misanthropy

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

Respect My Authority (Yeah, Right) and Power to the Control Freaks

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I always wondered why Steve-o’s friends were afraid of me.  I really am not a violent person, no matter how much I watch cop shows and episodes of Dr. G.  In fact from my earliest conscious memories until I was about 14, I got the hell beat out of me pretty much daily.  At one beating a day from ages 2-14, that would be  4382 beatings (assuming there would be two leap years in that time range)  logged in- years before I could legally down a fifth of vodka or so to forget it all.

Granted, some days I probably avoided a beating and other days I know I got multiple beatings, so it all works out.  I know how to assume the position of least resistance to better protect the more vulnerable areas while I’m being pummeled.  The only time I ever fought back was when I was  17 and beat the living hell out of my sister (who had probably inflicted at least 3,000 of the beatings previously mentioned) and that only because she took my car without permission and ran it low on oil.  Taking my car without permission and with impunity (she assumed she had a “right” to just take anything that was mine) as well as almost blowing it up was simply the tipping point that crossed me over the line from fearful and resentful deference into seething rage.  My rational mind wasn’t even engaged. This beating was given on seething, festering anger and adrenaline alone. To this day I wonder how I did it and it scares me to think that I did. I just saw  red.  I will concede that even the meekest and most unassuming soul can be pushed to the point of doing damage.  I truly believe any person, if pushed long and hard enough, or given the right circumstance such as self-defense or defense of a child, can be driven to kill.  My sister got off easy with a busted lip and a few bruises.  Even after Dad had to almost carry me off to keep me from continuing to kick her in the face, he even admitted she got less than she deserved, and that she had been asking for it for years.

This was 17 years’ worth of retribution for as many years of bullying and beatings.  It takes a lot to provoke me to physical violence. I don’t like getting physical with anyone, mostly because in a battle of brawn I will most certainly lose.   Anonymous passive-aggressive revenge is my preferred mode of vindication.  It takes more intelligence and keeps me from potential bodily harm.  I would be the one who would put catfood in your meatloaf, or put on the Souza march CD at full blast when it’s early, and you’re hungover.  I prefer to watch from afar with concealed glee as you shovel in mouthfuls of meat by-products intended for feline digestion, and snicker in secret delight from a different room as you almost hit the ceiling and pee your bed to the tune of “Stars and Stripes Forever.”   That’s usually about as far as I would go with trying to get even.

Anyone who would be afraid of me must have their wires crossed or something.  I am neither large nor strong.  I am so uncoordinated that walking without falling is somewhat of a challenge, let alone coordinating the efforts required to smack someone down and deliver an effective pounding.  So just what is so intimidating?  The dogs know I’m harmless, but then I believe dogs are more intuitive than most people.  Dogs just know certain things. 

I do have a loud voice and a broad vocabulary, but that and $5 will get you the footlong sub of your choice at Subway.

I have to admit that I can be a control freak about a number of things.  I don’t like my schedule disrupted unless I am the one doing the disrupting.  It does disturb me when I use a particular brand or product and then can’t get it for whatever reason.  Toothpaste (Colgate Total Whitening- Gel) is one I am very picky about as well as shampoo and conditioner.  I use the Pantene Restoratives.  Target was down to one tube of conditioner the last time I ran out, and I ended up having to climb up on the shelving to reach it as (of course) it was on the top shelf behind everything.  It’s sad but I think I would have had a major meltdown had I not spotted the last lone conditioner tube. 

I am surprised that such trivial inconveniences have the power to get me so riled up.  Perhaps there is something to the theory that learned helplessness (knowing that life is going to kick your ass so you roll over accordingly) leads to all sorts of autoimmune disease and high blood pressure (I could be the poster child for that.)  There are very few things that I can control but when even those few things don’t work right then even more anger gets turned inward.  I let it burn and seethe and simmer which is exactly the wrong thing to do- and then I have the potential to explode over something stupid like not being able to find conditioner at Target. 

