.  Nobody would enlighten me as to whether or not he had gotten lucky either- not until after I knew the coast was clear.  Since I had given up hope and let my birth control pill script run out, I had a rather harrowing two weeks of “waiting for Aunt Flo.”  Once everyone knew I was “safe”-then they told me what really happened- that he had passed out before I did, so I was never even subjected to the possibility of actually contributing to passing on that particular freakazoid’s genes.  Thanks, guys.  But at least they didn’t leave me passed out with my drawers down and my butt hanging out of the bathtub like what happened to one of my other friends.  When you weigh over 300# it is never a good thing to pass out on the toilet, especially if that’s the only toilet in the house.  Just saying.

It’s a lot safer to observe and let everyone else get drunk and stupid.  If only there had been such a thing as YouTube in the mid-80’s.  It’s probably a good thing that we were too poor for video cameras back then.

Happy Lupercalia!, (Remember Our Lupine Friends) and Staying Off the Beaten Path

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Ok , so Clara is a dog.  So why am I talking about an ancient Roman pagan holiday that celebrates the wolf?  The Latin word for wolf is lupus (yes, this is where the horrible disease, lupus, got its name, because it ravages those afflicted much as a wolf ravages its prey.) The taxonomic name for dog is canis lupus familiaris.  – loosely translated- the house wolf.  Canis lupus lupus (if you want to discern between sub-species) is the grey wolf.

Most people are blissfully unaware that domestic dogs and grey wolves are the same species.  Same DNA.  Though humans have done some pretty damned bizarre things with the dog in the 15,000 or so years that they have been domesticated, the DNA is still there.  Because dogs have a large number of chromosomes (78) and a tendency toward frequent mutations due to the phenomenon of  tandem repeats, there is a tremendous amount of variation in appearance and body characteristics- from the 1# ankle-biter to the 250# Mastiff.  But dogs are dogs (are also wolves…) which is useful knowledge.  We live with genetically engineered wolves.  In my alternatively wired way of thinking, that’s pretty effing cool. (Science, history and vocabulary lessons today- I’m on a roll!)

Obviously, we humans aren’t terribly good at determining who should and should NOT breed, even outside our own species.

Granted, humans have really screwed up a lot of things, but that’s just Murphy’s Law in action.   As far as dogs go, canine husbandry has both successes and tragic failures.  It’s sad that certain dog breeds are so modified that some can only give birth by c-section (many of the brachycephalic breeds) and others are prone to orthopedic issues (many of the large and giant breeds) while others are prone to devastating cancers.  Inbreeding, as well as breeding dogs that really aren’t suitable to be bred, have only contributed to the plethora of genetic diseases today’s dogs are subject to.

Even with all the fascinating scientific information available on genetics- and dogs are one of the most heavily studied animals in this regard- there are still infinite unknowns.   Breeding is simply setting the wheels in motion for a cosmic crap shoot.   The genetic difference between a Grand Champion, the neighborhood trash-snarfing cur, and the wild wolf out in the woods is infinitesimal.  So eugenics for our canine friends really is what it is for everything else- some science, some art, and a whole lot of blind luck.  Some of us do well in the genetic lottery (and a good breeder has strategies to sweeten the odds) but at the end of the day some of us do well, and others not so much.

 To quote Forrest Gump, “Life is a box of chocolates.  You never know which one you’re going to get.” 

I know Murphy’s Law, and it works pretty well with Newton’s Laws.  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” (Newton)  Of course, Murphy’s Law can’t leave that one alone without adding a few corollaries such as:  “If nature makes you beautiful, nature will almost inevitably make you stupid,”  “Brains and coordination cannot inhabit the same body,” and, “If you expect him to use the laundry chute, be prepared to use the lawn mower.”

As much as I hate to admit it, (and as much as I really don’t like  touching the skanky Natty-splattered whitey-tighties that would end up lying all over the house) undies vs. lawn care is a pretty fair trade, at least in the summer.  I spend a good chunk of time playing seek and wash with Jerry’s clothes.  He will strip and drop clothing just about everywhere in the house, especially when he’s besnookered, making my laundry adventures begin with a maze!   It’s sort of like an Easter egg hunt only there’s no eggs- just soiled man-clothes. The process of retrieving Jerry’s clothes for wash-time also is reminiscent of searching through the Cracker Jack box.  There’s often a “prize” inside, such as cigarette butts and/or cellophanes, or massive skidmarks – living proof that sharting is real.  You want to be really careful which part of the garment you touch when picking it up.  Usually- though not every time- the waistbands escape unscathed.

Just an FYI: sharting shouldn’t be attempted whilst wearing any sort of garment, and shouldn’t be attempted at all unless your drawers are down and your butt is firmly planted on the commode.

Of course there are a number of things one should really think twice about doing.  Such as this:

“A” for creativity, but “F” for future opportunities to fornicate.  There’s something about a visual of a cat’s ass on your lover’s front area (with the belly button serving a dual purpose as the bunghole no less!) that might just be a little off-putting.

I guess for me it is easier to celebrate a holiday dedicated to the canines (and lupines- same thing) of the world than to ruminate on and on about sappy romantic platitudes. 

I get to go home and hug the dogs!  As I told a friend of mine, I do have something to look forward to tonight.  Jerry’s out of Natties- and if there is any justice in this world he should be good and miserable from last night’s drunk and stupid foray into Nattyvana, and I have three beautiful dogs waiting for me to get home.