Another Dog? Yes I’m Nuts, and More Obvious Truths

July 17, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I am surprised that I’ve been 2 1/2 months with only two dogs. Clara and Lilo don’t seem to mind one bit, as they have been constant companions for the better part of a decade, but I know what I’m thinking in the back of my head, and what Jerry’s thinking in the front of his head. Our dogs are treated better than most people’s kids, but they still are working girls. They don’t just look cute and eat high dollar dog food. They are our home security. In this day and age I don’t want to be dog-less. It’s hard enough to sleep at night as it is.

I am more than mindful of the fact that a dog’s lifespan (ideally) is about 15 years, though a large dog’s lifespan can be shorter than that. Sheena was only about seven when she died, although Sheena had Issues that Clara and Lilo don’t have.

Sheena’s laundry list of health problems finally caught up with her- at only seven years old.

Clara’s 11. Lilo’s 10. Both of them are in good health, but they are not young dogs by anyone’s standards.

Kayla (right) at age 14, Clara (left) at age 2

Kayla was almost 16 when she passed, which is almost unheard of for a large GSD. We were given the responsibility to care for Kayla in her retirement (she was 11) and were told, “they don’t live much past 12.” Kayla was an effective security dog up until the last six months of so of her life- after she had already had Clara well-trained. I know that Kayla’s lifespan is the exception rather than the rule. Heidi (also a GSD) didn’t “live much past 12. ” She was 12 when she passed-but Heidi had some of the same issues Sheena did. I almost want to avoid GSDs completely because of all the health problems they’re known to harbor, unless I luck upon another Bavarian import like Kayla. Even though Kayla was from a good bloodline and enjoyed good health for almost 15 of her nearly 16 years, most GSDs are not that fortunate.

To make the whole dog-finding process more complex, I really want a Belgian Malinois, or barring that, at least a Malinois/GSD mix. I’m probably going to have to spend $800-$1000 to get the dog I really want, and I will probably have to make a substantial road trip to boot. I’m willing to do that for the right dog, but if I can find a shelter dog that fits the bill, better yet.

Here’s what I’m looking for- a young female Malinois. 16 weeks to 2 years would be ideal- the younger the better.

I have time, and I’d rather keep a lookout for suitable shelter dogs or rescues, but Jerry is Jerry. He can procure or find just about anything that exists. The girls need a protégé.

I’ve never had a male dog, and don’t particularly want one, as the girls tend to have fewer health problems (when spayed) and longer lifespans. That, and I really can’t deal with dogs that hump people, and that hump other dogs, or unfortunate petite black cats. I know not all males are humpers (and some females oddly enough, are) but the visual of Jerry’s Mom’s weirdo odd-eyed Shih-Tzu humping poor Isabel is burned into my retinas. That might not be entirely fair, as ankle-biters are strange anyway. As far as I’m concerned, a dog should be at least 50#, and I have a strong preference for the “protection” breeds. They seem to be more intuitive and intelligent than the average ankle-biter.

When anyone is “more equal” by merit of their race, gender, behavior choices, et cetera, there is no equality and no justice.

I don’t believe in the concept of retribution when it is not directed toward the original wrongdoer. I understand that people of certain races were targeted for unfair treatment in the past, up to and including torture, lynchings and genocide. The problem is that those wrongs are not “made right” today by denying justice simply because a person is of a certain race or ethnic group.

In order for justice to be just it has to be colorblind- not politically correct or expedient for certain “more equal” pigs.

If someone breaks into my house and threatens me and I am in fear of my life, I’m going to blow his/her head off and I’m not really going to care if that person is black, white, green, straight, gay, bi or furry. I have to agree with the Zimmerman acquittal for that reason. I have a right to defend myself if I am being attacked and am in fear of my life. I shouldn’t have to think twice because my attacker belongs to a “protected” group, like the Al Sharptons and Obamas and other race baiters of the world want us to believe.

Should black people be able to perpetrate crime against white people with impunity because some black people were victimized by white people in the past? Obviously the race baiters would scream bloody murder should anyone suggest the opposite scenario, (and they do even when it’s not warranted) but why should crimes perpetrated by ANYONE get a pass? Deeper yet, why should any person have to forfeit his/her right to self defense when he/she is being threatened by a perpetrator of any color? The Trayvon Martin issue was conveniently crafted into a racial issue- when the real issue was the right of self defense.