On a lighter note, I found a rather delightful blast from the past.  It’s been a long time since I watched Pee Wee’s Big Adventure – admittedly the Pee Wee films are not paragons of the motion picture art, but the guy is funny.  He’s so insipid and annoying that it makes him funny.  I don’t know why but the Mr. T Cereal caught my attention- after watching the Rube Goldberg breakfast clip from the Pee Wee movie  I was reminded that Mr. T Cereal was an actual food item that could be purchased in the mid-80’s.  Perhaps we have moved forward after all, although I know that there are still kids’ cereals out there that are based on cartoon characters or fake time wrestling or whatever.  I know kids hate being forced to eat breakfast.  Mom would never bow down to the latest sugar coated delights of the 70’s (and there were many!) so we were stuck eating either Honey Combs (why she thought these to be healthy I’ll never know) or Cracklin’ Bran which looked, smelled and most likely tasted exactly like dog food.   Sure, you get a week’s worth of fiber in one bowl, but face it- kids just don’t need that much fiber to be able to plop out a good one.  I can see someone my age needing a cereal like Cracklin’ Bran or Super Fiber Colon Sweep, but not kids.  They haven’t had the opportunity to accumulate all that colon drudge that we old people have hanging about.  

Steve-o never really liked cereal regardless of the cartoon character on the box or the prize, but he would eat chocolate Pop Tarts by the box.  He probably still would if he could afford them.  It seems that funky food preferences are easier to maintain if they are maintained on someone else’s dime.  By now he has probably learned how to make a pack of ramen noodles and a bottle of Texas Pete’s last for three meals.  It’s a valuable skill.

More Medical Fun, Poverty Sucks, and Trying Not to Freak Out

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I’ve never been much to enjoy exercise.  In fact, I hate it- but unfortunately it’s a necessary evil.  30 minutes on the health rider machine every day, so I at least get some cardiovascular activity.  I’ve been doing the six minutes a day thing with the “shake weight” too, although I think all it’s doing for my meaty arms is replacing the pendulous skin under my arms with bulky biceps some dudes would kill for.  It is not giving me shapely feminine arms, rather, I think it’s making my upper body and shoulders even more formidable and off proportion, as if I were lifting weights or something.   I’ve always had huge arms- which is why I refuse to wear sleeveless shirts or dresses alone.  The sleeves of my wedding dress had to be cut off and re-done so my meaty arms would fit in them.  I might wear a sleeveless shirt under something or over something with sleeves- but never alone.  I don’t want to encourage those guys who have speculated that I used to be a male.  I know for a fact I am a biological female (even had a kid in the somewhat normal biological fashion too) but I have bizarre proportions.  I even looked bizarre the summer after my senior year when out of stress, chain smoking and probably a little too much mail order speed, (I admit I had a weakness for psuedoephedrine back when you could buy it by the 1,000 white crosses at a time) I’d unintentionally starved myself down to 115#.  I did not look sexy.  I looked like a top heavy scarecrow, a fact that even my Dr. pointed out when Mom dragged me in to see him because she thought I was anorexic or something.  Mom always used to be on my ass about  being too heavy (pot calling the kettle black, but I digress) but at that point even she thought I looked skinny and sick.  My Dr. at the time informed me that I needed to weigh somewhere between 130# and 150#, and that, “You might as well forget about looking like a model or something because that’s just not the way you’re made.”    I had to agree with him on that one.  At 115#  I looked like an emaciated dwarf.  The sad fact is, that even at a healthy weight I have bizarre proportions.  I know beauty is fleeting and I never had it anyway, but I still don’t want to be an ill-proportioned land whale.

