Trying to Fend Off Despair (and Failing Miserably)


I need something good to happen to me.  I need someone to say or do something nice or barring that, at least for the surrounding assholes to leave me the hell alone.  I’d settle for the second choice.

Then it hits me- I never had any faith in human nature to begin with, so why should other people’s assholery piss me off so much?

Optimism is a lost cause and I don’t need to be taking it up at this point in my life.

The observation that optimism is a lost cause is actually a bit freeing.  I know better than to expect nothing but assholery from other specimens of the human race, so I shouldn’t let it get me down when I become the community shit box for surrounding humanity.   It does wear me out when I am the object of misuse and derision, but the bad behavior of others, and being treated unfairly by others should never surprise me.   It’s the ongoing narrative of my life as far back as I can remember.  Why do I think that’s going to change now?


If I suck so bad, then why am I still taking up valuable oxygen?

If I didn’t still have that vestigial old-school Catholic fear of suicide being a mortal sin, and a very real fear of screwing it up and failing to get the job done, I’d seriously consider blowing my head off.

I’m really trying to believe that I have some purpose and value in this life but I’m sick as hell of being the community cat box.    I’m tired of living with a drunken obnoxious old goat with a limp dick who constantly bitches up one side and down the other at me and my shortcomings both real and imagined, but doesn’t lift a finger to help himself.

I’m simply tired of living. It just sucks too much.


I want to believe that God has a purpose for my life but it’s getting really hard to believe it’s anything good.   I guess someone has to take other people’s shit, because that seems to be the only purpose I serve.  Smile and take it.

I’ve said it before- there are people out there with things to live for.  Why can’t God do an exchange and let them have the time I don’t want?  Why can’t I just go to sleep and not wake up?

Back to Nature, Hardware Salad, and “Mother” Does Not Start with “S”

Kids change a lot in the span of about ten years.  Ten year olds and (nearly) twenty year olds don’t really have much in common.  Ten years ago, Steve-o was collecting Beanie Babies and Pokemon cards. He slept with a night light until he was twelve because his evil biological grandmother decided he should sleep in a dark basement when he was four years old (that ended her visitations…) and that experience must have done something to traumatize him for a long, long time.  Admittedly my evil ex mother-in-law was pretty damned scary, even for adults.  I am glad she didn’t have life insurance on me and I didn’t have anything of any real value for her to inherit had I been stupid enough to put her in my will or make her executor of my estate.   No wonder her son turned out to be the poster child for OCD and all sorts of other psychological abnormalities.  (must…not…offend…Mother…)  I think she still has some pretty hefty life insurance policies on my ex and she would score big if he dropped dead.  She is probably still sitting on the million or so that she inherited when her various relatives all died- and left all their cash and other assets to her.  But enough about my evil ex  mother-in-law.  She is quite fine where she is, with her Hardware Salad and her measuring cup.

Today Steve-o is collecting Snap-On tools, various performance upgrade parts for his ’68 VW Bug, and empty Jagermeister bottles.  I think he has moved on from sleeping with a night light on to sleeping on compliant females, but even to this day he does not like to sleep either alone or in the dark.  Creepy.  I have to wonder if the old bat tried to make him eat Hardware Salad too.

I know I wanted to get off the subject of my ex mother-in-law, but Hardware Salad deserves a bit of an explanation.  I think she was trying to do Waldorf Salad or something of that nature, but Hardware Salad, as near as I can tell, included:


Carrot peelings

Apple pieces, core and seeds included

Red Grapes, including pits (I assume because non-pitted grapes are cheaper)

Assorted Nuts (nut assortments are cheaper than just walnuts)

Loads of greasy mayonnaise (acck, acck, acck, my throat is filling up with snot drainage just thinking about it)


Sauerkraut?  I swear that’s what it was- as a substitute for coconut???  I have no earthly idea.

Marshmallows (????WTF??)


All of the above is set in lime Jell-o, (???) and topped with a tiny teaspoon of watery, off-brand Cool Whip.