It seems like a white person using a white toilet is enough to get the race baiters going. It’s reverse racism and it’s just as ugly regardless of who’s being racist toward whom.

To those who are protesting the Zimmerman acquittal, perhaps the real issue is crime- and remembering that in this country, much to Obama and Al Sharpton’s chagrin- citizens still do have the right to defend themselves.

The Second Amendment is crucial to the preservation of American freedom…which is why Obama and others who are anti-freedom can’t stand it.

Then again, the best way to know if a public policy is wrong- and/or in support of the criminal element- is if Obama supports it. That’s why he’s all for gun control, abortion, punitive taxation on commerce, and letting every third world terrorist nut job in the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is trying to set us up for a takeover by his friends in the terrorist world.

It’s long past time for this country to get beyond race and start addressing the entitlement culture and the nanny state, which are the real roots of both poverty and crime.

So Easy to Play Up Your Breakdown, 80’s Wisdom, and Life on the Trains

July 12, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Who needs those excess phalanges?

Sometimes it’s fun to play Captain Obvious, but sometimes it bothers me that society is so dumbed down that we need warning labels on hot coffee, and detailed instructions on how not to put our hands in, on or near sharp things. If you are aware of what a chainsaw does to wood, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine what it might do to body parts, but if you need a visual, consider the following the instructional video for “chainsaws meet body parts:”

Though it was originally released in 1974, this was the granddaddy of all the 80’s slasher films I enjoyed so much.

Then again, with the word “massacre” in the title, you know it’s going to be good- if you dig slasher flicks, that is. I’m not as enamored of the horror genre as I used to be (though I admit I did enjoy the Saw movies) but I can still appreciate a slasher even though the plots are usually predictable and most of the special effects are computer generated. I’m more into funny movies, though I especially like dark humor. Shaun of the Dead and Weekend at Bernie’s- as well as Monty Python’s Meaning of Life and the Quest for the Holy Grail come to mind.

Two to a bed…I’d been the first to volunteer for the top bunk.

My grandfather served the last year of his service during WWII on the troop trains. I find it hard to imagine the things he saw- although there are pictures to be found of flatbed cars loaded down with tanks and jeeps as well as pictures of young soldiers boarding trains. I am sure that he realized that some of these guys would be coming back on the same trains- only they would be traveling in metal boxes in the freight cars instead of on the passenger seats and in the sleeping berths.

Efficient, but how would they be off-loaded?

Scratching for ten months? That would really suck.

If you weigh more than 500#, toileting would be an endeavor to begin with.

In fact, most land mammals that weigh 500# or more take care of their toileting either in the pasture, or in the barnyard.

Victorian Ephemera, Patent Medicine and Today’s Mollycoddled Offspring

July 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Here’s a Victorian-era product that probably wouldn’t go over too well today. Except maybe to NAMBLA members.

I know that knee pads are available for kids today – as well as shin guards, mouth guards and bike helmets- but these I think were designed more to preserve expensive clothing rather than to prevent injury. One need only examine some Victorian-era playthings to understand that safety wasn’t first. Or fifth. From the looks of some of that stuff, safety couldn’t have really been considered at all.

I can only imagine the geek factor involved for kids whose mothers required them to wear these, but then again, boys of the Victorian era typically wore those awful little man-capris with knee high socks. Knee protectors couldn’t make that dreadful fashion too much worse.

Screw the pellet gun- let’s just give them rocks and a mace!

Granted, Steve-o had toys, ranging from the innocuous to the deadly. He had Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine, Power Rangers, those annoying little finger skateboards, a BB gun (I’m still picking BBs out of the walls) and a Zippo (not to be confused with a flashlight.)

He had the latest video games, and a lot of other electronic toys too, but I didn’t want him to simply sit on his ass and watch as it grew huge, so I did allow skateboarding and in-line skating, which were responsible for both times he broke his right arm, once at age 6 and then again at age 11. I should have stopped at the BMX bike, but even the BMX bike proved quasi-deadly. Some little ass-pilot at his school decided to jam the rear wheel so the bike wouldn’t move when he went to take off on it. Unfortunately the little ass-pilot behind the engineering of that prank didn’t have much understanding of physics. Steve-o went to take off on the BMX and as the rear wheel was jammed all 160# of his 14 year old body went over the handlebars and landed square on his mouth- blasting his two front teeth to smithereens, though by some miracle of God sparing his skull.