This being said I am still on the quest to get down to 140#.  I have about thirty# or so to go, but I figure that with enough portion control (aka starvation…but it saves money on food too) and exercise that I will get there.  Eventually.  That’s one of the motivating factors behind getting through daily exercise and enduring all that hotness and sweating.  I think the sweating is the worst part about exercise.  I hate being hot and stinky.  I can be very disciplined about eating even though I don’t particularly like it.  The other reason for the whole fitness regime is I’m trying to keep my blood sugar down.  Diabetes sucks.  But if I could get down to 140# that would put me back to where I was for most of high school, and at least assuage my fears of becoming a 300# behemoth slob like so many of the girls I went to school with.

 

It really doesn’t seem fair- I know I could use to lose 20-30# and am actively working on it, but what about all the really, really fat people you see who never get diabetes?  I know there’s a heredity factor there also (Grandpa and Dad) but neither of my sisters have it either.  I don’t wish diabetes on anyone but it just sucks.  I think sometimes people look at you like it’s all self-inflicted and it’s not necessarily so.  Admittedly in my youth I lived on caffeine, nicotine, sugar and grease- but I changed that tune long before I was ever diagnosed with diabetes. 

Now I have to go back for yet even more lab work- it seems my liver is doing funky things which may be nothing or may be something (good question) and an ultrasound test on my liver too which is freaking me out.  It’s bad enough I already scheduled my paper nightie visit- apparently I still have to go get the nether area checked once a year even though I haven’t gotten lucky since Clinton was president, and I had a hysterectomy so there couldn’t be a whole lot left to have to check- but now I have to get more freaking blood tests too.  I’m sorry but that shit freaks me out.  I don’t know which is worse, the paper nightie visit, or the ominous specter of more blood work and the possibility of having even more shit wrong with me. 

Not having any money and worrying about how I’m going to pay for the bare necessities is a whole other issue I’m dealing with now.  Steve-o is costing me a small fortune not to mention scripts and all these Dr. visits that I really can’t afford.  Jerry is whining all the way about paying for anything which doesn’t help.  I am trying to trust that God will provide- and He does- but I really wish I didn’t have to go through the cliff-hanger version.  I can only pray for neither poverty nor riches- I just want to have the resources I need to get by.  Sometimes I have  a really hard time.  I know other people may have it harder so I really shouldn’t complain, but it scares me having to scramble and shift and scrape.  It never seems as if there is enough money to cover all the endless bills and needs and all that, and frankly the stress of it all drains me.   I’m trying not to freak out about money or the lack thereof, but I need some real help in that area.  I know God answers prayer and right now that’s where I’m at with it.  Trying to trust…I believe, help my unbelief.

Sometimes It’s Not Worth Getting Out of Bed, I’m Already Pissed Off- Don’t Piss Me Off More!

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I wish I’d been able to find both of these crude bumper stickers back in the day.  I saw this ancient (late 80’s?) distressed Grand Marquis in the Kroger parking lot last week.  It is probably some young kid’s inheritance from Grandma, who abandoned the old Grand Marquis for either a newer Grand Marquis or other large old people’s car (Buick Century, etc.) -or who died.  Since none of my relatives were into big cars except one of my grandfathers, and he always traded his cars because they were low mileage and impeccably maintained, I never inherited a big car. I never really wanted to.  I remember the 72 Plymouth Fury Grandpa had that he traded in on the 92 Buick Roadmaster, that he traded in on the 2002 Grand Marquis.  When he traded it off the Fury still smelled like a new car. The Roadmaster probably did too when he traded it off.  The 2002 Grand Marquis was sold in the estate sale or something when he died, and it had less than five thousand miles on it- in 2006.  Fine with me.  The biggest vehicle I have ever owned was my 94 Toyota truck, with its legendary 22RE engine (a 2.4 4 cylinder for those who may not know.)  I don’t do big cars.  My idea of a large car is a Corolla.  A Grand Marquis is a land yacht. 

