misanthropy

my disdain of stupid people, intelligence is a constant, the population is growing

Bacon Flavored Man Chow, Headlines We’ll Never See, and Sarcastic?- Me?

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I don’t understand the male fascination with bacon.  Bacon is one of those things that I can eat- in small quantities- but I generally don’t because it is always greasy, and generally always disgustingly salty.  It’s fine crumbled up in potato soup but that’s about it.  Salt and grease are generally not items one wants in the diet in any kind of quantity.  Dogs like bacon too, but they are generally not known for having great culinary requirements.  Any creature who will dine on carrion and dumpster droppings generally is not reliable as a food critic.  George Carlin once questioned, (in reference to cats and “gourmet” cat food, but the principle still applies,)  “How many gourmets lick their own ass?”

When Steve-o, the illustrious Precious Only Male Child, was about four or five he went through an extreme picky eater stage.  No meat, no eggs, no vegetables.  Of course he would eat bacon – perhaps not realizing that “meat candy” is actually made of meat, or what was meat at one time.  I could only get milk down him by putting Hershey’s syrup in it.  The only vitamins he got are whatever vitamins lurk in Pop Tarts, Domino’s Pizza, Mountain Dew, and if I was lucky, ramen noodles.   It was also just my luck that the POMC was tall and large framed- and his picky eating habits were making him “thin for his height” which I got to hear incessantly at every Dr. visit from the time he was four until he was about eleven.  Most people get read the riot act because their kids are lard asses, but I never had that problem.

I got mixed messages from the Dr.s though.  Yes he was thin, yes, he needed more calories to avoid looking like a very white starving African child, but I shouldn’t cater to his demands.  “If he’s hungry enough he’ll eat eventually,” was one response.  Then I was warned, “Do you know how many men I see in my practice who will only eat hot dogs and hamburgers because their mothers fixed them special meals and didn’t make them eat a variety of foods?”

Calling raw broccoli “little trees,” and even dunking them in ranch dressing didn’t work.  He would just suck the ranch dressing off them.  I did get him to the point where he will eat a few meats- the value brand turkey lunch meat from Kroger’s, chicken wings (atomic sauce with plenty of ranch dressing,) medium-rare steak, and Arby’s roast beef.  I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a vegetable- at least not of his own volition- other than fries and ketchup. 

Steve-o was smarter than all that noise.  If he didn’t like something he wasn’t going to eat it, and no one was going to make him.  He would just wait until he was at school or at the sitter’s and then he would either mooch, or trade things for the food he wanted.   He learned the negotiatory arts at a very early age.   There were too many kids at school and at his sitter’s willing to procure him whatever goodies he wanted.  Never mind that Mom- who made us eat granola that resembled dog food in more ways than one for breakfast while other kids sucked down their Froot Loops and Cocoa Krispies-would buy him boxes and boxes of Pop Tarts and then let him free forage in the kitchen for chow.  I am not sure if spray cheese has any nutritional value but I quit buying it when I discovered why the cans turned up empty as soon as they landed in the cabinet.  Spray cheese is just too easy a man food.  Just tilt back your head, spray and swallow.  Steve-o would snarf down the whole can.

Jerry is just as bad if not worse about being a fussy eater.  He will eat vegetables and meat, but for him it’s more about the method of preparation and the spices (or hopeless lack thereof) involved.  Jerry prefers fried food with lots of salt and grease.  He does not like healthy things such as brown bread, baked meats, or anything with red sauce.  He does not like garlic or spicy things. 

But he adores bacon.  The Universal Man Food.

So if it works for the folks at Purina- “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon”- (technically that is a double negative, so apparently they do know it’s not bacon-but- the thing is they’re dogs, and a rotten possum ass will work just fine for them) then how can you expect a man with beer-addled brain cells to know the difference?

Why can’t Purina or some other food-type company come up with something sort of like the Beggin’ Strip, but the difference being it looks like bacon, smells like bacon, but is a completely nutritionally balanced food with all the vitamins and protein and fiber that men won’t eat voluntarily?  It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

“What am I gonna eeeeeeat?’ (yes, Jerry does whine like this.)