$3800 (that insurance didn’t cover,) three root canals, and two crowns later, Steve-o was redeemed from a lifetime of Billy-Bob mouth. I was redeemed from $3800. I guess the love of money is the root of all evil. The only thing is, I’ve never been able to hang on to money long enough to fall in love with it, so I’ve not gotten to test the theory.

Wrong on many levels, but still cute.

Patent medicines have always fascinated me. They would have been awesome if they actually worked. One of my favorites is the wash-the-fat-away soap. If only one could scrub away the bingo wings and thunder thighs.

Wash away the lard- and eliminate the ravages of time. What’s in this shit? Acid? Flesh eating worms?

Even better are the adjectives used in patent medicine ads to describe overweight people- “corpulent,” “stout,” “too much flesh,” and just plain “fat. “

Hey! You! Lard Ass! Try this shizzle. It’ll CURE your fatness! Or should I say “corpulency” and “stoutness?”

Maybe the fat reducing ideas of the Victorian era were more effective than the potions and fads we try today, but then I would wager there were fewer fat people back then because everything one ate or drank had a good probability of giving one Montezuma’s revenge. You got to crap your way thin whether you wanted to or not.

Then again…

Perhaps if you lived on salt pork and corn cobs, constipation may just be an issue. I have to say that using a bird (presumably that’s a crow) to hawk (pun intended) a constipation remedy is brilliant. None of nature’s creatures craps more often or in more quantity for its size than birds. The subliminal is right here: Take these pills and you’ll shit like a bird!

Who I Don’t Want to Be, Memory and the Crotch Rocket

July 10, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Why does the whole business of living have to be so difficult? I don’t want to end up one of those bitter, wrinkly dried up old bitties who have nothing better to do than give me the stink-eye in the locker room because I’m not an old bitty wanting to shoot the shit, but I am in the pool at 5:30, and therefore invading “her” space. I find myself getting close to that stink-eye to the world mindset sometimes though, and it scares me. I get pissed at myself because I’m not much of a risk taker, and because I usually don’t have the courage to be anything more than a tired old door mat. Always cordial, always concessionary, always blending into the scenery. Stealth and avoiding confrontations are survival skills I’ve cultivated since childhood. Most of the time avoiding conflict and/or scrutiny are exactly what I’m aiming to do in the first place.

The past should remain in the past- and I’m usually pretty good at not letting those vexing whirlwinds of emotions get to me- but there’s one person who can conjure a tempest in my heart every time. Being insanely in love with anyone, regardless of how compelling he is (or was it lust, or simply the novelty and the sweetness of forbidden fruit, who knows,) is completely out of my character. After 20 years (and then some) it’s time to let sleeping dogs lie and get back to reality, but memory is a hard taskmaster. Every time I hear from him- and I do still consider him a friend- I end up going down the path of what once was and what could have been and all that noise- even though I can wish in one hand and shit in the other and know which hand is going to fill up first. There is a plethora of technicalities that I would rather not rehash yet again- all the reasons why and everything that has remained unsaid-they are still the obstacles they have always been, but when all is said and done memory is just that. Nothing more.

Even knowing what an exercise in futility such revelries are, it seems as if the further back I go, the more vivid the imagery of memory becomes. Oh, to have one of those days where I could just sit and watch the wheels go round, (to quote John Lennon) but I have to keep at least one foot grounded here on earth.

As usual, I’ve been too busy, too preoccupied with the business of making it through one day to the next, so when I do get a reminder that there is more to life than getting up, going to work and going to bed, it’s startling. I’m reminded that I’m still alive, still taking up valuable oxygen, and still haven’t really accomplished jack shit.

Busy is probably better for me than I realize. At least it’s keeping me out of trouble.

The illustrious POMC is busy with his latest acquisition- a crotch rocket. Although I enjoy motorsports, for me it’s pretty much a given that a vehicle involved in motorsports should have four wheels. I don’t share his enthusiasm for this purchase, and I don’t see myself attempting to ride this beast either.

I know it’s better that old ghosts stay in the past where they belong, though nothing would do me better than an evening and a drink with a friend. I miss the conversation, strangely enough. There are precious few people who I really want to converse with alone, one on one.

Maybe I should find some courage and make that a point. NOT riding the crotch rocket- that’s not happening, but the conversation with an old friend that is long overdue.

