historical interest

things back in the day

I Think I’m Afraid to Flush, Way Too Much Rain, and All Points Converge Here

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A peculiar quirk here in Central Ohio during the Monsoon Season (the two months – give or take a week or two- between the seasons of Snowbooger Grey and Stygian Heat, usually from mid-March to late May) is that occasionally storm drains overflow into the sanitary sewers, making it possible for effluvia rinsed down sinks, flushed down commodes, etc. to go the opposite direction than the one intended.  Low elevation, painfully flat landscapes, clay soil and torrential rains do not make for an optimum environment for natural drainage.

During the monsoon episodes, should one need to relieve oneself, in a good part of Central Ohio, you get to play a rousing game of “toilet roulette.”

Should I flush?  If it’s yellow, let it mellow?  If it’s brown, will it actually flush down?  What are the odds of ending up with a floor full of unspeakable mess?

At home I am not too averse to waiting to flush until the storm subsides, and I can see that the storm sewer grate is clear outside, as I really don’t want a backflow situation in my own bathroom.  But in public places it is extremely rude to leave your leavings without giving them their final send off, or at least making the attempt.

So far so good today.  For now.  Hopefully the deluge will take a break for an hour or two and let the storm sewers clear out some more.

I am glad it wasn’t raining like this yesterday when I was up in Marion.  It actually was a pretty good day. Steve-o got his hair cut and got some shades he wanted.

Dad had mentioned something intriguing when I was up there that I had some peripheral background on, but had not really taken a whole lot of notice.  I grew up not even really noticing the trains because trains went through town constantly and they still do.  You don’t notice them until you leave, and it either seems oddly quiet, or the trains are replaced with another background noise, which in my case today is the airport.  I live less than half a mile from Port Columbus.  I don’t notice the planes unless I make it a point to pay attention to them, but I certainly did notice the silence on 9/11 and the days following.  Passenger aircraft constantly taking off and landing, and F15s flying over have vastly different sounds.

In the early 20th century there were five different railroads that converged in Marion- from all points across the country.  Only two of those rail lines remain- the trains still go through pretty much constantly, with their endless cargos of coal, but the trains haven’t actually stopped in Marion since the early 1970’s.  If one looks close enough one can see where these rail lines once intersected which is sort of interesting.

At one time there were a lot of people going everywhere and nowhere.  Of course people are still going everywhere and nowhere, but the ride is a lot less scenic and usually is taken up with either phone conversations, electronic gadgetry, and the endless monotone of  flat, straight Interstate.  I enjoy a road trip (and even more if I make it a point to take a less traveled road) but I think something might be lost in the autonomy one has when you drive.  The train journey leaves your whereabouts at the mercy of another force, but paradoxically it also gives you the freedom to drift off into that void between everywhere and nowhere.   Sleeping (or even that delightful realm of half-sleep) and driving don’t mix.

The ghosts are restless at those convergence points.  It’s easy to imagine them at the train station even though trains don’t stop there anymore and only part of the train station remains.  Someone waiting for the next train.  Someone running down the platform.  Someone looking for someone who will never return.

I’m haunted by those stories, especially those of the troop trains.

Everywhere and nowhere.

Eventually the rain will stop, and I will get beyond my little melancholy foray into a past I don’t really understand.

On a lighter note, there are seasons here in Central Ohio. We have five.   That’s why the people who live here part of the year, but go to Florida part of the year, go down there for most of them.

Winter.  Begins right after Halloween, lasts until mid-February or so.  Best described as, “The Brass Balls Have Frozen off the Brass Monkey.”  Lots of precipitation. Dark most of the time.  Freezing rain, snow, ice, etc.

Snowbooger Grey. Mid-February or so until mid-late March.  Like winter, but with temperatures hovering right around freezing, so the snow all melts and the landscape everywhere looks like those snowboogers that accumulate in the splash guards and wheel wells of cars.  Since it’s slightly warmer than winter there’s more rain, and a bit more daylight, if you can notice through the overcast, grey haze that hangs over everything.  Dismal.

Monsoon.  Mid-late March-mid-late May.  Or so.  Just rain.  Constantly.

Stygian Heat.  100% humidity.  100% bugs.  Late May-mid-September. Plenty of rain.

Fall Monsoon. Mid-September-Halloween. Do you like rain? 🙂

Am I the Only One Who Notices? and Final Send Off Faux Pas

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The other day I commented that I don’t consider items that feature either Dale Earnhardt or Elvis to be art.  That reminded me of Dad’s buddy who used to own the Certified station in Marion.  This guy lived alone, but for a dude he had a rather bizarre decor.  Most of Dad’s single male friends’  homes  were decorated in the “Late 70’s Flea Market Meets Soft Porn” mode.  Many automotive supply companies (since they were marketing to almost exclusively men back then) gave out free nudie calendars and posters.  These freebie nudies made perfect wall hangings for these guys, and they also doubled to cover up the holes in the walls from their drunk and stupid adventures with dart games, beer bottle tossing, or target practice with the BB gun gone terribly awry.  But this guy was different.  His house was spotlessly clean and by some unnatural miracle of nature, it was actually color coordinated.  The fact that it didn’t smell like a barroom and there was a strange absence of filled up ashtrays, beer cans all over the floor, and various filth and detritus everywhere as is found in a typical man-cave, did not mean this place was in any way aesthetically pleasing.