Between the grape pits and the pretzels and the occasional apple seed, (not to mention celery and I suspect sauerkraut,)  this had to be the most vile dessert ever known to man.  Thankfully on the rare occasion she invited you to dinner, she measured out portions with a measuring cup so that she could budget for every penny she spent on food.  It was only necessary to gag down precisely 1/2 cup of this stuff for politeness’ sake, and I’m assuming that one teaspoon more of it would induce projectile vomiting.  I only gagged it down because I was taught from earliest childhood that when you are a guest at someone’s home you eat what is served, even if it is lacquer thinner with bat turds in it. To do otherwise would be rude, and the Wicked Witch actually thought her Hardware Salad (I forget what she actually called it) was the best dessert ever.   I don’t puke easily, but that stuff was nasty.  I cringe to this day just thinking about it.  It’s sad that after all these years I can still see and actually taste this disaster of a dessert. Acck.  I hope poor Steve-o was never subjected to it.  The Graham crackers were bad enough.  It would have been OK if she’d had enough sense not to give a 20 month old toddler the entire box.

Steve-o looked a lot different before the Puberty Fairy  Demon hit too.  He had a pleasant soprano voice not unlike my own, complete with Central Ohio Newscaster Accent.  On the rare occasions when I would answer his phone (cruel, that, but fun in a mildly malicious sort of way) his buddies would mistake me for him.  Oh, the things his buddies would say to me until they realized it was not Steve-o, but Steve-o’s Mom, which brought about a distinct change in their subject matter and tone.   Then he woke up one morning six inches taller, with an unfamiliar and ominous sounding baritone voice, a hair style reminiscent of Robert Plant in 1971, 7/8″ earrings, back hair, a libido to rival Casa Nova, and an Attitude from hell.  That testosterone is pretty powerful stuff, apparently.

What an odd resemblance.  Above is Steve-o in the outhouse, below is Robert Plant sometime in the early 70’s.

There’s a long, long way between pic#1 and pic#2, believe that.  He parted with the Robert Plant hairstyle shortly after this pic was taken, although the earrings and the funky beard remain.

He looks better with short hair, and even maybe a little less evil.  If he does bother to read my blog, which I doubt, because he would have had a major tizzy fit about the Feces Fountain Incident being recorded for posterity, and for all to see, I’m sure he won’t like me using his Facebook pic.  Oh, well.  If you post your pic online without explicitly stating that no one else can use it, I guess you’re asking for it.  At least I didn’t Photo Shop it first and do something outrageous like put Boy George’s head on his body or something.

I am trying to decide which annual plants to put in my flower beds.  I think I will stick with wave petunias- they did well the last couple of times I bothered to plant flowers.  The rose bushes have a lot of buds on them and I am looking forward to the roses blooming.  That’s as close to nature as I like to get.  Flowers- and the Cougar Pool when it gets here. I am looking forward to that.

Jesus Loves All the Little A-Holes, Friends are Forgiven, and Serenity is an Incontinence Pad

I have absolutely no illusions concerning my own lack of patience when people act stupid.   I do not suffer fools gladly, if ever, except for maybe trying to keep from throttling them by making fun of them. I’m not trying to be blasphemous when I say Jesus loves the people we (rightfully or wrongfully) assume to be assholes.  I’m just saying that He has a whole lot more patience than I ever could have.  He is God, I’m not, and that is a very fortunate thing for both the chronically and situationally stupid.

Speaking of the situationally stupid, Jerry enjoyed his Monday night beer and bitch session with Bob last night.  I’ve found that it’s a lot easier for me to endure those bitch sessions if I take the DS and play Freecell or Bookworm or Scrabble while Jerry whines and cries to Bob about how stupid his illustrious co-workers are.   I hope Bob finds it amusing.  I think he and Debbie are just happy to have company- even if said company does whine and cry, fill up the ashtrays, piss on the toilet seat, and leave empty beer cans.  It must suck to be old if that’s the best kind of company you get.  Jerry’s B&B sessions at Bob’s (for me at least) are usually an hour and a half of listening to the pot call the kettle black.  It gets more outrageous and whiny and paranoid the drunker he gets.  It’s painful to observe.    I am one of those annoying people who always has to be doing something- call it a nervous habit.  I like to watch TV and read at the same time, or troll on-line and watch TV, or play the DS while I’m watching TV.  Maybe I’m just hard wired to multitask all the time. 