The Most Redneck Phrases Ever Uttered, and Workout Etiquette for the Courtesy Impaired

July 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Ah, a repurposed ’84 Ford Escort. It beats replacing that pesky head gasket again.

“I broke my leg falling out of a deer stand.”

How many PBRs preceded your unfortunate tipsy tumble, and isn’t it rather unsporting to take the high ground when you’re hunting a large terrestrial creature such as a deer? I could understand taking the high ground to hunt for squirrels who live in the trees (and therefore would be easier to shoot from the heights,) but deer?

“Bubba, cain’t nobody understand ya without yer teeth in.”

Ironically (which I shouldn’t point out, being largely of Anglo descent myself) most rednecks have genetic ties not only to each other, but also to our friends in the UK, who are known world wide to be the most dentally challenged people on earth. The UK, Kentucky and West Virginia, that is.

I love the Brits, but like many of our Appalachian friends, they aren’t known for straight teeth and dazzling white smiles.

Clean up after your damned self in the locker room!

I’ve actually come to enjoy morning workouts, but I’ve also found that Jerry isn’t the only person out there who was raised by wolves. Civilized people should know enough to “leave it as you found it.” Especially in a locker room. I don’t want to see your dirty towels, used snot rags and heaven only knows what else strewn all over the benches and the vanity and the floor. That’s just nasty.

I also take care not to indulge potential “taco watchers.” Just as there are “meat gazers” in the men’s locker room, there are “taco watchers” in the women’s. I am not one of those women who simply wanders about with naughty bits all out in the open. I keep everything covered at least with a towel, even as I’m changing clothes or getting ready to shower. Nobody wants to see that. And if the watchers are women, I really don’t want them to see that.

Civilized people should also have the courtesy to wear swim caps in the pool so I don’t end up back stroking and ending up with human hair sticking between my fingers. Chlorine does not dissolve hair. It can, however, strip the color out of it, which is why I am always careful to have my swim cap on.

My ultimate dream is to have my own indoor pool (complete with pool boy) but at least I have access to an indoor pool so I am very grateful for that. I just wish that other people would be considerate of their surroundings and of other people by observing some simple courtesies.

Then again, I’m old, and I wasn’t raised by wolves.

“

Strange Dreams, and Some Thoughts on Current Events

June 26, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Maybe I’m going to have to give those subliminal mind-improvement MP3s a rest. The next time I have a dream in which the showcased event is an old high school nemesis dancing on the dinner table at a swanky event sans trou and waving Mr. Willy in the wind, I might just have to think about staying awake at night. The night before last was even weirder. I find myself telling my mother that my sister can change her own diaper (as far as I know, she’s a tad bit scatterbrained, but not in adult diapers yet) and not to call it a “diaper,” but to call it “pants.”

Note to self: 160-180# refers to the size of the wearer, not the amount of human effluvia it will hold.

Oh, yay. Sigmund Freud would have an ever loving field day with me. Then again, every mental health specialist I’ve ever seen has probably made some interesting notes. Just don’t let my Prozac script run out and things should be OK.

I’m not entirely surprised by today’s turn of current events. I can’t say I support the concept of gay marriage, my primary reason (morality aside) being I don’t buy the argument that one’s “orientation” is something outside of one’s control, any more than any other aspect of one’s behavior is out of one’s control. I also don’t buy into behavior or “orientation” being a civil rights issue. The members of NAMBLA will tell you that their “orientation” is toward little boys, and that they can’t help their behavior because they didn’t “choose” their orientation, so does that make pedophilia OK?

Using the “‘orientation’ absolves me from being accountable for my behavior” argument, I could rationalize that my “orientation” is to attempt to do the nasty with every fine young stud I see between the ages of 25 and 50. I can’t help it. That’s how I’m oriented. I didn’t choose it. So to take that rationalization to its logical conclusion, my desire to be every hot young-to-moderately middle-aged dude’s naughty cougar fantasy should be celebrated, encouraged and subsidized. I should be able to marry as many men as I like, so that when their willies don’t work anymore it doesn’t matter because I can just choose another stud from the stable. Why can’t I engage in polyandry? That’s how I’m oriented. I didn’t choose it.

See how dippy that sounds when straight people try to use the same argument to legitimize their own personal selfish choices?

If I choose to engage in promiscuous behavior, I could almost rationalize that because I’m married to a guy with ED- or if I choose to do the honorable, not so easy thing and live in involuntary celibacy because it’s the right thing to do, that choice is on me. If I decided I wanted to get involved in intimate relationships with multiple men to make my life more tolerable and fun, the rest of society shouldn’t have to celebrate it, encourage it, or subsidize it, or even make it sound legitimate and healthy.