Elvis was pictured on almost every item in his house- including the toilet seat.  The only difference between the one pictured above and Dad’s buddy’s Elvis toilet seat is that his Elvis was surrounded with powder blue instead of powder pink.

His lamps were ceramic Elvis busts, also poorly airbrushed.

If only I’d had a camera with me (photography was not nearly as quick and easy before the days of the digital camera and the USB cable) the pictures could have said it all.  Deep blue shag carpet in every room (including the kitchen!)  Elvis decals affixed to each of the kitchen cabinet doors and to the front of the fridge.  All the clocks had Elvis on them.  The pillows and throws on the couch had Elvis on them.  His drinking glasses and coffee mugs had Elvis on them. This place could have been confused with the Church of the High Holy Elvis- and it probably had more badly made, tawdry Elvis kitsch in it than Graceland.  Elvis was the King in this joint, alright- King of the potholders, the crapper, the Kleenex cover on the toilet tank, the lamps and the curtains, ad nauseam.  My retinas were so traumatized that I can never view an object with Elvis on it without either laughing my ass off or wanting to retch.

I had to speculate that perhaps this guy inherited the house with all the Elvis junk. I thought perhaps it was his Mom’s, and then maybe his Mom died and he just left the place the way she left it.  But I soon learned that his Mom lived a few houses down and (though I never got the opportunity to peruse it) legend had it that she had even more Elvis crud in her house.  Then I thought perhaps the Elvis decor was the doing of an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, but his girlfriend had been in prison in Arizona for the past four years.  So this guy was decorating his home in this bizarre fashion on purpose. 

Maybe I’m being  a bit critical, but I don’t think I can afford to be a big enough fan of anything to decorate my entire house with it.  Maybe when I am old and live alone I can get away with painting every room pink and filling my home with as much Hello Kitty kitsch as I can possibly find.  My friends (the few I have) know how weird I am so it won’t matter.  But I am not a big fan of all the home improvement type stuff.  If it doesn’t need replacing or painting, etc. I am not going to replace stuff just to replace it. 

One thing I did observe yesterday that I thought was kind of cool was as I drove by the beauty academy I saw one of the girls leaving with what looked like one of those Barbie makeover heads you used to be able to buy for little girls so they could learn to put makeup on them and do their hair.  “Angelica” (my sadistic oldest sister) had one of these.  I inherited it from the dog when she (the dog) was done with it, but the dog’s attempts at beautification left Barbie Head snatched nearly bald and rather toothmarked. 

Anyway, for a split second I thought I’d like to have one of these, only with short black hair and a pale white complexion, so I can experiment with makeup before I actually try it on my own face.  Then I realized that it would just be easier to cut out the middleman.  I only wear makeup to keep people from trying to bury me anyway.

Ironically my poor Aunt Ellen never wore makeup until she was dead. 

The whole business of dolling up a deceased loved one for the viewing reminds me of my poor Aunt Ellen.  She was my great-grandmother’s sister, and was 84 when she died back in the late ’80’s.  Unlike my great-grandmother, she was one of those very conservative old ladies who belonged to one of those Pentecostal churches that forbade women to wear makeup or even to wear pants. I think when funeral people dolled her up for the Final Ride, either death had not done her appearance any favors, and/or they really got confused.  Her face was so heavily orangey-pancaked and rouged that it looked as if they were making her up to look like one of the Oompa-Loompas in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

 

To make it even worse, they put some sort of orange day-glo lipstick on her that I swear was so bright it would have fluoresced if someone would have turned on a black lite. (This was a woman who never even wore lipstick until she was dead!)  And she was decked out in one of those Horrible Pink Nighties that funeral homes typically put on old women- the ones that look like someone’s prom dress gone seriously wrong, to boot.  I’m just glad they didn’t try to dye her hair green.

The icing on the cake (and as potentially disrespectful as it was, I could barely keep from explosive laughter by this time) was when my remaining elderly relatives filed by the coffin and remarked, “Doesn’t Ellen look goooood?”  All I could think was – “Have you guys been to LensCrafters lately?”  Ellen looks pretty dead to me!

I’m thinking at best, Ellen looked like an escapee from the Oompa-Loompa Prom, but what do I know?  There’s only so much that mortuary science can do. 

That’s one of the reasons why I want to be cremated.  I don’t want anyone filing past my coffin and commenting, “She looks better dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust?  What’s that?