“I got you Bacon-Flavored Man Chow- it’s in the cabinet!”

“Cool,” he replies as he rips open the bag and starts sucking down those bacon-flavored strips.

I’ve always wondered why I’ve never seen women’s sumo wrestling.  I’ve been to Newark, OH.  I used to work there, and one of the perks was the fact that  clothes in my size were always marked down in the local stores- because there was no demand for any women’s clothing smaller than a 4X.  I know women get big enough to sumo wrestle, but you never see Women’s Sumo Championship in the headlines.  If men will pay money to watch skinny bimbos roll around in the mud, then why not pay to watch fat chicks sumo wrestle?  I’m sure they can make those diapers in size 20 underwear size.

Another headline that will probably never appear in my lifetime: Asian Driver Wins NASCAR Race.  Asians are too smart for NASCAR, and typically they drive slow enough to make me look like something out of Smokey and the Bandit.  For those who don’t know how conservatively I drive, I can just imagine Wang commenting to his wife Lee, “Oh, horry clap, she’s goring 62 in a 65!”

I really try not to follow politics too closely because I know how riled up I can get when I do.   I really can’t stand the current POTUS for a number of reasons none of which have to do with his race.  First of all I am not convinced he is even eligible to hold the office of president (his birth certificate is about as convincing as the one I fabricated for Sheena) and even should he be deemed eligible, he’s the Worst President Since Jimmy Carter.

B.O. Must GO!  Here’s my new bumper sticker.

Then again I shouldn’t insult Jimmy Carter like that.  Jimmy at least was an American citizen, a war veteran, and a Christian.  Where he got some of his crazy ideas I’ll never know, but at least with Jimmy his heart was in the right place even if his head was up his ass.  Obama has no heart, and I don’t think even installing a glass belly button would help him see daylight.  Where the hell did the Dumb-o-crats find this asshole and how did they get that many people- other than dead people, illegal aliens and felons- to vote for him?  As much as I am not thrilled about Mitt Romney, I’d vote for him over Obama any day.  I’d vote for Sheena, even though she’s a mentally challenged dog, rather than Obama.   At least Sheena wouldn’t try to block the pipeline and/or keep the US from using our domestic resources.  She does lick her own ass, she’s not above eating out of the trash, and she refuses to wear clothing ,which might not be hot selling points in her bid to be elected- but compared to B. O., Sheena’s a shining star of virtue.

I knew better.  Talking about politics always gets me good and pissed off – and plenty sarcastic.  As if I need help in that.

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

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

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

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

All-Natural Ways to Die (for instance)

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

*Ebola is an all-natural deadly virus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ohio is Not a Tropical Paradise, (So Put on Some Pants,) the Second Amendment, and Navigational Exploits

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For the past five years or so, and most especially for the year or thereabouts following my hysterectomy, I have been somewhat plagued with hot flashes.  At times they have been so severe that I have found myself completely drenched in sweat and burning up for no apparent reason.   Since my Dr.s expressly forbid me to take any kind of hormone replacement, given my history, I have to deal with it.  I’ve been tempted at times to sit in the freezer, I often (even in winter) use a small table fan at night, and it has to be extremely cold for me to even entertain the idea of wearing a sweater or heavy shirt.   Over the past year or so my heat sensitivity has improved somewhat, but even now I am more likely to overheat than to freeze.  The only exception to this is my hands.  My hands still freeze very easily even if the rest of my body is burning up.  Go figure.

Even given the inconvenience of menopausal heat sensitivity, I can’t bring myself to wear shorts outside in the winter.  Every time I see young punks outside in shorts- even the Bermuda type- and/or flip-flops when it’s below freezing, I really have to wonder.  I know damned well the girls are too young for menopause and the boys don’t really have any excuse other than maybe the man-fur on their legs does something as far as insulation, but I doubt it.