I think Dad preferred me to drive small cars primarily because let’s face it- doing the horizontal mambo in a 79 Subaru DL or in a 70’s versionVW Rabbit is an exercise in contortionism.   Possible, yes, but a physical challenge, and I am not the best at any kind of physical challenge.  Dad was probably a lot more optimistic about me getting lucky than I ever really was.  I wasn’t voted “least likely to get laid” in the Senior Will for nothing.  Before I got my first car I tried without success to convince Dad that I should get a 75 Camaro to drive so I would look more cool (hell, I could have had a new Mercedes and I still would have been a geeky awkward nerd with thick glasses and no social aptitude, but it was worth a try.)  Dad put the nix on anything with more than four cylinders.  I’m glad he nixed the Camaro because they are the absolute worst car to try to drive in the snow, and I can’t see out of them worth squat because the seat sits too low.  Gasoline and maintenance also cost less on the small 4-cylinder cars, which was and still is a plus for me.

I don’t think I would dare to sport such edgy bumper stickers on a newer car (though I do make some conservative political statements on the Hello Kitty Yaris) but back when I drove real piece of shit cars, who would care?  As much as I really hated driving nasty cars due to mechanical failures, poor performance and bizarre quirks that are inherent to cars pieced together with Bondo, duct tape and pop rivets, I never had to worry much about cosmetic damage. Who gave a rat’s ass that the headlight buckets on the Subaru were fabricated out of sheet metal and as a result the headlights were aimed as if I were perpetually attempting to tree coon with them?  I remember reattaching the Subaru’s exhaust from the cat back with a coat hanger- in the rain- with Dawne and Jamie both in the back seat laughing their asses off.  If some wise-ass decided it was fun to walk on the hood and roof of the car and dent the hell out of it, oh, well. That was then and this is now.  Now that I drive a late model car, I am thoroughly pissed about a less than 1″ dent in the left quarter panel of the HK Yaris caused by two guys trying to wrangle a used Saturn crossmember in and and out of the trunk.   Most people would never notice it, but I see it- and therefore it pisses me off.

Some days it seems like just the act of drawing breath seems like too much.  I really don’t like being in that frame of mind.  I’ve never been a patient individual but for me high fatigue=really bad attitude.  Especially if someone expects me to do something above and beyond the ordinary daily chores that are necessary.  Today I would have been quite fine with watching Science Channel and TruTV with the dogs all day, but such is not to be. 

I really wasn’t up that late doing my nails last night either- Jerry decided to spend the evening at the hell hole (I don’t even want to know how much money he pissed away there because that would be even worse for my fragile morale) and he staggered in around 10:30.  I crashed around 11:30, when I was confident to some degree that my nails had dried.  Jerry was flopped over the bed and snoring loudly so therefore I could be confident that he was both a.) asleep and b.) still breathing.  In some sort of drunken intuition he must have known not to say anything to me when he came in because I would have ripped him a new one.  Either that or he was plastered beyond having the power of speech.  That doesn’t happen too often.  If anything when he’s plastered he chases me around and runs at the mouth until he passes out. Usually when he comes in quietly that means he actually won money, (if he loses money I usually get an hour’s worth of tirade on how he is so broke, ad nauseam) but I won’t hold my breath.   I hate gambling.  I know sometimes he wins but it’s never enough to make up for what he loses.  In gambling establishments the odds are always such that the house consistently wins, otherwise why would they bother?  Over the long term you’re generally better off to keep your money rather than piss it away gambling with the far-off hope that you might beat the odds and win big.  Most people simply lose.   But you can’t tell a gambler that.

I am not quite that addicted to caffeine.  In recent years I’ve cut back on it quite a bit, but I am all too familiar with that “I’m too damned tired and burned out to deal with you,” feeling.  When I’m stressed the last thing I want is to deal with people, especially when all they want is for me to give them something or do something for them.  Sometimes just conversation is too much.  I think I might take a silent sanity day Saturday- don’t talk to anyone for any reason.  That could be good for my mental health if I can pull it off.