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

 

Dingleberry’s Doppleganger, Coyotes, the Tree Hugger Manifesto, and Passive-Aggressive Vindication

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First, a disclaimer.  Jerry (first pic) is NOT Mexican or Hispanic in any way, is 53, not 43, and has never been anywhere near San Jose in his life.  I think the furthest west he’s ever been in his entire life is Indianapolis.  I think he has been to Florida a couple of times, but he’s no regular traveler by any measure.  This being said, in spite of his ancestry (one or two English people- and a lot of Cherokee Indians) he bears a downright frightening resemblance to Mr. Arias pictured in the missing kids hotline ad. 

I’ve gotten my passive-aggressive vindication for the day.

I am glad once I encountered Jerry whilst he was sober he admitted that getting rid of my car is not a viable option to save on household expenses.  I could pinch pennies here and there but my penny pinching would likely be counter productive at the end of the day.  I’m not giving up bathing, shaving, other superfluous hair removal, or hair color.  Nor am I giving up my nails.

I thought about some of the tree-hugger suggestions to conserve resources.  I am thrifty by nature (and almost to a fault at times, out of necessity) which is in agreement with some of the tree-hugger suggestions.  I consolidate errands.  I try to reduce, recycle and reuse when doing so saves me a buck, and it usually does.  I drive the most fuel-efficient  conventional gasoline internal combustion car available (can’t afford a hybrid- neither the initial cost nor the higher maintenance costs, same goes with diesel- too expensive to maintain) today.  However, I can see where some of the tree-hugger manifesto items prove either impractical or too expensive which sort of defeats the purpose.  I can understand the concept of living better with less- that’s just common sense and good strategy.  I draw the line at such things as:

1. Bury your car. 

   Over my dead body.

14. Spend a month tree-sitting.

   Outside with all the bugs, exposed to the sun where my Super White, melanin-free skin tone will turn to blisters, freckles and splotches within minutes?  Bug bites and skin cancer?  I think not.

30. Go to jail for something you believe in.

   Last time I checked, my beliefs (though unpopular in some circles) and activities are not illegal.  Therefore I would have no need, or desire, to go to jail for anything.

31. Don’t own pets.

   WTF????? I think that would be worse than the tree-hugger suggestion to not have kids.  Besides, we humans domesticated these animals.  We are responsible for caring for them- including neutering or spaying our own pets to keep populations in line.

44. Stop using toilet paper or Kleenex, use washable cloth.

  WTF again!  Once I’ve wiped my nether regions with it I don’t want it back even if it has been washed and Clorox’d, which sort of defeats the “saving resources” idea, eh?

47. Democratize your workplace, start a union or collective.

   Unions destroyed my hometown. I can go on ad nauseam on that one, believe it.  Granted, there’s no air pollution there any more, but there are also no jobs.  What point is having a pristine environment when everyone has to move somewhere else in order to work and sustain themselves?  Why did all the Ohio manufacturing jobs end up in southern Right to Work states? 

49. Liberate a zoo.

  Sure…and let’s see how those exotic animals from tropical climes fare here in the Central Ohio swamp– oh I mean, wetlands– against the mercurial weather changes we have here- not to mention the voracious appetites of native coyotes. Canis latrans is in no danger of extinction here anytime soon, even without any tree-hugger assistance.  Liberating the zoos would give the coyotes a few days’ bonus chow, but they really aren’t hurting for grub to begin with.

Sometimes the tree-huggers make some sense, but other times they display the impractical vapid and uninformed idealism of small children.  Who hasn’t heard little kids say such silly things as “Why can’t two boys get married,?” or “When I grow up I’ll never take a bath again.”  Usually kids wise up as they grow up- they learn that in order to procreate one needs involve the opposite sex, and that bathing is one of those means to gain entry into polite society.

Part of the extreme tree-hugger syndrome in my opinion is a refusal to grow up.  The world is not Sesame Street, and even on Sesame Street (I’m amazed I can remember this far back) Bert and Ernie were not married, and they did take baths. 

So there. 

Now that freaking “Rubber Ducky” song is stuck in my head. Damn.

The element that is missing in all the “Save the World” rhetoric is balance.  The reality is that society has not developed a working, viable substitute for the petroleum-fueled internal combustion engine. I don’t say this because my livelihood is in the automotive industry.  There are alternative systems and alternative fuels in development, and I’ll be glad to see it, especially if they involve renewable resources, but they are not commercially viable yet.  This being stated the practical and balanced approach to the oil question should be: obtain, refine and distribute petroleum products using the most cost-effective and environmentally sound methods that are available and practical.  It CAN be done and should have been done years ago.  It is a matter of national security- sorry, tree-huggers- that domestic oil reserves need to be accessed NOW regardless of the litigation happy NIMBYs who whine and cry about it. 