The whole idea behind marriage isn’t so much for personal happiness and all that fairy tale crap as it is a long term commitment between a man and a woman (ostensibly but not always for the purpose of begetting and raising children)- even when that commitment involves illness, non-functional equipment or dealing with a spouse who was raised by wolves. It’s more like joining the army versus “forever after in happy land.” You’re in it even when it sucks.

Even so, before one might consider me a gay-basher or a homophobe, I really don’t care what other people do in the dark- as long as I don’t have to pay for it, or watch it, and it doesn’t involve me. Then again I’m not gay, so I admit it’s hard to see it from their point of view. I generally don’t get along with women very well to begin with, with few exceptions (most of my friends are guys) and frankly there’s nothing any woman’s got that I want. I’m straight, though I’ve been pretty much living without any kind of action for a number of years, so I guess in practical application, I would be a “none of the above.” I guess love is where you find it, and at this point in my life that’s a dead horse regardless of my “orientation”- unless it involves battery powered devices.

Different strokes for different folks, and I’m cool with that. I don’t care if a person has the hots for a Ford Escort as long as I don’t have to watch, and I don’t have to call it normal. I don’t have a problem with what other people do or who they think they are for the most part, but I do have a big problem with trying to make behavior choices a civil rights issue.

Attitude, Middle-Aged Angst, and DNR

June 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I’ve said it before, but since my offspring has more or less achieved the high holy goals of parenting, which are being potty trained, literate and gainfully employed, I am somewhat free to enjoy my second adolescence.

Now that I have a pretty bad ass replica of Théophile Steinlen’s Chat Noir on my calf, I want one more tat. I will wait until fall/winter time to do it, because in the summer two weeks worth of workouts outside of the pool are just too hot. One bad thing about getting a tat if you prefer aquatic exercise, is you can’t get in the pool for two weeks until the tat is pretty much healed.

I have a DNR on file– meaning that I do not want to be resuscitated should my heart stop and I’m on my way to the Dirt Nap. No heroics. If it’s time for me to die, let my sorry carcass go. I don’t want to live through a dramatic resuscitation effort only to suck up resources for years- being chronically ill and mindlessly drooling away in some nursing home if that can at all be avoided. Having one’s DNR tattooed on one’s left chest area (on Hello Kitty’s dress no less- and I’ll have the lettering done in either bright red or black so it’s even more obvious) should drive the point home.

I figure if I’m going to die anyway, why prolong the process? Maybe it’s a morbid thought, but I want people to be crystal clear that it’s fine by me to keep me off the machines and to let me just die with some comfort and dignity.

I have to try to get a better outlook. Granted there have been some incidents in the recent past that have completely pissed me off and demoralized me but I’ve gone through a lot worse. I may not have much but I do have a healthy sarcastic streak, and comedy is indeed the flipside of tragedy.

I have to change this stuff.

I’ve fallen back into the age old pattern of letting people simply walk all over me. It’s bad that I’m so used to being a doormat that I have to consciously think about confronting people when they are just plain being assholes. What is so wrong about calling out the conspicuous douchebag? I’m sure that my megadouche detection skills are just as good if not better than most people’s, given that I have had exposure to more than my fair share of megadouches in my lifetime.

This is what I want to say to Jerry when he whines about food. Unfortunately, when he isn’t in the mood for the entreé du soir, it means I either end up going out for subs or to the Chinese joint for his hineyness. Last week I got to get him a sub, and then a replacement sub, when the zit faced high school kids working the evening shift at Jersey Mike’s committed the unforgivable sin: his Philly cheese steak had green peppers on it. You’d have thought it was anthrax the way he reacted to a few green peppers. They weren’t even the hot peppers, which if you ask me are quite nice on a Philly cheese steak, among a plethora of other things. But green peppers? If you don’t like them, pick them off. As rude as Jerry is in restaurants, green peppers are the least of his worries. I bet fast food workers see condescending assholes like Jerry from a mile away.

I’m sure Jerry’s gotten things far worse than a few green peppers on his sandwiches. Saliva, semen and boogers come to mind. I understand the longing for passive-aggressive revenge more than most. I might not actually perpetrate vengeful acts, but I fantasize about them a lot.