 

Of course conversation is a relative thing.  I don’t particularly want to discuss the same old tired topics. As far as politics go I know pretty much who and what I’m voting for and against, so there’s not much further discussion for me on that topic.  I certainly don’t want to be reminded of my perpetual state of relative poverty, how bad my health is, or how dysfunctional my home life is.  That doesn’t leave a whole lot open for Jerry, other than bitching at me for sins of omission, commission, real or imagined, and stuff that is high on his priority bitch list that I’ve either never thought of or just plain forgot about.  All of the above are things I really don’t feel like talking about.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Nostalgia is Overrated, Objects in the Rear View, and Ghost of a Lover Past

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I am not one of those people who cultivates emotional involvement with people easily.   This is why I generally save my emotional angst for this blog rather than to live out the drama on the big screen.  I have no problem with casual conversation- I can talk cars or crack off color jokes all day long with just about anyone willing to listen to me ramble at the mouth, but as far as having true friends and confidants I have to wonder sometimes.  I believe I’ve only really had two true friends I could confide anything to, apart from God Himself, and I’ve not talked to either of them in years.  God, I try to talk with daily (and I can certainly attest to the power and the merit of prayer) but sometimes I miss the spontaneity and feedback one can only get when talking to another live body.  Ironically one of the above human friends claims to be an atheist and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around talking with God and then confiding to a person who claims God doesn’t exist.   Strange indeed.

This being said perhaps I am actually getting lonely- me, the quintessential loner introverted freakazoid- who generally craves solitude like a junkie craves a fix, might actually be craving a little meaningful human contact for a change.  I would so love an evening of intelligent conversation, perhaps a drink or two, and who knows, maybe even a roll in the hay.

The sad irony is that it has literally been years since I’ve experienced any of the above with the exception of the drink or two- I decided to throw caution to the wind for a change and drink the last of the Sutterhome that’s been in the fridge since New Year’s.

Intelligent conversation (face to face with a live human)- I think the last one I had was maybe 1998?   I don’t even want to try to figure out the last time I actually had conjugal relations although I do know I have “done the nasty” a few times after my son (aged 19) was born- late 1990’s or maybe early 2000’s?  I think Clinton was still President at the time.

Jerry can’t help the fact that he has ED as well as a whole trainload of psychological baggage that would negate any chance of us having any kind of sex life again  (as if we ever did, even when his johnson actually worked.)  I married him and in my mind that means I have to stay chaste no matter how much I don’t like it.  Sex once in awhile would make the dearth of meaningful conversation a bit easier to take, but as it stands, I have a 53 year old toddler to babysit and clean up after most of the time. I blame his dysfunctional family as well as his inability to overcome a lifetime of dependency and alcoholism for a lot of that.  I also blame my misplaced sense of pity and naive desire to be needed.   Hindsight is 20/20 although I believe there is a purpose in such a difficult placement.  I just wish that every once in awhile I could talk with someone on my own level and occasionally get some action.

I do obviously have a moral dilemma.  I want to remain chaste for a number of reasons.  I want to live as God would have me live, which means I shouldn’t be ruminating on how much I would like some paradise by the dashboard lights, especially with someone I’m not married to. I don’t want any communicable diseases. I don’t want to live with the guilt of cheating, and I really don’t want at my age to try to forge any kind of emotional connection with anyone new.  I don’t even maintain the very few I have very well.   I’m not one of those people who gets into the concept of  “friends with benefits” either.  I don’t just land in bed with any random dude.

The only one I would even seriously want a physical relationship with is not available to me for a number of reasons. If I were him I wouldn’t want to even speak to me because for years I’ve been ambivalent and elusive and downright defensive.  Even if he did want to talk to me a big part of me would want more than conversation but then the rational side of me (the side that usually wins) wouldn’t- all the old demons and guilt would be right back there to haunt me.  The very friend I wish more than anything I could talk to, I am scared to death to get in touch with.  I am terrified to meet up with him in person because I know full where it would lead.   Sin, disappointment and all sorts of chaos for a few stolen moments.  Lord, help me.