As far as natural selection goes for all you strict Darwinists out there, species have come and gone long before humanity and will come and go long after humans go the way of the dinosaurs.  The species that survive are those who adapt, like Central Ohio coyotes.  I don’t think oil drilling will disturb the coyotes one bit.  Nor will it disturb the hawks or turkey buzzards or the squirrels and chipmunks.  There are species that will go extinct regardless if humans intervene or not- but many species have become far more successful because of humans.  I can think of a few:

Canis lupus familiaris  (easy one- domestic dogs)

Felis domestica (another easy one- house cats)

Rattus norvegicus (not so easy- sewer rats)

Mus musculus (house mice)

Columba livia (pigeons- the “flying rats” of urban lore)

Procyon lotor (raccoons)

Pediculus humanus, also Pthirus pubis (head lice and body “crabs”)

Periplaneta americana (American cockroaches)

and of course, our coyote friends, Canis latrans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mortality, cont., Simple Thanks, “Sin Boldly,” and Whatever I Fear

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I know it might be considered a bit morbid to troll about in old cemeteries.  As a kid cemeteries used to scare the living hell out of me (along with just about everything else, so go figure) but today I find certain cemeteries to be particularly serene.  In spite of the “buy one get one free” sign in front of the cemetery (Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens) where my grandparents are buried, it’s actually a very peaceful place to hang out.  People fish in the creek that runs in front of the cemetery which could be seen as irreverent by some, but I don’t think my grandparents would mind.  They always enjoyed fishing.

I’ve always loved willow trees.  This is the view of the creek that runs in the front of the Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens.  The peculiar thing about Chapel Heights, as far as cemeteries go, is that the only grave markers they allow are simple flat ones- like Grandpa’s Army marker. There are no obelisks, or statues, or ostentatious carvings. From a distance it simply looks like a park.  The beauty there is more natural than historical.   When the weather improves some (but before the mosquitoes take over) I will need to take another roadtrip up there to just sit and hang out for an afternoon.

My favorite cemetery (now that does sound morbid, but what the hey) from a historical perspective, is the Marion Cemetery – right across from the Harding Memorial on SR 423. The Merchant Ball is there, and you can see where it rotates on its base even though no one can explain how or why it does.   Some of the best examples I have seen of maudlin Victorian era gravestones anywhere are in the Marion Cemetery.  I have taken pics of a few of them (the one at the top of this page is one of my favorites) but I don’t have enough space in my memory card for all the really good ones.  I could literally spend a week in there wandering about and taking pics of cool old Victorian headstones.   There must have been a lot of people in Marion back in the day with a LOT of scratch to spend on their dead relatives from the looks of the monuments in the Marion Cemetery.  Today the place is so poor I’m surprised that anyone who dies now gets a burial or a grave marker at all.  If I would have to make an educated guess, cremation has probably become the dispatch method of choice for the dead, simply for the cost effectiveness.  From another practical viewpoint, I have to wonder about the wisdom of burying dead people in a reclaimed swamp.  Burying people in the ground- even in concrete vaults and steel coffins- doesn’t strike me as being terribly sanitary considering the high amount of rainfall and the poor drainage that is inherent to Marion County- and the rest of Central Ohio.

I am thankful the dryer works.  It can dry a large load in about 90 minutes which is encouraging.  90 minutes is a lot faster than 3 hours plus.   It feels good to have the laundry caught up. It is a relief to know that if I want to wash the dogs, or wash all the living room quilts that cover the furniture, I can.   I washed my bed sheets and blankets yesterday.  Since the dogs like to sleep in the beds I have to wash everything often, otherwise it ends up covered in hair and smelling like dog funk.  I’m glad that Lilo is really the only one of the three that ever gets much of a funk to her.  Clara has almost no odor, likely because of her short coat and sparse undercoat.  Sheena I can’t really explain.  She should reek to high heaven with her thick undercoat,  (Heidi and Kayla were purebred GSDs- and they both reeked no matter how often they were bathed) but for a dog with such a thick coat Sheena is remarkably clean-smelling. 

As far as my ongoing quest to live authentically (which is how I understand Martin Luther’s instruction to “sin boldly”- here is a link to a better theological understanding of that instruction) I can only appeal to the grace of God to overcome my fear.  I can only trust that He will give me the courage and the discernment to do the right thing- and the forgiveness I inevitably need when I screw up.

I’d like to have a spontaneous and unfettered approach to life.  Not being dead broke all or most of the time would help, which would require me to (somehow) get Jerry to pay for his fair share of things instead of just footing the bill myself because I know he throws major fits every time I request money.  He can go to the hell hole and blow hundreds of dollars and to him that’s quite fine, but if Steve-o needs $50 to pay his electric bill and I don’t have it, it’s a Federal case.  Jerry can be generous when he wants to be, (especially to his family, except Steve-o of course) but he simply doesn’t get it. No matter what method I use to explain it to him- spreadsheets, calendars, letting him see my bank statement, etc. he just doesn’t get it that I’m not randomly blowing money on frivolous and unnecessary things (such as beer, cigarettes or gambling, but I digress.) 