Despite the wistful imaginings of the global warming crowd, Ohio is not a tropical paradise.  Maybe for three months out of the year we have near-tropical weather, as in stygian heat, 100% humidity and plenty of rain, but it’s not year-round.   The remainder of the year is still 100% humidity, and plenty of precipitation, but cold, and at times that precipitation is freezing rain or snow.

The lesson in this:  It’s February.  Put on some damned pants.  At least until the end of May, when it might actually be warmer than fifty degrees.  I blame Target for putting the bathing suits out in January.  Just because it’s currently on the store shelf does not mean that it’s the appropriate clothing item for the season.

Some clothing items are never appropriate, regardless of the season. 

Yesterday I was reminded of why I very seldom go on shopping excursions with Jerry.  I hate shopping anyway, and I loathe crowds.  I am surprised I volunteered myself into that one, but he always likes it better if I drive.  It’s always better for him if it’s my car and my gasoline, and me driving, for two reasons.  One, my car gets far better mileage than his truck, and two, I am less likely to get lost.   He refuses to drive my car (good for me in the grand scheme of things, as I really don’t like anyone driving my car) because I have a concealed carry permit.  If the cops would pull him over in my car, they would run the plate and assume that there are weapons in the vehicle.  It is also likely that anyone driving my car would be approached by the cops at gunpoint, which would really freak him out.   I know if I’m pulled over that I’m supposed to put my hands on the wheel and let the cop know whether or not I’m packing, but Jerry has been known to get lippy with cops, which is never a good idea, even if you’re right.  A good friend once told me that there are two good reasons why you won’t overpower, outsmart, or outrun cops: Smith & Wesson and Motorola.  One cop is always going to be armed, and one cop always has that nice little radio to call for backup.  It’s better to comply with their requests and figure out the details later.

I’ve never been a fan of gun control.  I’ve never been a fan of government absolving people from the consequences of their poor decisions either, but what do I know?  If the government seems to think that encouraging stupidity as well as shielding people from the consequences of their own stupidity, have suddenly become civil rights, then I guess it is a good idea (for the law-abiding, rational person) to be armed and to protect oneself even if it is necessary to go through some red tape and hoop jumping.  Thankfully the Framers of the Constitution were a lot smarter than the current crop of jackoffs holding office, and- at least for now- the Second Amendment still stands.  I could go on for days on this particular tangent, but I’m not going to.  Unlike a good number of politicians, I’ve read the Constitution.  I believe I have a pretty solid understanding of it. If you take your time and sift through some of the archaic language, it’s not terribly difficult to understand.  Government has responsibilities, but more importantly it is supposed to have boundaries. 

The weather was quite cold and windy yesterday, but it was sunny for a change,  so I had to deal with both Jerry’s waywardness and unduly crowded stores.  By the time we got home I was thoroughly worn out not so much from walking or driving, but by chasing Jerry about and weaving in and out of crowded aisles and displays.  Jerry is not terribly easy to keep track of, as he is prone to wander off and then I am not only manuevering my way through the crowds but I’m trying to find him as well.  It’s a sort of a twisted three dimensional version of “Where’s Waldo,” only it’s “Where’s Jerry,” and unlike Waldo, he keeps moving.

If I could I would get Jerry one of those kid leashes specifically for shopping excursions or times when I have to take him out in public and I know it will be difficult to retrieve him.  It’s a thought.  Or I could modify one of the Flexi leashes we have for the dogs.

Sheena for President, Felon of the Week, and Bizarre Holidays

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I have ruminated on it before. Even though she is a tad bit mentally challenged, and she has yet to be nominated, Sheena should run for President.  Nothing in the Constitution specifically forbids dogs from holding office, although I could see two sticky points.  She is not 35 years old (not even in dog years, though I don’t know exactly how old she is,) and she doesn’t have a birth certificate.  But other than not being able to prove her age or citizenship status (the nebulous origins of the current POTUS’ vital documentation didn’t seem to stop him) Sheena is supremely qualified to hold public office.  She is free of sordid scandals, but is expert in digging up others’ trash.  She does have a current Franklin County dog license,  and a current rabies tag, which ought to count for something. 