I can’t justify any of that.  I can’t make excuses.  God willing I have to take the high road and not use my loneliness as a springboard to jump into trouble.

I just wish that the objects in the rear view weren’t so vivid and that memory wasn’t so compelling.

Smells Like 1982, Innocence, Arrogance and Ignorance, and Fair Food

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I have to admit, in 1982 I was 13 and as most teens, didn’t really appreciate the situation and the place in time where I was until much later in life.  It seems those things which are irretrievable  become more precious and vivid in memory as time goes by.  What I wouldn’t give for just one day of the vitality and mental acuity I had at that age- now with all the scripts I have to take and from the ravages of time and disease I am doing well to stay awake and just function.

During that halcyon late summer of 1982 it seemed a particular cruelty was inflicted on the final year’s inhabitants of Marion Harding’s Freshman Building.  The idea- putting all the high school freshman students in one building- was actually a pretty good one except that the building itself was in a notorious state of disrepair.  The city had condemned it a number of times for various wiring, heating and plumbing failures, but the school system always managed to do just enough stop-gap repair work to keep the doors open.  While the building was built with good materials and put together with as fine of craftsmanship as was available in 1915 (far superior than the pre-fabbed nightmares of disposable architecture popular today) the science of indoor plumbing was in its infancy as were the technologies of central heating and electrical wiring.  Most of the wiring, heating and plumbing in that building in 1982 were still the original, and believe me, 70 year old toilets do not function well in any situation, let alone in a high school.   The steam heat system was not much better than the toilets- from room to room one could go from Arctic cold to stygian heat.   Windows were known to fall completely off and crash to the ground if one attempted to open them.  It was prudent not to sit close to the steam registers as it was not uncommon to get scalded should a register shoot up a fountain of boiling water.  To add to the fun the entire building- especially the kitchen and cafeteria- was infested with roaches.  This was not the fault of the builders- the structure of the building was so sound that in the process of demolition the wrecking ball broke- but to the near complete lack of necessary repairs, maintenance and upgrades being made over time.

Despite the disrepair, the quirks and the unauthorized insect life, the building itself had an odd warmth that was endearing.  I loved the high ceilings and the expansive windows.  It was a far more human-friendly building than most modern buildings.  The library was my favorite place, with its huge oak tables and chairs and expansive plate windows.   Even though I enjoyed being in this old building more than most other places on earth, (especially in the dead of winter) few things were more frustrating than being locked up in school on those perfect (and perfect days are very few and far between in Central Ohio) late summer/early fall days when it is neither hot nor cold, and the sun is shining through an almost painfully clear blue sky.  Even worse was being restrained during the Popcorn Festival- when all around us street vendors and rides and various attractions were being set up and started up. 

The library’s huge windows (some of the few that could be opened without falling out of their frames) looked out over Downtown Marion.  One could see and hear- and especially smell- the Festival from there almost as if one were walking down the midway and trolling for such delights as elephant ears, Italian sausage, cream puffs, etc. ad nauseam.  I don’t have much of a sense of smell left after years of sinus infections, exposure to various chemicals in automotive shops and so on- but the whole festival/fair food thing takes me right back to that long-demolished library. I travel back to innocence, back to the ivory tower exemplar, back to the very core of where my mind lingers.  I get that whole sense of wanting to be set free to wander the sights and smells for myself, that sense of the whole world being right outside for me to experience, the world before heartbreak and disappointment and disillusionment.  Hindsight is 20/20, this is true, and I am sure I am not the only one who would have approached life far differently had I known the course of events to come, but apparently screwing up is half the fun.  I know I have done my share of screwing up and I have my fair share of regrets.  Some of that I can change, some of it I wouldn’t change if I could, but over all I would have to assume I come complete with the whole mid-life crisis of “would haves, should haves, and why didn’t Is.”  At least I stayed out of the tanning salons.  I’ll die with a clear complexion if nothing else.