One time when I asked him for money because I was dead broke after paying the car insurance, he actually accused me of having an illicit drug habit!  I don’t.  I can’t even drink with the medical issues I have. Most of the illicit drugs out there would probably kill me outright.  He should thank God I’ve never been into crystal or the white powder, or I’d probably ripped his head off and shit down his neck hole years ago.    

Technically one could say that I do have a “drug habit” – but all the drugs I take are prescribed by my Dr.- and are pretty much essential to keep me vertical and above ground.  Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with expensive (though non-frivolous) things like blood pressure meds and insulin.  It’s not like I have the Dr. write me scripts for high dollar face Nair and that stuff that’s supposed to make your eyelashes grow.  (WTF?)  I simply don’t make enough money to pay for everything – stuff like car payments, the exorbitant amounts for various insurances, scripts, groceries, gasoline, etc. and so on- for both of us.  If I did have enough money to pay for it all, believe me, I wouldn’t ask.  I would just pay and keep my mouth shut.

I do draw the line at a few of Jerry’s vices.  I refuse to buy his beer, smokes, or to support his gambling habit. 

In his favor he does pay his own truck payment, and he has to buy his own beer, smokes and lottery tickets. 

Very few things terrify me and stress me out more than arguments about money.  I’ve never been a person of means, and I’ve had to scrape and pinch and rob Peter to pay Paul my entire life.  My parents were never people of means either.  Their most heated and (verbally) violent arguments were always centered around money and (almost always) the lack thereof.  Nothing would send Dad into a rage quicker than anything involving money.   I can’t blame him.  There were times when we were growing up when he had to make the choice between paying the mortgage and utilities or buying food or medical care. 

As a kid I remember weeks of eating pretty much nothing but Cream of Wheat or no-name Mac & Cheese to get by because there was no money for food.  I remember going without things like glasses or dental visits for years at a time, because there was no money in our household for preventive care. Before I could drive it really didn’t matter if I had glasses or contacts or not, so I just dealt with it.  Ignoring my health is likely how I ended up with rheumatic fever too, (you get it from untreated strep infections) because it came to a point when I would refuse to tell anyone I was sick, and I’d even try to deny it even if I was clearly deathly ill.  I knew they couldn’t afford the Dr. visit or whatever scripts he might prescribe- and I didn’t want to hear their fight about how much it cost and how they don’t have the money after the fact.  Now I have permanent heart valve and joint damage.

I should know better at this point in my life.  It’s not about lack of money, but how “household” money is being used.  Right now Jerry pretty much pays his truck payment and sustains his own vices and thinks that’s all he needs to do- while I’m footing the bill for Steve-o,  as well as Jerry’s scripts, Jerry’s food, all the insurances, etc. he insists on having even though it’s overkill, and so on. 

I am dead afraid of letting him get a taste of reality because I know he will do anything he can to punish me for it.

Why I am browbeating myself for expecting Jerry to act like an adult and take responsibility for his fair share is beyond me.  I’m glad he bought the dryer, because I really despise crunchy clothing and I’m not going to the laundromat, but in perspective, that dryer cost less than one month of all the various life insurance that gets deducted out of my checking account- on his insistence- every month.  The dryer is also a replacement for the one I bought for $350 back in 2000 that he has had the use of for the past 11 years, if you really wanted to play tit-for-tat.

I don’t think I owe him obeisance for anything.  For all intents and purposes I kiss his ass to keep the peace- but I of all people should know that feeding alligators only makes them hungrier.  Appeasement is Obama’s foreign policy and it’s not working for him either.

I know what I’m doing.  I don’t like it, but I need to find the courage to change it.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things (Yeah, Right…)

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Cooking, I don’t mind.  I am a good cook, thanks to both of my grandmothers (God rest their souls) and the fact that I did the cooking and cleaning at home from the time I was 12, when Mom had her bad back injury and couldn’t do much of anything for several months.  I sort of ended up responsible for meals and laundry and cleaning by default.  My sisters were pretty much always out either playing sports or socializing.  Since I was forbidden both by health issues and by abysmal coordination from participation in any type of organized sport, having a good excuse for getting out of the house was a lot more difficult for me.  I couldn’t actually live at the library even though I spent plenty of time there. 

As an aside, I truly wonder if my heart valve damage would have been bad enough to make me drop dead from playing basketball like that poor kid in Michigan.  Is a “sports physical” for middle school or high school sports really anything more than simply checking to make sure you can breathe and have a pulse?  If that’s all that’s done, I probably could have passed a “sports physical” had I attempted it (not that I would!) because my valve defects are not always audible.   Even if I would have kept my mouth shut about having heart valve damage from rheumatic fever and went through gym class in spite of having the Doctor’s Note (oh, thank God for the Doctor’s Note that released me from that humiliation) would it really have made a difference?  I’d probably sat on the bench most if not all the time anyway.  I should have asked the cardiologist who did my echocardiogram back in 2001, just for my own personal curiosity.  I’ve been warned about getting my heart rate too high because I have an irregular heart beat and I’ll pass out- but I’m allowed to do all the swimming, walking and bike riding I want.  Unless I pass out, that is.