As I was trolling the Marion (OH) news station’s website seeking Buckeye Chuck’s latest weather prediction, (I was sort of bored this morning) I entertained myself by checking out the other features on the site and came upon the Featured Felon of the Week page.  Sort of like TruTV, but closer to home, with fuglier mug shots.  Since I spent the first 25 years of my life in Marion, I was pleasantly surprised not to have known any of the felons pictured.

I still have to ask, who smiles for a mug shot?  Are you stoned, or have you confused jail with the BMV?  I know driver’s license pics generally resemble mug shots, but come on.  Maybe you’re just happy to have three hots and a cot for ten days and a bit of time away from your drunken old man, but I can’t see  felony charges and/or jail time as “things to smile about.”  I just don’t have that kind of optimism.

Even in this “enlightened” 21st century we entertain some pretty bizarre traditions.  Groundhog Day is one of my favorite holidays – because you don’t have to buy anything or do anything other than inquire on the prognostications of a large rodent that puts me in mind of a hairy armadillo.  Buckeye Chuck didn’t see his shadow this time around, so in theory this means we are in for an early spring.  Or not.  Who really gives a rat’s ass- or should I say a groundhog’s ass? Central Ohio doesn’t really get spring anyway.  The weather goes straight from Snowbooger Grey to Monsoon to Stygian Heat.

I also have to wonder about another February holiday- Valentine’s Day.  St. Valentine supposedly was a martyr sacrificed by the Romans back in the third century.  The tradition is that he was martyred for marrying young Christian couples – therefore the hoo-hah about celebrating love and all that.  I have to wonder, since tradition also holds that he was beheaded, where we came up with the heart business for Valentine’s Day.  Why not a dismembered head?  Maybe decapitated heads are too closely associated with Halloween, but so are disembodied hearts, and the Aztecs and Mayans had the jump on pulling hearts out of live bodies even before the Romans discovered decapitation.  I can, however, see the connection between love and decapitation and/or evisceration.  So it works in a weird kind of way, though I can’t figure chocolate into it at all.

The old Roman holiday, Lupercalia, that was once celebrated on February 14 is rather interesting.  Let’s all worship the Wolf God?  Dog sacrifice?  I don’t think so.

St. Patrick’s day is the next weird holiday that I don’t completely get.  What does green beer have to do with converting people to Catholicism? Do I really want to know?  I know the Irish like to drink, but whiskey would make more sense.

Twisted Ann Landers, (Why Are You Asking Me?) and Suffering Fools- Begrudgingly

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Some days are meant just to catch up and ruminate – and others to indulge others’ laziness and/or stupidity. I thought this morning that today might be the first of those choices, (and I enjoy the rare delight of not being overly pestered or rushed,) but I am finding out very quickly that it’s going to be one of those days I spend thinking for and pointing out the obvious for others because they are unwilling to think for themselves, or are incapable of thinking, and/or of discerning the obvious for themselves. 

I’ve said it before.  I am certainly no rocket scientist.  I’m lucky to get out the door with all the crap I need for one day.  I forget things, misplace things, and I find that most of the time I am more reactive than proactive.  As far as examples go, everyone is an example of something, and for the most part my example is a cautionary tale of, “What Not to Do.”   As far as “What Not to Do” goes, I could write a book.  Maybe I should.

So who died and made me some sort of twisted Ann Landers, whose advice is sought in matters ranging from things automotive (while I am not the final authority by any means, at least I do have some experience and expertise in this field) to relationships (really good to ask advice on interpersonal relationships from someone with Asperger’s who borders on being both agoraphobic and antisocial) to (and this is the kicker) “Where the Hell Did I Put My Stuff?”  As far as relationships go, asking me advice would be about as effective as asking the guys who built the Titanic to engineer you an unsinkable boat.  I am not the right person to find anyone else’s stuff, either.  Half the time I can’t find my own.  I’m doing good to make it through the day without misplacing one of my three essentials- the cell phone, the Bluetooth, and the MP3 player.