So much for the vicarious life- I am one of those who tend to live more internally than externally so I really don’t mind living vicariously, wandering in the garden of memory, and observing from the ivory tower most of the time.  Even though I am not among the risk-taking or adventurous by any stretch, experience is still a valuable currency in my world, because it recharges the batteries of memory.  I sort of enjoy the surreality of wandering a street fair at night even if I can’t (and most definitely shouldn’t) partake of the bounty of overpriced, overportioned, overly greasy and/or sugary fair food.  I did make a small exception at the state fair and got my Bahama Mama smothered in sauerkraut and brown mustard but at least I did stay away from the cream puffs and other sweet stuff.  The fair-food smell alone is divine- not so much because of any culinary excellence or nutritional value- but because of the memories that smell recharges.  It’s as close to a time machine as I will ever get.

Of course the street-fair experience would not be complete without the freak show.  As time goes by I think people get less and less aware of how much blubber can be packed into a pair of hipster jeans (woof) and that if your weight exceeds say 130# that halter tops or any shirt that shows midriff is not flattering.  It’s amazing how many very large women don’t understand that Daisy Dukes only look good on near-anorexics.  I don’t qualify to wear any clothing less revealing than a t-shirt and Bermuda shorts (as if I would want to) and I am well aware of that fact.  Even though I get very hot very quickly coverage is a beautiful thing.  It’s not so much about modesty as it is not wanting to subject people to things they would rather not see.  It’s simply being polite. 

The guys are not blameless either.  Nothing says “uneducated redneck” louder than sporting a wifebeater t-shirt with crusty, hairy beer gut hanging out of the bottom.  I need not express my disdain at guys (of any size or weight) who feel it necessary to display the plume of hair springing forth from their butt cleavage by wearing their pants at just barely above privates level.   The only thing worse than poorly fitting male garments is poorly fitting Dale Earnhardt memorial clothing.  “The Intimidator” has been gone for almost 10 years,  Bubba.   Get over it already, and while you’re at it, the XL shirt that fit you in 2001 needs to be a 4XL if you hope to conceal that massive beer gut you’ve grown since then.

It’s no crime to be large.  I am proportioned like a mutant troll and am well aware of that fact- which is why I dress accordingly.  I dress for coverage and comfort, as cheaply as I can.  I am no beauty queen by any stretch of the imagination so there is no reason for me to spend a ton of money on clothes.

The recent rise in popularity of tattoos amazes me too.  It used to be the only decent people who had tats were Navy and Marine Corps Veterans, and I have all the respect in the world for any American military Veteran. Otherwise if you had tats it was proof that you had either served time in prison or you were a prostitute.  Now everyone almost has a tat somewhere but I still think it’s tacky.  To each his or her own- I know a lot of nice people and even close friends who have tats and it’s their business, but those things are going to look God-awful when the person sporting them is 80 or 90 years old.  My grandfather (the one who served in the Navy) had hideous tats on his forearms.  I think at one time they were supposed to be women, but by the time I saw them they looked like some sort of deformed sea monsters or poorly drawn, distorted anime dragons.  When I was a little kid I wondered why Grandpa wore long sleeves regardless of the weather.  When he was dying in the nursing home I finally discovered why.   He was deeply embarrassed by those tats.  Maybe back in 1943 when he was 18 and got inked with the other sailors they didn’t look so bad, but from 1943 to 2003 let’s just say they didn’t improve over time.   I’m glad I never saw them when I was a little kid because I’d probably been terrified of Grandpa forever. I was spooked way too easily as a kid anyway.  I was terrified of the PBS station identification commercial, flying insects, and walking past windows at night,  just to name a few of my irrational and overwhelming fears.   I shudder to think of the terror I’d have experienced as a child from the sight of deformed anime sea monsters on my Grandpa’s arms.