It’s been way too long since I’ve had an evening of intelligent conversation, one on one with a friend.  It’s been so long that said conversation included a drink or two and not a few chain-smoked cigarettes.  I don’t regret for one moment being set free of the cigarette vice – which I will always attribute to the grace of God- but for a time reference only, it’s been eight and a half years since I’ve lit one up and even longer since I had an evening out somewhere nice with a friend.  I don’t think I would know how to behave.   Jerry’s idea of “dinner out” is either Waffle House or the pizza joint (one of the few places where he doesn’t bitch) or sending me to the Chinese joint for takeout.  While the pizza joint is good, and I do adore good Chinese food,  it would be fun to actually dress nice and go somewhere nice and be treated like a lady for a change.  However, I am sure that those in hell might welcome a snowball fight, and I’m not seeing that happening anytime soon either. 

Some women are treated to candlelight dinners and intelligent conversation from time to time.  I am treated to Captain Wastoid passed out on the bathroom floor, whitey-tighties hanging from the bed post (??? ’cause I was sober and I know I didn’t bother to take them off of him) and if it’s a really special occasion, really bad country music blaring from the stereo just to complete the ambience.  I was lucky last night to be spared the country music, but he managed to scare the living daylights out of Clara, which really pissed me off.

Clara has some issues in her history, one of which is that somewhere in her past- before she was rescued and came to us- she was beaten.  When we got her she was wary of almost all humans.  She preferred Kayla’s company to anyone’s and she felt safer with other dogs.   She was a bit better with women than men, and I slowly gained her trust.  Over time she has gotten to where she will tolerate certain men- generally she is good with Jerry, but she can’t stand to be around him when he’s drunk.  Last night he found a leather whip he had in the closet (Lord only knows why he has a leather whip, but he does.)  If he had actually used it on any of the dogs or even threatened to I would most assuredly beat the living hell out of him or at the very least zapped his ass with the stun gun, and I would do either of those things to anyone who would even remotely think about using a whip on my dogs.  Especially Clara.  But all she had to do was see him take the whip out of the closet and she freaked out.  Clara reads people better than people read people.  She knew he was drunk, and she knows he’s an asshole when he’s drunk.  Even though he did not threaten her with the whip ,(I would have had to severely mess his daytime up had he made that bad a choice) all she had to see was him, drunk, and a whip, and that did it for her.  I am going to make it a point to hide the whip in the same place I hide the stun gun so he can’t find either one when he’s wasted.

Poor Clara made a beeline for the bathtub (?certainly not her favorite place) and was cowering behind the bath curtain.  When Jerry staggered back to his room and flopped on his bed, I ended up convincing Clara to go to my room, where she promptly curled up all the way under the bed where no one can reach her.  She stayed there for an hour or two, until Captain Wastoid was passed out.  Then she got up on the bed with me, and was my personal 65# cling-on the rest of the night.  Clara is one of those rare and special dogs who respond to the most subtle commands and are (for good or ill) exquisitely tuned to their surroundings.  This is why police and military love the Malinois breed. Those dogs can read your mind, they are devoted to their handlers, and they don’t miss anything.  Clara seldom requires correction, and it is not necessary to raise one’s voice with her.  All it takes is a quiet “no” or a disapproving glance for me to correct her.

I will say Clara seemed none the worse for wear this morning, but I don’t like anyone upsetting her.  She is a good dog, and doesn’t deserve to have to put up with stupid shit. 

I shouldn’t find humor in bladder control products, especially as I am at risk for accidents myself, should I sneeze or cough or laugh the wrong way.   I should get some of these for Jerry, but he doesn’t normally just piss his pants, even if he’s really shitfaced.  He just pisses in unorthodox places such as closets, floors or drawers.  I just get to find the dampened whitey-tighties as a reminder the following morning.

Oh, for an evening in the company of adults.  I’ve done my time with those of the diaper set.

All of us are examples.  Some of us are bad ones.