If thinking about passive-aggressive revenge is just as bad as actually perpetrating it, I’m in big trouble.

Voice

June 5, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I understand the mechanics – to a degree.

God has a sense of humor. Many people on the autistic spectrum struggle with language, especially with making one’s use of language audience appropriate. As a hyperlexic I deal with verbal language much more easily than many people on the spectrum, but I still have my limitations. I understand what I mean to say and I understand the vocabulary I use, but not everyone else does. I prefer to communicate in writing for this reason. Writing allows me to organize my thoughts more effectively and to communicate more clearly. Writing also takes away that awkward non-verbal factor that can distract and vex me as well. I talk with people all day on the phone (again, don’t have to deal much in the non-verbal there) but when the day is done I really don’t have much left to say. I’m usually all talked out by noon, especially here lately that I’m stuck doing two people’s jobs again, so I’m craving my solitary time away from the idiots and inquiring minds.

Call me back when you know what the hell you want, dipshit…

The humor in this is that somehow I ended up with a loud, resonant speaking voice that carries, and a broad (almost four octave) vocal range. I studied classical voice for a number of years, and was even the lead singer in a heavy metal band for awhile. The two are not nearly as far apart as most might think, and classical technique will keep you from destroying your vocal cords. When I was in high school I performed a capella in a hall that seats 1,000 without amplification. The people in the back could hear just fine. Oh, yes, you bet your sweet bippy. In spite of my bad sinuses and history of bronchitis and pneumonia, I can project. Just ask my son.

Even though I can communicate relatively articulately (especially when non-verbals are out of the equation) every morning I have to fight the temptation to simply choose not to communicate. With anyone (except maybe the dogs and cats, because they can’t fend for themselves, because they don’t have thumbs.) Definitely not with humans.

I don’t know if it’s an Asperger’s thing or just my own personal frustration with dealing with people in general. I’m not specifically incensed with stupid people or angry people or people who want stuff, although I very seldom speak with anyone that isn’t in at least one of those categories. I pretty much don’t want to talk to anyone. I especially don’t want to have to fulfill anyone’s request, placate anyone’s anger, or explain the obvious to the stupid for awhile, but I will have to start right in again in the morning, just like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill every morning only for it to roll back down to the foot of the hill to start all over again.

There are too many times when I’m afraid to use my voice. Too often I stay silent either out of self preservation, fear or expediency. My own cynicism and sense of “why does it matter anyway,” keeps me from saying what I should when I should speak out.

When my emotions kick in – especially when I am angry, insulted or outraged, I lose what eloquence I thought I may have had. At that point my silence is a result of not finding the words, of not being able to express my loathing, fear or outrage in a coherent and logical way. The voice loses its connection with my rational mind, and a breathless, mindless silence is the result.

I guess if I were to continue on the cynical rant, I might as well be resigned to the fact that since nobody gives a rat’s ass about my opinion except me, then why bother sharing it?

It might be funny. It might be twisted. Somebody might get some entertainment value out of the things I say. Maybe.

Today I got to see yet another medical specialist- an endocrinologist- to try to figure out why my blood sugar is so damned hard to control even though I’m trying to do all the “right” things. Of course he took more blood and pee and he’s going to do more tests the other doctors didn’t do, etc. This Dr. thinks I could have a thyroid and/or adrenal issue that’s playing into my sugar control as well as the lingering fatigue and the depressive funk that just won’t go away. I’m not holding my breath.

I’m thankful I can communicate. Sometimes it’s everything I can do to communicate- but God had a sense of humor when he gave me a voice.

An Ode to the Crapper, The Big 80’s, and a Japanese Toilet, Too

May 24, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Technology is beautiful…when it actually works.

When I was in high school, there was a discount department store that had pay toilets. The theory was that you put a dime in the slot, turn the lever and the bathroom stall door opens. It was slightly reminiscent of a parking meter, only it wasn’t timed. In practical application, however, people liked to do funky things with the slot, such as jamming it up with popsicle sticks (what they were doing with those in the crapper I’ll never know) or super glue.

The end result was that even if you were one of those people who were willing to pay the dime to keep from having to slide under the stall door, the odds were very good that even with the dime you weren’t going to be opening that stall door any time soon. Many individuals saw fit to shimmy under the stall door or barring that option, (somehow, considering this was a ladies’ room) pee in the sink, pee in the floor drain, or, which did happen on occasion, drop a deuce on the floor drain.