One of my favorite tools when I am asked for advice is the Magic 8 Ball.  I have one.  They’re about $8 at Target- look in the toys and games.  I know, it’s a rather technologically primitive device  that dates back to the late 1940’s, but it is every bit as accurate as my advice on subjects outside the narrow areas of my expertise. 

Perhaps those around me don’t realize just how emotionally stunted I am, or maybe they ask my opinion because most of the time I make decisions based on practicality and utility- or expediency.  I have worked very hard my entire life to compensate for my weaknesses, but there are some areas in which I am just plain inept no matter how hard I try.  Anything involving gross motor coordination- forget it.  I do good to walk in a straight line without tripping or falling down.  As far as social interaction goes, I am always monitoring and second-guessing myself because I am not good at reading (or sending) non-verbals.  I can put on a good show if I need to, but it takes far too much conscious effort.  Imagine if you had to consciously think about and analyze your breathing.  This is the mental effort it takes for me in social situations.  The ability to socialize and converse face to face with people does not come naturally to me at all. 

So, by some strange twist of fate, who always seems to get elected to be the hospitality committee?  It’s like expecting the class midget to play center on the basketball team.

I’ve never seen myself as having anything but rudimentary (at best) social skills, but other people either don’t seem to notice or don’t seem to care.  Maybe I put on a better show than I thought.

Shakespeare said that “all the world’s a stage.”  The sad thing for me is that most of the time I want nothing more than to escape scrutiny and blend into the wall.  I seriously need to schedule a real vacation (root word: vacate, as in get out of Dodge) and get in some extreme ivory tower time before I start ripping people’s heads off.  Dealing with other people just plain wears me out.

I wouldn’t mind just camping out at home- sleeping, reading, writing, doing some cross-stitch, digging me some Tru-TV and jamming to some classic rock, except that I won’t be left alone to do those sorts of things.  I would end up being roped into errand-running, cleaning, and divers other activities that I don’t want to do.   I know I should put my foot down at times but I also  have to choose my battles.  As much as I hate to admit it, usually it’s easier to just do whatever so I don’t have to take the browbeating.

I have been challenged to refrain from making negative comments about Jerry for entire month of February.  I am sincerely going to try.  I admit, while he is challenging, I can be a rather harsh judge.  In some ways he deserves it, but I couldn’t be easy to live with either. 

Sports, Spectatorship, Wine (without the “h”) and Alternative Activities

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I am not a sports fan.  I can appreciate the aesthetics of men’s swimming and men’s figure skating, (even though those sports are generally not popular with straight men) but as far as organized sport in general goes, I would have to side with my Dad.  Sports are only fun if they have the word “motor” in front of them, and I’m not talking about NASCAR.  Three hours or more of a continuous left turn is only fun to watch when they wreck.  I can imagine that it would be more fun to watch the redneck freak show in the stands than to watch the actual race.  I don’t think I could bear to hear that much country music or see that many visions of inbred, badly dressed,  poorly tattooed, dentally challenged, over-fed humanity.   The denizens of Wal Mart take a field trip!  I think I’ll pass.

When I refer to worthwhile motorsports, I am talking about ones to participate in- such as off-roading, rally racing, drag racing, or boating. 

For instance, I would get into off-roading big time if I had an FJ40 like the one pictured above.  Old Landcruisers are awesome.  I always liked the Landcruiser guys when I worked in Toyota dealerships.  Landcruiser guys are generally easy to work with, willing to pay whatever it takes to get all the goodies for their trucks, and technically knowledgable.  The bad thing is, Landcruisers- at least the old FJ40 series-are virtually indestructible, but they’re difficult (and expensive) to acquire and maintain in Central Ohio.  I would have to have plenty of money and time to get into off-roading in an FJ40.

But because I’m a poor old cougar, I have to entertain myself on a budget. 

