Time Passages, Necessary Evils, and Random Mental Excursions

 

birthday shit yourself

Or not.  Preferably not.

I don’t want to change any more shitty diapers in my life. I did enough of that when my illustrious EX mother-in-law decided to let my then-20 month old son go through an entire box of graham crackers in an afternoon.

Suffice to say that the graham crackers pretty much didn’t do much to prevent my son from partaking in the “evil” of self-abuse, (face it people, all boys masturbate whether they admit to it or not,) but they did much to make him shit like a horse for a week straight.

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Once you’ve had to power wash your kid, Clorox his jammies and the bed sheets every day for a week because he wakes up with the entire bed  coated in used graham crackers that have made their way down the good ol’ Hershey Highway, the whole hosing-shit-off-bloody-everything routine gets extremely old. I did have a number of choice pejoratives for my evil ex-mother-in-law, but in her defense, her head never was screwed on quite right. Suffice to say she was never left alone with the POMC again.  To this day he is scared shitless (oh, what a relevant metaphor!) of that harpie, even though he was only three the last time he ever even saw her.  If she’s still alive- and if only the good die young she’ll live to be 900- she’s well in her 80s.  As long as she stays away from me, I truly don’t care where she is, how old she is, or what she does with herself.

I can’t imagine changing diapers for any of my adult relatives.  Though it may sound callous, if you can’t make it to the crapper or wipe your own ass, the nursing home is calling your name.  I’m weird enough about people touching me, let alone having to touch other people in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.

I understand that the people at the nursing home will have to hose off your carcass from time to time, but 1.) they are getting paid to do it, and 2.) they have a ready supply of disposable gloves.

pink rubber gloves

I was probably the only child who was grateful for a teacher or parent’s admonition to a group of children to “keep your hands and feet to yourself.” Anything that will keep the little snot spewers from fingering me or violating my personal space is a good thing.  When I was growing up, people usually only made physical contact with me to slather nasty things on me, throw live stinging insects in my hair, or to kick my ass.  I am wary for a reason.

Pink_Fuzzy_Large_Pillow

I can’t tolerate itchy, inflexible or binding clothing against my skin.  Ever.  I still have bad memories of 70’s polyester and those God-awful pantsuits Grandma made for us out of that stuff.  Grandma was a fantastic seamstress, but if you create clothing out of fabric that is more like Teflon  than cashmere, it’s not going to be comfortable.  Mom would add itchy lace socks and turtlenecks to these pantsuits and I literally got welts all over from both the friction and the heat generated by those purgatorial ensembles.  70’s polyester was HOT as well as being inflexible and itchy.  It did NOT breathe.

1970s-fashion-designs

Lord, deliver us from these horrible garments!

I can’t move my LEG!!!

Even denim was problematic back in the day, as you pretty much had to drive over a pair of jeans, then wash them several times in flaming hot water with bleach, then dry them for a few hours with some marbles thrown in for fun. Otherwise the skin-tight (no spandex…) denim would be so crunchy and rigid that breathing was almost as impossible as bending at the knees, or sitting.

80s jeans

Just Don’t Bend Over.

Another drawback of 80’s clothes is that you had to iron just about everything, including the (usually) cotton oxford shirts.  Cotton breathes, which is a plus, but those oxford shirts are a bitch to iron.  Of course, not liking itchy or crunchy things, I was never a big fan of starch.

Enough With the Size 2 Models, and Persistence Is Not Always a Virtue

 

model

I think “she’s” a chick.  Maybe.

Just a thought to share with the purveyors of apparel and fashion designers out there:

The average woman who buys your wares is NOT completely flat chested, is NOT  6’2″, is NOT 100# or less, and does NOT wear a size 2. Many thirteen year old BOYS fall into those categories (of being flat-chested, tall, and super thin), and I understand that many men called to the fashion industry aren’t exactly straight, but please, remember who your customers are.

Just because that dress might look good on a thirteen year old boy, (or on my 24 year old who’s about 6’1″ and maybe 140..but don’t get any ideas, because he doesn’t swing that way) that doesn’t translate into looking good on the average 40-something cougar with a body ravaged by time and stress and childbirth.

average woman

Here’s what real women look like.  Heads up, boys. Meaning “boys,” as in “Boy” George, I presume.

The average woman who buys your wares DOES have these things springing from her chest area called breasts, otherwise known as tits, fun jugs, bazongas, hooters, and/or boobs.  Those of us with rather large things springing from our chests need to wear an item of clothing known as a BRA, not as a decoration, but as a functional support device, preferably one with suitably wide straps so as not to leave divots in our shoulders, to keep those things from hitting our knees as we perform our daily functions.