The motivation behind that great old poem:

Here I sit, all broken hearted

Paid my dime, and only farted.

I don’t think that I ever had to use the bathroom so urgently while at that store that I couldn’t make it across the parking lot to the Burger King to use their (free) toilet. I was never good enough at doing the Limbo to consider trying to shimmy under the stall door. I wasn’t tall enough to consider peeing in the sink either, and considering how many people just relieved themselves on the floor, I didn’t want to risk touching that floor with clothing, body parts or hair to begin with.

Today is one of those “somebody jammed a popsicle stick in the crapper lock” sort of days. It’s an automatic “go to option B” sort of day. Our invoicing system isn’t working, which means I’m not selling anything. I can’t do reports. I can’t check inventory. The phones are still on though, so I can still listen to people bitch, and I can freak out about all the people I’m going to have to call and all the catch up I’m going to have to engage in once the system is actually working again.

Leave it to the New Englanders to find another way to make you pay!

Pay toilets seem to have lost their popularity, at least in central Ohio. I am surprised someone hasn’t figured out a toilet lock that accepts MasterCard and Visa. If the City of Columbus can find parking meters that take plastic then I’m sure the technology exists. If I really, really had to go, I’d be willing to pay, let’s say $5 on my debit card to get in.

I probably shouldn’t give people ideas, although maybe there was a lesson learned from the behavior of the sink whizzers and floor crappers of the early-to-mid 1980’s. It just might not be worth the potential $5 per crap in the toilet if most people forgo the pay device and just crap on the floor and/or pee in the sink.

Considering the dismal condition of many public toilets, perhaps a $5 debit card swipe at the door (at the main door, not the stall door) would be worth it IF the toilet was kept immaculately clean. The Japanese have it pretty good as far as toilet technology goes. I’d be willing to pay to use one of those funky self-cleaning Japanese toilet/bidet/health monitor things.

Elimination: Star Wars Style

Unfortunately most public bathrooms look more like this:

No wonder I see so many trucker bombs.

I don’t understand the motivation behind wanting to trash a public restroom. One might think it a good thing, a sort of karmic justice issue so to speak, to keep the crappers one uses tidy so the next time it’s necessary to use one it might be clean and somewhat safe to use. Then again, the lesson I’ve learned over the past week is that logic doesn’t necessarily apply to what actually happens in the real world.

In high school I used the school bathroom once. I didn’t even attempt it at the old Freshman Building, because it had the original (wooden seat) toilets from 1915. In 1982 these were not safe to use. The way they were originally designed was cool- you sat on the seat, used the toilet, and when you got up there was a spring-loaded device that automatically flushed.

I’m sure in 1915 that was amazing state of the art technology. But by 1982, when (and if) they actually flushed, they would send a geyser of toilet contents skyward, often showering the toilet user with the toilet contents.

A shower that will not promote bodily cleanliness.

In the main high school (built in 1959) the functionality of the toilets wasn’t the issue. They were regular industrial-style toilets with the toggle-lever flushers like one might see in your local Taco Bell. The things the girls did in the bathroom was the issue. There was graffiti- everywhere- that would make a porn star blush. Many people smoked in there. I didn’t have the courage to light up in the school crapper though.

I used that bathroom exactly once. It seemed OK, until for some inexplicable reason I looked toward the ceiling. To my horror, a heavily used maxi pad was hanging by the tiniest bit of adhesive on to the ceiling. If that tiny bit of adhesive had let go before I made a swift exit, I would have had a very nasty mess splattered all over my verdant, thick, big 80’s spiral permed hair.

Yes, I had hair like this at one time- long, long ago, back when the air was dirty, sex was clean, and Steve Perry was oh-so-hot in Spandex. Spiral perms (i.e. the infamous Uni-Perms) not only fried your hair, they sucked the color out of it too. Needless to say it would have been rather nasty to clean a bloody mess out of a massive hair nest like that.

Skoal was bad enough. At least the girl who saw fit to spit Skoal in my hair ended up getting pinned down and having her head shaved. I did have a few good friends in high school who really enjoyed the fact that I had cigarettes- and a car.

The Big 80’s. Steve Perry was probably the best thing about that entire decade.

Add One to the List of Things I Thought I’d Never Do

May 17, 2013Tonya Lanthron 5 Comments

This is not my belly button area.