It is interesting to see the kinds of stuff people will have permanently inked on their bodies.  I am especially amused by unfortunates who tattoo their lover’s/spouse’s names on their bodies and the ex-lover or ex-spouse’s name is forever ingrained in their epidermis.   No thanks.  I have enough unpleasant memories of past relationships without visible reminders emblazoned into my skin.  I wager that tattoo removal will become a huge industry in the next 20 years. 

Maybe it’s arrogant of me to make such observations, but I would say from where I am right now it would be better for me to avoid making any decisions that may expose me to hepatitis or AIDS, so no tats for me.  I couldn’t even decide what to get if I were to get a tat.  Jerry’s buddy Bob (a Marine Corps Vet) has FTW tattooed on his butt.  I don’t want anyone to see my butt long enough to draw anything on it, let alone inject it with permanent ink, so this isn’t an option for me.  Tats really aren’t an option for me anyway so it’s a moot point.

No More Government Sharecropping, Equal is as Equal Does

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Well, well, well. What an interesting day. It sucks when one is too busy to even blog although this particular hiatus has been rather interesting. It’s amazing how boring things can get at work when there’s no internet access. It’s virtually impossible to get any work done- and I have more than enough work that could be getting done if I could get online. The only reason this is appearing at all on WordPress is that this musing originated as a Word document I copied and pasted, he-he.

No sense in typing twice.

My trip to NC last week was quite lovely. It was extremely hot but otherwise a welcome reprieve. Of course I was in the boonies and no internet access there either. I had the laptop but all I could really do with it was watch all the George Carlin and obscure old Journey videos I downloaded. The closest I got to electronic fun down there was the DS, sporadic cellular service, and satellite TV that loses signal in cloudy weather. Electronic entertainment wasn’t really my aim there anyway. It was nice to simply toss the cell phone aside and float in the lake for awhile. Coming back to reality is the hard part but I can’t just float in the lake forever.

I wish I had brought the DS today. I could have played quite a few rounds of Scrabble, Solitaire and Bookworm.

It’s interesting to note that nobody really wants to say anything derogatory about the dead. The death of the illustrious Senator Byrd is a case in point. The guy was a Grand Dragon in the Klan at one time for heaven’s sake. He’s also probably one of the main reasons why WV is so steeped in poverty. He got them government pork – and increased their dependence on government programs and Welfare. I think it’s sad that so many see this man as a hero especially given his open racism and self-serving aims. If being a sugar daddy gets you re-elected so be it I guess, but I find it very sad that people so soon forget the Democrats were the ones behind segregation, Jim Crow laws and racial inequality. Of course the Democrats are consistent in their support of racial inequality- only today it’s in a backhanded way. Not even Senator Byrd would openly support segregation today- but he supported many policies that in practical application have consigned minorities to share-cropper status.

Affirmative action, quotas and special perks for minorities spring from a belief that certain racial groups are inherently inferior and therefore need special government subsidies to compete. So minorities are convinced that Byrd and his protégés are out to help them with special gimmies, but in reality their “charity” is based on two objectives: political expediency (everyone votes for the sugar daddy) and keeping minorities from succeeding through their own hard work and merit. True equality means leveling the playing field, not reverse discrimination. The problem is that government entitlements discourage hard work and merit across the board. Minorities settle for government handouts- at the expense of white people who have always had to work for a living. White people are doubly disadvantaged by quotas and affirmative action, because the reward does not always go to the best qualified, especially if the best qualified person is white. Why is it white people are conditioned to be ashamed to be white- as if white people today are personally responsible for racism against minorities in the past? Oh, well, the internet is back up…time to go.

I am not a racist, white supremacist or anything like that.  I sincerely believe that there will be no equality unless the playing field is level- no quotas, no affirmative action, but the freedom to achieve based on one’s own hard work and merit.