This being said, sleeveless garments of any type are generally not acceptable for the meaty-armed set unless they look good worn with a t-shirt underneath.  Please try to bear this in mind when designing and marketing clothing for and to us.

sleeveless

Notice how pencil-thin her arms are?  This woman has never unloaded trucks, manhandled unruly toddlers, or even picked up something as light as say… a fork!

Also, dresses should come in lengths other than “just below the butt-crack” and “3” past the feet.”  Either I buy a dress that is so short I have to wear leggings or tights with it or give the general public a free show that they really don’t want, or I end up chopping and hemming just to keep from stepping all over the son of a bitch.  I’m 5’4″, dammit.  Neither extreme is a good one, boys.  How about a dress that hits me just below the knee?  No butt-crack exposure, and no tripping over it.  That would be nice.

mid calf

Now, how about something like this in a size 12- that doesn’t drag the floor?

My grandmother made a lot of her own clothes.  She was a far more accomplished seamstress than I am, although I can do the basics.  I have two of the dresses she made for herself back in the 1950’s, which fit me relatively well, even though she had a bit more ample chest than me and I’m a bit taller than she was.  I don’t have time to make my own clothes, and I don’t have a sewing machine (that was one of Grandma’s things that my oldest sister- who has never sewn- made off with before Dad could hide it.) Otherwise I would.  At least I could have dresses made to the proper length, with sleeves, and with enough shoulder and boob room.  In a perfect world… all the clothes would have been made in the 1940s.

1940's dresses

Not just dresses, HATS!  I love hats- and I’m not afraid to wear them!

Steve-o has always displayed the propensity for wisdom beyond his years.

Yesterday he pointed out to me that persistence isn’t always a virtue.  Sometimes persistence is the manifestation of obstinate and perverse stupidity.  Of course, his perspective on persistence and vexation is colored by being the father of a three year old. Sometimes it takes her (my three year old granddaughter) awhile to realize that throwing fits and screaming will fail to achieve the results she wants.  In the three year old’s defense, she’s not stupid. She is beginning to understand when “no” means “no” and when it is unwise to push the issue. That’s a skill that a few more adults need to get- before I throttle them.

stupid burns

Oh, yes, it does.

If I tell you that I can’t get you something, it’s because I can’t get it for you.  It’s not because I don’t want to.  It’s not because I haven’t tried.  It’s because what you want isn’t available for me to get.  Get it through your skull.  If you feel it necessary to keep ordering the same thing I’ve already told you myriad times is not available, discontinued or otherwise non-existent on Planet Earth, your persistence in requesting the impossible has become a form of stupidity.

So what is the definition of stupidity, friends?  Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

i-see-stupid-people

At least my offspring has a clue.

Dismay? Silent Pragmatism? Disgust? Futility?- Or Just a Normal Day?

constipation wretched

There is much to be said for regularity.

I don’t know if I should be happy, sad or just pragmatic as usual.  I stopped believing in all the “happily ever after” bullshit when I was about four and first came to the realization that I am not that princess in the pretty cartoon- just an awkward, troll-proportioned, scared-shitless, nearsighted wearer of threadbare hand-me-downs.  I may have upgraded the faςade over the years, but facts are facts.  Cinderella may have had a benefactor, but there was never going to be a “fairy godmother” in my world.  I’m glad I came to the realization that I am not one of the golden people early on.

Take what you can get and be satisfied, because in order to be successful at fishing, one has to have bait.  And I never did.

fishing

Speaking of what can be trolled up from the depths, I learned why I am loathe to take time off from work even though I have way too many vacation days, and I usually don’t take them.  I took two sanity days- Tuesday and yesterday- and made the mistake of thinking that I might actually get some sleep yesterday.  I should have known that Jerry’s main goal in life is to drink as much beer as he can and to keep me awake whenever possible at all costs.  I don’t know how to react to yet another late night of “let’s get drunk and stupid and loud and play Eminem (barf, gag, retch) full blast until 2 AM.”  Dismay?  Silent pragmatism? Disgust? Anger? Frustration? Futility?  And it strikes me really odd that a 58 year old could get into someone as banal and potty mouthed as Eminem.  Even Steve-o got disillusioned with Eminem rather quickly- and this was when the illustrious Steve-o was about 12.

pragmatism

I give the .357 to no one. Nor do I let them know where it’s stashed.

Even when I’m feeling like being banal, the worst I can stomach is the Ramones, or maybe Steel Panther (they’re crude, but in a funny way)- and never in the middle of the night.

steelpanther2

Ok, so they’re known for a song called “Gang Bang at the Old Folks Home.”  At least that’s funny.