I didn’t do too much socializing either, other than avoiding getting my ass kicked, until I got a car.  Having a car- even one as distressed as that poor Subaru DL- afforded me both protection and people to party with, which was nice.   I am thankful for spending a good part of my teen years learning how to cook, fry, stew, bake, and make decent gravy. When it comes to acquiring Life Skills, nothing facilitates learning like being tossed in the trenches.  I know when I moved out Dad really missed those home-cooked meals.  Taco Bell just isn’t the same.

Cleaning is not one of my favorite things by a long shot.  There’s something about being awakened to way too many of Mom’s late night cleaning frenzies that has put me off of power scrubbing forever.  Especially because she is one of those types who worries about the crap you can’t see.  I am not going to lose sleep over dust bunnies under furniture, dog hair under the carpet, or that sort of thing.  I like clean laundry, a clean bathroom and kitchen and relatively clean floors, but I don’t have to Clorox the entire house every other day like she used to do.   I have a job and a life.  I also have dogs.  Large dogs.  Large dogs with hair.  The only time the dog hair issue really gets disgusting is in Spring and Fall when they blow their coats.  Sheena for some reason- probably due to the stress of her spay/partial mastectomy surgery- blew her coat in January, so I don’t anticipate her Spring blowout to be terribly severe.  Lilo is always an adventure because of her intense hatred for either bathing or brushing.  Thankfully she doesn’t have a really outrageously thick coat like Sheena does.  Clara’s seasonal coat blowings are barely even noticeable (gotta love that Malinois coat) and even if she were a heavy shedder, she adores being de-haired with the blade.

For those unfamiliar with the use of the shedding blade, it’s not cruel.  It’s actually a Godsend for short-to-medium haired dogs.  You glide the serrated edge of the blade with the grain of the dog’s coat, and all the loose undercoat, etc. is just peeled right off.  If Clara had her way, I could brush her out with the blade for hours on end.  The blade does not work well with long haired dogs, or dogs with heavy undercoats, such as GSDs.  GSDs, Huskies, Chows- (i.e. Sheena and Lilo…)-heavy coated medium haired dogs- require the rake.  That sounds like a cruel implement too, but it’s not.  It just digs deeper in the coat to remove all the loose undercoat.

Sheena is quite fine with being raked out, which is nice, because she has that ungodly wooly Husky undercoat.  Lilo also has a thick undercoat but she is incredibly body sensitive so I let Jerry go after her with the rake, and with the bathing.  None of our dogs like water.  I find it funny when we take the dogs near any body of water.  They all avoid getting wet, as if the water was hot acid, especially Lilo.  That is particularly amusing – our dogs cautiously avoiding the water- as we watch other people helplessly getting dragged into the drink by their Labradors.   Never take a Labrador to a body of water unless you are planning on either you or the dog or both getting wet. 

Sometimes the girls just plain get gamey. In spite of their dislike of water they must be bathed on occasion, which inevitably ends up with me, a boat load of towels, and the entire bathroom being thoroughly saturated. (Another reason why I need a working dryer!)  Clara tolerates her bath.  Clara is compliant, but she doesn’t like anything to do with getting wet, and she’s very glad when it’s done.   Sheena is mildly uncooperative with her bath and requires a little elbow grease to keep her contained.  Lilo positively despises being bathed, and has to be physically picked up and placed in the tub, but the last time I was able to keep her under control and get her reasonably clean. 

This is the reason why I never, ever touch the undersides of tables or desks- or the sides of bathroom stalls for that matter.  I remember way too many study halls in high school watching the gross kids scrape their boogers under the ledge of the desk. 

We had a particularly sadistic English teacher (thankfully he wasn’t smart enough to teach AP English, so I never had him for class) who was also a wrestling coach.  When he monitored study halls he liked to slam books on the desks to wake anyone who thought about sleeping.  I wonder if he quit or if he was fired for (allegedly) knocking up those cheerleaders.  That was back before DNA technology could scientifically pin him down as The Baby Daddy, as opposed to being maybe one chance in five, so I would assume the former.  I doubt if those dingbats even knew for themselves who the baby daddies really were.  The key to blaming one guy for being The Baby Daddy is to only do the horizontal mambo with one guy- unless you’re up for DNA tests on Montel, which was not possible back in the mid 1980’s.