I don’t care much for football.  I just don’t have the attention span, and they wear way too many clothes.  I think I’ve figured out how guys do it though.  I’ve never seen a guy watch a football game without sucking down lots and lots of brews.  Apparently beer makes it more exciting.  Since I’ve never been a beer drinker, watching football just doesn’t work for me.  I like wine, (without the “h”) but who goes to watch football over a vintage cabernet- or as is more likely in my case- a bottle of Gallo or Sutterhome?  MD 20/20, maybe, but that’s not technically wine.  And I generally only need a small glass of Gallo or Sutterhome to go to sleep quite nicely. 

Oversight at the BMV, Avoiding Attracting the Attention of Law Enforcement, and “Sexy Time”

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Just when you thought you’d seen it all, it appears that my Mom, or someone else at the same level of naiveté, got a job at the BMV approving vanity plates.  For some reason the Central Ohio area is notorious for not only the number of but the rather “saucy” variety of vanity plates one sees every day.  I’ve seen some good ones, but this one takes the prize.  I don’t think that the registered owner of this vehicle was talking about Boysenberry Jam. (the quality of this video isn’t the greatest, and the scene I’m talking about begins at 3:59- Granny and her boysenberry jam…right…but it’s funny as hell.)  I can’t see any clean reference that would go with these plates.  They remind me of Borat and the “sexy time” reference.  Now I’m stuck with the Borat in his singlet bathing suit thing image in my head.

Not such a sexy time after all, eh?

I’ve never really been tempted by the whole vanity plate thing.  In my opinion the only thing that having a vanity plate does for you is help to make you cop bait, and I strive not to attract the attention of law enforcement.  I really don’t want my vehicle to be memorable or easily identifiable.  Granted, no one is ever going to mistake a Yaris sedan for a race car, and I’m enjoying the bland anonymity that is one of the perks of middle age.  When I was a young punk I really would have enjoyed having my VW Rabbits painted hot pink, but Dad never let me do that.    I did enjoy- much to Dad’s disdain- affixing every bumper sticker I could find to my distressed old Subaru. 

I don’t think pithy pro-conservative, pro-America tidbits on bumper stickers would raise a cop’s eyebrow any more than an FOP booster sticker would, so I have no qualms about displaying my political commentary for all to see.

One of the nice things about cougardom is that the world at large regards you as harmless.   I can sit back and stare at the young stud muffins as much as I want and fantasize about their hot bods with impunity and no one’s the wiser.  I blend right into the wall.  That reminds me how necessary a pool membership just might be this year.  I enjoyed the cougar pool last summer, but the scenery wasn’t exactly stunning.  Perhaps I will compromise and take a couple of day trips to the lake, or to the indoor waterpark, which I have been meaning to do and haven’t yet.   There is something to be said for going down a waterslide in the middle of winter.

Last night I had to take poor Lilo back to the Vet for her stinking allergies.  I know, she’s part Chow and they are horribly prone to skin allergies, but I’ve tried everything I know to keep her cleared up.  The dogs’ food is corn free.  They are clean and don’t have fleas and crud on them.  It’s winter so there’s no pollen.  The only thing I can think of now that could be bothering her is cigarette smoke.  The other two dogs beat feet when Jerry lights up, but Lilo doesn’t leave the room.  So Lilo is stuck with another month’s worth of Keflex (so she doesn’t get another inner ear infection) and prednisone to clear up her ass crusties and keep her from gnawing her hide to pieces.  The only good thing about all the pills is that Lilo (also known as “Lilo the Inhaler,”  the “Food Ho,” or just plain “Ho,”)  is easy to pill.  She will take anything if it’s sitting on top of a spoonful of cottage cheese, or mashed potatoes, or gravy, or ice cream, whatever, as long as it’s food.  Sheena is the same way about meds- it’s as easy as sticking a pill in or on a bite of anything she likes to eat.  Clara is exactly the opposite.  She will find and spit out the pill regardless of what you try to put it in- even peanut butter.  By the time Clara finished the 30 day course of Keflex she had to have when she was hit by a car and had the seroma where the skin over her armpit was torn open, I was burying pills inside a melty warm cheese sandwich to get her to take them.  I never thought dogs were picky eaters until I got Clara.  Unlike most dogs, she actually inspects and chews her food.  I wonder if all Belgian Malinois are that funky about food.  Ironically, she’s not nearly as fussy about sticking her nose in our friends’ crotches (her nose is right at about crotch level on an average sized person) or up the other dogs’ butts.  But she is a dog after all.