The rational side of my brain asks me (and often) why in the flying hell I stay married to an impotent, beer-soaked asshole who generally treats me like shit.  The rational side answers back, “because I can’t afford to leave,” which is partially true.  It wouldn’t be true, however, if I weren’t paying for a lot of his stuff such as groceries, scripts, health insurance, etc. and so on. Generally the emotional side doesn’t have much commentary other than to know that the whole business of relationships is pretty much a dead issue for me.  If I had sufficient cash I’d live alone- and probably should.

cat lady

Cats ask few questions, and demand so little.

cat cuddles

Never confuse “love” with “heat seeking.”

I shouldn’t even let the emotional side of my brain get in on the discussion, because the only emotion I can bring myself to feel for Jerry anymore is pity.  I know he has rheumatoid arthritis and pulmonary fibrosis and he needs a lot of help just to function.  On one side it would be cruel and possibly even un-Christian to simply abandon him, but on the other, I can really see where I’m chained to dead weight.

Monday (8-10) is our 20th anniversary.  I am not in a celebratory mood.  About the only reaction I’m having to that is that I find it hard to believe I’ve pretty much thrown away 20 years.  But on the plus side…wait…I’m trying to think of a plus side. That should keep me busy for awhile.

i-dont-regret-my-past

I should have spent more time alone.  Weird thing to say, but in my case, probably true.

I can’t change the past but I can try to find ways to amuse myself now so I don’t completely go nuts.

right and wrong

Sometimes I just can’t tell.

Politically Incorrect, Fashion Forward, and More Things I Shouldn’t Do

old people in bad shirts

Sometimes I have to wonder when I see old people wearing stuff like this. I’d bet Nixon was in office the last time this dude gave a mustache ride.  The chick in the “virgin” t-shirt probably lost it sometime around V-E Day.   Do they really read the t-shirts, or do they just put something on because it’s clean?  Or do they just put something on because they’re going to be painting, or varnishing, or prancing around in dirty things so they really don’t care?

When I wear snarky t-shirts (and I wear them a lot) I usually have my snark-effect planned out. I want people to wonder when they see me in a shirt that says, “Only Trust People Who Like Big Butts, They Cannot Lie.”  The “big butt” comment is even funnier when the reader of the shirt realizes that I am, shall we say, “bootily challenged.”  I have the flattest, most non-existent white-bread ass on the planet. Except maybe for my illustrious son.

If that’s the story behind these oldsters’ fashions, more power to them.  Keep ’em wondering.

For the younger set, Nixon was in office from 1969-1974. As far as American presidents go, Nixon gets a bad rap.  The dude was a choir boy compared to Bill Clinton, and a veritable saint when compared to the current illegitimate occupant of the White House.  But get me started on the detestable Barry O., and my rants can go on for days.

  Voter-Fraud-21

V-E Day (the day Allied victory was won in Europe) is May 8, 1945. The more I think about it, I bet a lot of people lost their virginity on V-E Day.  I can’t really correlate Nixon’s presidency with mustache rides, (I know when I think “sexy,” Richard Nixon doesn’t come to mind) other than to comment that in the 1970’s almost all VD was curable.

stamp out vd2

Sit on your ass and keep your mouth shut. That’s not terribly heroic, but it is 100% effective in preventing all forms of VD!

I wonder if it is considered offensive to refer to Germans as “Huns” (generally a WWI reference) or “Krauts” (generally a WWII reference) or is it OK to use either term- because Germans are white?

I know that the term “Cracker” is considered derisive (in some circles) when directed at white people from the American South, but when did it become gauche to make fun of rednecks?  It seems rednecks are the only socio-ethnic group that it’s OK to malign.

offended yoda

It’s time to stop worrying about offending people.

Speaking of which….In spite of myself, I really like Donald Trump.  I don’t know if I would really want him to be President (although I would gladly prefer my dead dog Sheena over the current illegitimate squatter) but I do like him speaking the truth and rocking the boat.  HIs politically incorrect approach is refreshing, if nothing else. There are people who need to be offended, and who need to have their heads pulled out of their asses.  If we haven’t learned anything else from the debacle of the Obama Administration, we should know that we need to call a turd a turd.  Those who don’t get it that the “Emperor” is naked – as well as being morally bankrupt and an aider and abettor of terrorism to boot- richly deserve a wake up call.    If Trump accomplishes that, more power to him.  The only thing I don’t want to see is a replay of Ross Perot, who in a roundabout way (another 20th century history lesson, kiddies) bought us eight long years of Bill Clinton.

baskit-asphalt

If it’s cylindrical, brown, and left by the cat, it is best to assume the item is NOT a Tootsie Roll.