I usually occupied myself by reading or drawing on the rare occasions my schedule allowed me a study hall.  I was very good at hiding my National Lampoons and MAD magazines inside of Scientific American (which I also read) or other serious-sounding techie type magazines, to enjoy throughout a mind-numbingly boring study hall if I wasn’t already in the middle of a Stephen King novel or other “recreational reading.”  Teachers generally left me alone as they just assumed I was reading above their heads (sometimes I was) and therefore was not into “contraband.”  I liked humor and smut as much as the next person. Unlike other people who were too stupid to change the covers on risque books, I got away with reading them whenever I wanted.  I read anything I could get my hands on, but even with a collection of smutty literature that would have made a trucker blush if it were illustrated, I could not completely ignore the depraved humanity around me.  The sight of assorted unwashed losers picking, examining, and then scraping their big slimy greenies under the desks is still enough, even after all these years, to keep me from touching anything under a ledge with my bare hands.

A Little Personal Dignity, Welcome to the Freak Show, and Modesty Lost

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Yes.  Bad ass, and not in a good way.  Woof.

Whatever happened to personal dignity?  I feel guilty when I go through the drive-thru with PJ’s on- but on the rare occasions I do that I usually wear a coat over them, and I’m not getting out of the car parading around in a store.   If I absolutely must take a late night or early morning foray across the road to Speedway or CVS I try to be kind enough to others to a.) put on clothes vs. PJ’s, and b.) wear a hat if I am suffering from Bed Head. 

When I wear shorts they are normally Bermuda-style, and I generally prefer capris or below-knee skirts to shorts as they cover more of my legs.  At no time whatsoever do I appear in public places displaying butt crack, the top of a thong, or midriff.  Nobody wants to see any of those, at least not mine, and besides, we have laws in this country against subjecting others to cruel and unusual punishment.

I have some personal dignity even when it’s hot weather, but it’s certainly not hot weather yet.  I may break out the summer ensembles some time in late May depending upon the weather.    In Central Ohio, March is still part of the limbo snow-booger grey season of  “not quite winter, but definitely not spring” in which one may as well prepare for plenty of cold, wind and rain because that’s what you get.  However, I still see girls wandering about with little more than a tank top, flip-flops and a smile. What the hell are you thinking?  Especially tragic are the ones who dress (or should I say, fail to dress) like the native women in National Geographic but weigh more than many small cars.  Woof.

It is no crime to be large, just dress accordingly.  Nobody wants to see meaty arms, especially complete with an anchor tattoo.  I like her blue hair, though.  Nice touch.

I find it hard to believe anyone would find this pic sexy.  There’s even a warning label in the tights intended to inform the wearer that they are not pants.

‘Nuff said.

Of course I would be willing to relax my own modesty requirements for the male -and buff of bod. 

I don’t know too many dudes who are comfortable enough in their masculinity to wear a pair of Hello Kitty underwear, but given the right physique, it can be a beautiful vision to behold.

The only problem with revealing clothing items for men is that the guys who have absolutely no business wearing garments such as man-thongs or speedos are the ones who do wear them.  I remember one afternoon, when he was very little, taking Steve-o to the pool.   Steve-o, having an eye for the odd and out of place that he has, saw a very fat dude who appeared to be nude, and at that tender age was rather distressed by the fact that someone was nude at the pool. (Today, I’m sure Steve-o would find a skinny-dipper at a public pool most amusing.)  I was going to say something to the manager, because the fat dude appeared to be nude to me also.  I thought he had absolutely nothing on- until he bent over and you could see the slightest hint of red speedo stretched tenuously across his butt cheeks.  His fat rolls covered up his skimpy suit when he stood up.  This is a guy who just might want to consider the boxer-style swim trunk.

I don’t know which is worse, the speedo on a guy who should be wearing boxer-style trunks, or the giant plastic crucifix he’s wearing.  Talk about mixed messages.

I would have to say that 95% of men should wear the boxer-style trunks, to spare the rest of us the rather unsavory visual,  just as 95% of women should be wearing the old-lady skirt type one piece bathing suits (or a two piece that has a long enough top to cover the entire belly area) with the bra inserts in them like I do. 

Has everyone forgotten about modesty?  I don’t believe women should be confined to the burqua or anything draconian like that, but there’s a hell of a lot of space between the burqua and the women in the South American jungles who wear nothing but a leather thong and a smile.  Women with meaty arms should not go sleeveless.  Large women should rethink spandex and tank tops and should avoid anything that shows midriff or thunder thighs.  Even thin women can go without displaying their butt cracks and tramp stamps.

Fat men in speedos are just plain gross.  Any “fashion” that displays a man’s hairy ass crack (whether he is buff and hot or not) needs to go away. 

Steve-o, this includes you dude.  Nasty!

I don’t want to see a dude’s ass crack, or the top of his boxers when he bends over.  Pull your flipping pants up to the waist.  And don’t even think about skinny jeans or spandex unless you look like Steve Perry back in 1981:

If you can wear tight jeans like that, gentlemen, then by all means, go right ahead.