There are a few things that I thought I would never do in this life. Some of them I’m pretty confident will never come to pass, such as climbing Mt. Everest or running a marathon, but I never thought I would (considering the dim view I take on tacky ones) get a tattoo.

I’m the first one to mock bad tats, and I’ll never forget the reason why my grandfather wore long-sleeved Oxford shirts with the button sleeves buttoned at the wrists every day of his life until he was dying in the nursing home. Grandpa had some horrifically badly done tats on his forearms dating back to when he served in the Navy in 1943. They did not improve with age.

I generally have a loathing for the “tramp stamp” or any other tats on a woman in places that are way too close to her naughty bits. The idea of having an artist drawing on my cleavage, butt crack or any other area normally covered by clothing in polite company is a rather unsavory one. I don’t want to subject anyone to that visual.

Not my back or my “tramp stamp” area! Especially not Jabba the Hut, considering that from reliable reports he bears more than a passing resemblance to my ex.

Even so, I have toyed on and off with the idea of a tasteful tat of a black cat on a non-naughty bit part of my anatomy for a long time. Weirdly enough, Steve-o was sort of behind me actually doing it rather than just continually mulling it over.

Steve-o is deathly afraid of needles, so much so, that last year when he had to have a routine blood draw I told him to grab my hand and look the other way. I thought he was going to rip my hand off and jump up through the ceiling. So when he said he was going to get a couple of tats, I said, yeah, right. I didn’t think he had the balls, and I reminded him, in spite of his swagger, of his very unmanly drama with the phlebotomist in the ER, and that only involved one needle stick.

I told him that I’d go with him, and if he went through with it I’d get one too. Part of me figured he would wuss out, but if he did it, then I was obligated. The nice part about doing this with Steve-o, is that as in everything he had done his research and found a facility with stellar reviews, autoclave sterilization and talented artists. He is so paranoid about needles and the prospect of blood-borne pathogens that he’s going to choose someplace that’s scrupulously clean.

Either way, no real big deal. I am not freaked out by needles. My pain threshold is much higher than it probably should be, so either way, I was cool with it, and I’d been toying around with the black cat idea anyway.

When I saw the designs he came up with I almost had to laugh, but hey, he’s over 21. At least no cartoon characters were lampooned in the making of his tats.

The one he had put on his shoulder is in German and roughly translated means: We Must Live Until We Die.

The other one is way too close to naughty bits to show the actual picture of the tat, but let’s just say it’s an instructional diagram:

The motorhead crowd would know this (above) is the shift pattern for 4-speed manual Volkswagens, i.e. like his rail buggy. In Toyotas and other civilized vehicles, (below) reverse is directly below 5th, but VW to this day still insists on that funky dog-leg reverse pattern. It screws me up every time I drive one if I don’t consciously think about it, since I am used to driving the Toyota every day.

This one makes more sense to me.

The other bet Steve-o and I had was which one of us would be discovered first. Since his are on his shoulder and in the nether region covered by boxers, and mine is on my calf, the Warden (Steve-o calls my Mom the Warden, which in some ways is sort of apropos) will probably notice mine first, being that it’s the season for wearing capris. So I’m thinking the next time I go up there either I wear a skirt or long pants if I want to avoid the drama. Unless of course, she already knows. Mom will of course have a major tizzy fit when (or if) she finds out, because she thinks any tattoo is automatically tacky. She may be right, but I’m 44 years old, and if I feel like getting a black cat inked on my calf I’m going to. You only live once. It’s not as if it’s on my face or hands or naughty bits.

For what it’s worth, I think it’s cool, and right now I’m the only one I really care about impressing.

I’ve heard people say getting a tat is insanely painful. It probably depends on where you get it and who you are, but at the very worst- for me anyway- it only felt like a minor sunburn. The more that I thought about black cats in art, the Chat Noir illustrations by Théophile Steinlen stood out in my mind as being the coolest black cat icons I could find, though I did take liberty with the hot pink eyes.

I do draw the line on a great number of things as far as tats go- where they can be, what they can depict and so forth to be considered tasteful. Names are out of the question, as I remember all too well my best friend in high school having her boyfriend’s name- RAY- tattooed across her back. When she and RAY predictably broke up, she was stuck with his name in three inch tall letters across her back. I got smacked when I suggested she put BESTOS underneath RAY and get a job advertising brake pads. There are just some things that aren’t meant to be illustrated on the human body, like this:

Don’t be a Lenin-head!

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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