My cats are generally really good about using their boxes, and most cats are unless you let the boxes go too long or the cat is sick or something.  Healthy cats usually don’t have much trouble shitting where they’re supposed to.  Of course, the cats have the basement to themselves, with a small (too small for dogs) cat door so they can come and go downstairs as they need,. locker room

I didn’t generate this meme. I’m enough of a grammar Nazi to know that the author should have used “to” instead of “too.”

Still, it’s a good point.

I can use the men’s locker room and watch the sausage show.  Or not.  It would be my luck that the guys who wear Speedos but who should be wearing Bermudas would be showering.  I’d get a big old eyeful of something like this:

fat man in speedo

Better for me to shower in the women’s – and dress modestly behind the curtain.

Tuna, Tab and a Twinkie

Tuna-Sandwichestabtwinkie

 

Navin Johnson’s (Steve Martin’s character in the iconic film, The Jerk ) meal that his adopted mother served him on his birthday was a tuna sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a Tab and a Twinkie.  Most of my favorite things are like that- simple, cheap and uncomplicated.  I  share Navin’s enthusiasm for Tab, and I like a good tuna melt from time to time, although I’ve not had a Twinkie in at least ten years.

classy

I’d like to admit to complicated tastes, as in: oh, yeah, I sit around drinking vintage Cabernets and imported cheese while conversing about world history and literature with influential and erudite people.   I study some rather obscure and esoteric subjects (have you seen my collection of 19th century postmortem pics, for instance) from time to time, but in social circles, I’m not that good of a performer. I’m not that pretentious. Since I am pathetically socially inept, and not at all well connected, my evenings are usually spent watching Jerry empty out the Natties, go from just a little drunk, to full-on fall-over shitfaced drunk, as he attempts to argue philosophy with the dogs.  Jerry is not an eloquent conversationalist even when he’s stone cold sober.  Alcohol does not enhance his verbal communication skills.

Natty

FYI: Natty does NOT make you an enchanting conversationalist.  Ever.

Jerry isn’t the greatest company, but he is predictable at least.  He tolerates my eccentricities, which is saying a lot. It’s easier that way, and I don’t have to worry about what to wear or whether or not I am avoiding eye contact again.   To him, I’m just the tepid body that pays the cable bill and medical bills, buys food, and wanders around cleaning up the beer cans.  He’s doing good to refrain from calling me Mildred and asking me about my diarrhea, but that’s OK.  I’ve been married to him for 19 years and neither one of us has succeeded in killing each other or making good on threats made in the heat of anger to leave,  so it must be all good.

I don’t know what to make of current events.  Robin Williams committing suicide was just plain bizarre, although I can certainly attest to the truth that comedy is the flipside of tragedy.  We shouldn’t really be surprised that comedians invariably suffer with depression and all the psychological baggage that goes along with it.  Humor is a defense mechanism. Usually the funnier a person comes across, the more tragedy that person has endured. Most of the time I try to laugh to keep from crying- or to fill that awkward void when I just don’t have the words or when that proper, polished façade just doesn’t materialize when I need it to.

man in pink tank

This dude must have had some pretty serious childhood trauma to try to rock the Daisy Dukes AND the crop top.

Perhaps it is better to elevate sarcasm to an art form than to take out one’s pain and hurt and anger in more destructive ways.  I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially in the ways that I have been.  It might be a bit mean-spirited to show pics of people who have made unfortunate fashion/life choices, but hey, you set yourself up for those.  If I appeared in public looking like a crack ho, or morbidly obese and/or otherwise badly dressed, then someone posting my sorry ass pic online should be a wake up call, a sort of, “Get your shit together, bi-atch!” statement.  I would be asking for it.

Now, going as a Twinkie for Halloween might actually be funny, but I don’t think that was this chick’s intent.

twinkie

Sort of like a Twinkie, anyway.

Party Like It’s 1895, Late Winter Apathy, and More Victorian Death

post mortem creepy chickDead?  Nah, it’s just early March in Central Ohio.

Early March in Ohio is about the same as late February.  It’s cold.  It’s windy.  There is at least one form of precipitation happening at any given time.  The season of Snowbooger Grey lingers on.  Sometimes it lingers on until May.

So I figure I’ll go back to some of my favorite art (yes, photography is an art) and dig into some postmortem scans.  I don’t know why I find 100 + year old pictures of dead people fascinating, except maybe to underscore that death is a constant and to remember that one’s time above ground is short, unless of course, you’re at the BMV.

embalming_fluid“Lifetone” Embalming Fluid- for keeping stiffs fresher longer!