A Well-Deserved Rebuke, Losing Perspective, and Whiny Minorities

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I got a very pointed reminder today from one of my closest friends (who I’ve not seen in years) that I have been pathetically lax in doing the things that friends do- i.e. communicating…   He didn’t come right out and say that in so many words, but the correspondence he sent me certainly implied it, and I get the point.  I can count on one hand the people I actually consider to be friends versus casual acquaintances or family I have to tolerate because they’re blood, and he is one of the two human beings on Earth who know me better than anyone except for God Himself.  There really is no good excuse for me being so distant.  I can say that my health issues or work or Jerry’s high maintenance demands are the culprits, but to do that is a cop out.  It’s been over a year since the hysterectomy so that’s not an excuse, (my health has improved most markedly since then)  I used to work a lot more hours than I do now, so it’s not really about time, and Jerry always was and always will be high maintenance and jealous of every second I fail to spend kissing his ass.

So the thing that’s holding me back is the thing that always holds me back.  Fear.  I am afraid to make a simple phone call to my closest friend because I am afraid that he will tell me what I already know.  I’m getting used, abused and ran like a railroad, I allow it to happen, and I’ve allowed it to happen my entire life.  He has told me that for years even though I know it already and I’ve failed to do anything about it.   I am a rather pathetic specimen in more ways than one.  But I did make the call, and at least had the courage to leave a voice mail, for what it’s worth.

I’m tired of living in fear, and I need to break that particular bad habit.  I also have to have the decency and the just plain humanity to maintain the relationships and the people who have maintained me and grown my soul.   The caveat here is to maintain such relationships in an honorable and good way.  Running from them is not an answer.  Since when did I give a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks of me except for God Himself?  The touchy part of this is that in my quest to “do the right thing” I’ve gotten so hung up on morality and rules and conventions that I ignore people.  I’m afraid to maintain a dialogue with my friends- especially those of the opposite gender- because I am afraid that I will fall down the slippery slope.  I guess it’s hard to be bad to other people when you avoid them, but it’s also bad to avoid them because then you’re not doing any good.  I admit, I use Jerry as an excuse because he does make things difficult for me, but he will always do that.  Sometimes I forget that socially and emotionally he has a mental age of about four.  I’m not saying that to criticize because I am an emotional cripple myself.

I have lost my perspective and have come damned close to losing whatever honor I ever had.  I know emotions are a really difficult area for me, but running away from them and failing to be honest with myself regarding how I feel and who and what I deem to be important is not working. 

I have to admit, nobody does apathy like I do.  Then again, if I get something in my craw it’s hard for me to do or think of anything else.

Especially when the large groups are trucked in from Michigan and West Virginia to protest at the Ohio statehouse, so the media will think that most of the people in Ohio are all for continuing the status quo instead of actually addressing the graft and waste in state and local government.  Nice try, but I hope that the Governor as well as the General Assembly have enough sense to understand that the union protesters are a very small but very whiny minority. 

The tail has wagged the dog long enough.

That goes for every other whiny minority out there too, including any racial group who thinks they are owed reparations because their distant ancestors were slaves, including the litigation happy trial lawyers, including the special rights for gays contingent, and anyone else out there who believes they are entitled to special protections or perks that the majority is not entitled to.

The bottom line:

Anyone who goes back far enough in their genealogy will find ancestors who were slaves.  I have a good number of Scots in my lineage, but I really don’t feel compelled to go back on Great Britain to seek reparations for the Scots in my ancestry who were enslaved, oppressed or killed back in antiquity.  Nor do I feel compelled to go to the US government to seek reparations for their treatment of my Cherokee ancestors.

Anyone who feels compelled to sue someone else because of their own stupidity and negligence (remember the lawsuit over McDonald’s coffee being hot?) should be 1. laughed right out of court, and 2. fined for wasting the court’s time with bullshit.  The bottom feeding trial lawyers who make a killing on insurance fraud and frivolous, bullshit litigation should be fined also, and then required to make restitution to the honest part of society by picking up trash along the freeways and serving the homeless  who come to the soup kitchens.

I don’t really care what people do in the privacy of their own bedrooms, and I really don’t care if a person is gay, straight, bi, furry, whatever, as long as they abide by the rules and contribute to society.  However, getting special treatment because of one’s lifestyle choice is not only unfair, but it has been proven by medical science that the gay lifestyle leads to a  host of serious health concerns.  We also know from history that rampant homosexuality led to the decline of both the Greek and Roman societies in antiquity.  Do we really think that sanctioning homosexual partnerships and claiming them to be as good if not better than heterosexual marriage is a good thing for society in general?  How about a legal process in which one’s partner-be it a roommate, a business partner or a homosexual lover- is given the right to legally act in many of the ways that a spouse automatically is?  Marriage is for a man and a woman, with the implication that there may be breeding going on, but any two people can choose to be “legal partners” or something of that effect.  That sounds like a viable compromise to me.

I think I’ve ranted enough for today, but the lesson lingers on.  I cannot forget about and/or neglect my friends.  I don’t have that many to begin with.