It’s hard to believe that my granddaughter’s arrival is merely days away.  If I had to speculate I would say give it a week or two.  I think she will be a bit early, but who knows?  The baby shower is Sunday.  I have a boatload of stuff for her.  I wish they would come up with a name for her, or I might just have to do it.  I don’t think they will appreciate me calling their little girl “Princess” for very long.

Putting the “SH” in IT, Central Ohio Winter, (Behold the White Death,) and Nasty ’70’s Cars

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Why is it that technical people (and being a techie type I have to include myself in this critique also) can be so dour?  Computer professionals, especially, seem to have especially shitty attitudes.  I can’t blame them based on the capricious nature of IT in general, but a joke?  A smile, maybe?   Perhaps it has to do with being emotionally stunted or having an undue emphasis on the life of the mind versus the life of the heart.  It’s just not a balanced way to live, and sometimes the emotional demons break through at the most inopportune and irrational times.   I trust my mind most of the time- it keeps me on the steadfast and staid (though often boring) path of reliability and predictability.  When I “follow my heart” it almost always leads me to trouble- although the path to trouble often includes some intrigue and adventure.  Though it defies my sense of rationality and order, a little unpredictability and intrigue is essential for mental health.  So from time to time even I have to go off the deep end, even as much as I despise maudlin displays of emotion. 

I think it’s interesting that it’s occasionally necessary to simply take a mental vacation (especially when a physical vacation isn’t feasible) and just do something goofy for the hell of it.  Perhaps this is the logic behind the human need for humor.  All work and no play makes me even more boring than I am already.  Lately I find myself so boring I put myself to sleep- so I have had to find a few irrational pursuits.

Target had some novelty fart putty cups for $1 apiece in their discount section.  Of course I couldn’t pass up something this crude and sophomoric at such a discount price. Fart noises are always funny, so I have periodically been annoying my coworkers with fake flatulence.  Everyone needs a hobby.

Vacation is one of my favorite movies.  The car is a modified (tackily, but that’s the point) Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon.  Mom actually had one of these (without the modifications.)  I think that was the last V8 Dad let Mom have.  It was a typical old Ford in that the steering was horrid (the wheel had about 2 inches at least of play in it) and the suspension was spongy- but it would go like a bat out of hell in a straight line.  I think Mom got the 95-in-a-25 violation in the ’77 LTD sedan, but both the ’75 station wagon and the ’77 sedan had the 351 Windsor engine that Dad liked.  Both cars were horribly fugly, a handling nightmare, and did good to get 12MPG- if you kept your foot out of it.  I think Dad disengaged the secondary advance on the ’77 after Mom got busted in it, which is sort of like closing the barn door once the horse has run away.

70’s domestic cars were most abysmal.  FYI: The “wood grain” was actually adhesive stickers.

Mom actually had a 70’s car worse than the LTDs.  At least the LTDs would start and run.  The Dodge Aspen wagon generally wouldn’t even do that if the temperature dropped below 60 degrees F, which is quite often in beautiful Central Ohio.  If it got hotter than about 70 degrees, the thermostat would stick shut and it would overheat and/or the fuel pump would vapor lock.  I can’t remember how many times Dad had this POS towed, or how many fuel pumps, carburetors and thermostats he put on it, but when all was said and done I think he wanted to fire bomb it.  It was simply a piece of really shitty engineering.  The plus side of the Aspen, at least as far as Mom’s driving record went, when it did run, is it was a very underpowered 4 cylinder.  If you were lucky enough to get it up to 60MPH it would shake and shimmy like nobody’s business, then it would sputter and die.