Someday, if I am ever free to determine my own décor, without having to worry about things getting ruined, broken or permeated with cigarette stink and dust, I would furnish my entire house in bizarre ephemera and trinkets that have a macabre twist- like the kinds of stuff featured on the show Oddities.  The only problem with that (other than Jerry is as messy and destructive as a horde of hogs, so valuables have to be kept out of his reach) is that stuff is generally expensive if you don’t procure it in strange places like yard sales and flea markets and such.

I probably should go with Jerry more often when he goes to estate sales and yard sales and auctions but I really don’t have the attention span.  I’m looking for completely different stuff than he is.  He generally looks for redneck crap (lawn mowers, tools, beer-related ephemera, camping and fishing stuff, and occasionally firearms) to resell, while I look for the cool antique conversational items that are a bit harder to find.

For a generation of people who were prone to maudlin sentiment, I find it interesting that some Victorian era greeting cards were just plain emotionless.  Maybe it’s like today, where you save the formal cards for obscure relatives and business connections with whom you wish to remain cordial, but not necessarily friendly.

esteemTranslation: I like you less than Neal Schon, but more than the Quaker Oat Box Guy.

The nice thing about this card is that I could pretty much say that about anyone who hasn’t gone out of his or her way to piss me off.  I could design my own Victorian cards.

memory noteThis is nice and neutral, but it begs the question:

memory note pissed offUpon which list do you appear?

I’ve never really been the greeting card type.  I like cards if they’re funny, and if they are relevant to the one getting the card.   I don’t do maudlin sentiment well though, and I tend to be a bit of a wise ass if given the opportunity.

cat commandosIf they can walk on two legs, then they can carry AR15s.  Just sayin’.

It’s bad that I’m this bored.  However, it’s good that I am entertaining myself in a quasi-constructive way.  The guys I work with really don’t like it when I put their faces on fat bikers, hippos, or even bimbos with really big boobs in bikinis.  The bad thing is with the rise of both the easily concealed digital camera and WalMart, there is no end to just plain awful pics.

dude in a dressSome fashion statements are better left unsaid.

Tonight I have to drop Jezebel off to be spayed and declawed.  I am always somewhat ambivalent about declawing cats, but Jezebel has a rather destructive habit of scratching on the door frames instead of the scratching post (F.B. also has claws, but she’s older, very sedate, lets me clip her claws, and actually uses the post.) Jezebel also gets caught in the curtains and on the furniture, and even though she will take medication without going spaz, she will not allow me to clip her claws.  Isabel was a curtain climber when she was little as well as she had a rather disturbing habit of climbing people so she could ride around on your shoulder.  Fanny almost destroyed one end of a chair arm, and almost gave me a really nasty cat bite when I tried to trim her claws, before she was old enough to be declawed.  Cat bites are serious business.  The only thing worse than being bitten by a house cat is being bitten by an AIDS or hepatitis infected human.  Cats have bacteria in their saliva that can literally infect your blood and eat your flesh.

jezebel 5 monthsJezebel won’t be contributing to the feral cat overpopulation issue.

Some cats can learn to use the post and/or deal with having their claws clipped.  I have had a few cats who I didn’t need to declaw, and I don’t do it capriciously, because I know it’s not a fun surgery.  But if a cat is strictly indoors, and it’s an issue of declawing vs. the cat being homeless, I’ll go with declawing.  I know.  Mean cat mom, I know, but it would be more cruel for Jerry to catch her going to town on a door frame and drop kick her across the house.  When he’s five sheets to the wind I wouldn’t put anything past his drunk ass.   The plus side to declawing, if there is one, is that our vet is a very good surgeon and she has always done a fantastic job on declaws.  I still hate doing it.

postmortem-false-eyesCreepy.  Not a good retouch job on the eyes at all.

Of course, I don’t even care for open casket funerals.  The idea of old-hen relatives of the deceased filing by the coffin and making commentary is rather distasteful to me.  I still remember my relatives’ commentary when Aunt Ellen died.  “Doesn’t Ellen look lovely?”

Ellen did NOT look lovely.  She looked pretty damned dead.  She was so orange she looked like she passed out at the Oompa Loompa Prom.  And she had to be dead to be wearing all that day-glo orange lipstick.  She was a Pentecostal, which means she wasn’t allowed to wear makeup, but she did have to wear dresses when in public.

When I die, I hope Steve-o honors my wishes and has me cremated, but he has the same sick sense of humor I do.  He will probably have me taxidermied and use me for a coffee table.

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

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.