Fugly, and not terribly functional.  The 1977 Dodge Aspen Wagon.  Now you know why I drive Toyotas.

These things, by comparison at least, made a beat up old VW Rabbit look like (and perform like) a freaking sports car.

Today we are supposed to get some snow and freezing rain.  I’ll believe it when I see it, but I am sure that the local redneck population will be clearing the stores out of Velveeta cheese and Marlboros before the end of the day.  Some things never change.

At least the cop got HIS smokes.

I sincerely thank God I don’t smoke anymore.  And I already have Velveeta cheese.

 

Ode to the Winter Funk, 54 Going on Two, and I Need a Cougar Cruise

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Shit Happens.

The bad thing about the recent cruise ship disaster is that it’s a reminder that almost every time I plan a vacation and either a.) take Jerry with me, and/or 2.) spend money doing it,  that disaster is exactly what I end up with.  Taking Jerry with me simply means I will spend three or four times more than I’d budgeted for as well as I will be treated to a “vacation” of catering to him.  Oh, how I remember the 20 mile excursion through rural West Virginia to find a KFC, only to return to the hotel and discover they neglected to put eating utensils in with the dinners, and the lovely evenings spent in the smoking cubicle of the Niagara Falls Hooters because they were the only restaurant within walking distance that served American beer.  Believe me, Canadian cuisine leaves a lot to be desired anyway, (the food tasted greasy and bland with a faint hint of Clorox everywhere we went in the Niagara Falls area) and Hooters’ wings are way overrated even if you get them in the States. 

I will have to do some research if and when I ever get the opportunity to go on a cougar cruise.  The idea of being on a cruise ship (statistically, boating on an ocean liner is safer than driving, so why not?) still appeals to me even if I am the type of person who has to wear Factor 50 to walk out the door in the daylight.  Nobody said I had to use the outdoor pool.  However, I will make sure of a few things.  First of all I am not really one of those people who wants an iron clad schedule.  I understand that the ship stops at certain ports and you have a definite timeframe should you wish to go ashore.  That’s fine, a loose framework.  But to follow a group around in a micromanaged sort of fashion does not appeal to me at all.  Give me two hours to go investigate something and let me wander around and come back. 

The last time I took any time off for any type of what could loosely be called vacation activity was last June when I took Mom and Dad to NC.  In a curious turn of events, it seems when you do the math, it can easily be discerned that my soon-to-be born granddaughter was conceived right about that time.  That’s what I get for having Steve-o come to watch the dogs and leaving them free food and movies, but they are adults.  Sometimes things happen when young adults get bored, even if you do leave out the good movies like Super Troopers,  The Jerk, Beavis and Butthead Do America, Clerks I and II, Porky’s, and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.   I know it’s been a long time but even I can (distantly) remember young lust.  There was a time in my life (when the air was dirty but sex was clean- if and when I could find a compliant partner-) that any excuse was a good excuse to get busy.

I still need a real vacation, as in 1.) getting away geographically, including turning off the farking phone, 2.) getting away from being a babysitter, which means Jerry will have to fight the dogs for food for a few days, and 3.) going somewhere interesting to do interesting things. 

The problem with this is that in order to do any of the above for any length of time, one needs cash.  With Mr. 54-going-on-two going on his regular throw money away pity parties at the hell-hole every time he gets the least bit irritated at work I don’t see this happening.  It’s pretty sorry when you can’t trust a grown man to stay out of a rip-off gambling joint.  I would leave him at home alone for a few days if I could take most of his cash, all his plastic and his debit card so he wouldn’t be able to go to the hell-hole.  I figure he could eat on $10 per day, but he would have to do without beer and smokes.  Pity that….

I guess that’s enough of me channeling my inner bitch, although it gets aggravating.  I know winter in Central Ohio is depressing especially when you can go from torrential rain to frozen tundra in 24 hours or less.  One thing about January weather is that odds are, it’s going to suck.