SSDD, and If You Have to Ask, I Don’t Have Time to Explain

SSDD

Depression sucks.

Same shit, different day.

I could of course, attribute my unshakable malaise by chalking it up to the horrible weather or the interminable dark that pervades this time of year.  Usually my mood improves when the holidays are over, at least a little bit, and then goes back in the toilet around mid-February until about May.

Maybe it’s because my life is pretty much lived stuffing ten pounds of shit into a five pound bag.  The worst part of that is that it’s usually ten pounds of other people’s shit that I allow to be unloaded on me.

despair corners

The sucky part of that is that one of my closest friends (who I really need to have a nice, long conversation with again, and sometime soon) once told me that life boils down to what you cause and what you allow.  I allow other people’s dumb shit to go on and on without telling them to piss off, and that’s my own damned fault.  I hear a lot of bitching through the course of a day, and a lot of it is in regard to things that either I can’t control or can’t change.  Hearing all that day in and day out tends to make me feel pretty discouraged and hopeless.

Then I go home and get to hear Jerry bitch about things that he should just deal with himself if they bother him that much.  This is the same guy who has no problem spotting shit or puke or some unfortunate object that Lucy has reduced to smithereens- but who does have nine kinds of excuses for why he can’t clean it up.

clean poop

Really? I so need this amazing shit-shoveling gnome in my house!

That, and my left arm is killing me right around the place where I broke it.  I think that might be because of the cold (it’s a balmy 1°F out there today) and low barometer, but it hurts something fierce today.  I dug out the big black brace I had to use for awhile after they took my cast off, and put it on, which seems to help.   Then there’s always the gift that keeps on giving- all my joints are rather creaky and stiff today- thanks to the lingering repercussions of rheumatic fever.   The good news is that I was one of about three people in the pool this morning.  I’d be much worse off today, at least as far as mobility goes, had I not gone to the pool.  The pool, opposed to the outside world, is usually somewhere around 80°, which is quite nice.

fantasy pool

If money were no object, this would be my personal indoor pool.

pool boy

And here would be a suitable personal pool boy.

Maybe not so blond, but the bod is right on.  Nice pecs.

It would be a total blast to lounge about in a lovely pool surrounded by buff young dudes, if I had the means, but as the old saying goes, “Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.”

Of course the fantasy would only be complete if I could have a big screen TV in my pool room showing Journey’s Greatest Hits Live 1981:

journey greatest hits 1981

Play ALL.  All night long.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually done a fairly decent job of cheering myself up. For now.

Please, Lord, don’t let me come home to a massive debris field left in the wake of the “Mouth of the South” (aka Lucy) because Jerry was too lazy to put the dogs back in their crates after lunch…

Or to a to-do list of Jerry’s errands to be ran (outside of course,) in sub-zero temperatures…

Give a poor white woman a break for a change, eh?  A quiet night with maybe a few military documentaries, or even a showing of Hot Fuzz or Super Troopers?  It doesn’t even have to be a cop-themed movie- Borat would do just fine… something funny, something light?

I’m Not Running the Train, Which is Fine With Me, and Crap-n-Go

I’m not sure who wrote this little piece of poetry, but the railroad analogy is fitting.

When I was about four years old, Dad had a friend who was into amateur photography.  Given that this was 1973 (long, long before the days of digital photography) and having any kind of pictures taken was expensive, Dad jumped on the chance to take me and my sisters to this guy’s house to have our pictures taken.  Joy and rapture.

I don’t remember a whole lot about it other than having to wear a purple polyester pantsuit that was hotter than hell and itched something fierce and even worse, matched the ones my sisters were wearing.  Grandma had made these pantsuits.  They were ghastly according to today’s standards, but would have been fashionable in 1973.  They would have been a lot more comfortable had they been made of a breathable fabric, but sorry about my luck. To make it even less comfortable, we also had to wear these little black patent mary janes (not rubber-soled, of course) with itchy white lace socks.   I ended up with a nasty heat rash from wearing this ensemble, I do remember that.

Anyway, the guy with the high faluting camera also had another high faluting toy out in his yard for his own kids- an electric train on tracks that kids could ride on.  We were poor kids, and whatever good toys we had access to were immediately commandeered by my sadistic oldest sister.  I got toys after she and my other sister and usually the dog too, had destroyed them.  I had never seen any kids’ toy as cool as that train, ever.

My sisters were more worried about chasing down and beating up the two boys who lived there, which meant I had the train all to my own happy self.  Since I was none too thrilled about a.) wearing this horrifically hot and itchy pantsuit in the middle of August,  b.) having my picture taken, c.) having to be around both strange people and my sisters, I decided to stay on the train.  That was fun- and there was a bit of a breeze.  Suffice to say that Mom and Dad both had their hands full with peeling my sisters off those poor boys, so I got a good bit of time on the train.  So much so that the guy took quite a few pics of me on the train.  No, I’ve not bothered to scan the pics. I don’t want to ask Mom to borrow them long enough to scan them.  Even at four years old I was awkward and geeky and nearsighted as well as horribly dressed. It was the ’70’s after all.  I think I am permanently allergic to polyester after that.  I break out in heat rash just thinking about it.

That was the last time I technically got to run the train.  That’s fine with me.  It was fun while it lasted.

It could be worse.  Perhaps this is a creative way of selling a colonoscopy.  $999 would be a discount.

I have to wonder why sweepstakes and drawings are usually for something nobody really needs anyway.  Money, that’s cool, or even the $5000 Target gift card that I keep doing the surveys to get a chance to win.  But who really wants a lot of the crap that’s given away?

Coffee mugs are useful, but I’ve used the same one at home for 30 years.

Here’s some interesting marketing.  Looks like this guy’s selling an item that most people wouldn’t want to touch even if it has been soaked in Clorox for a month.

I live in the Midwest, where those of us who are into things like hot pink rubber fists tend to be a bit more discreet about it, so I don’t see ads like this every day.  It is a bit disturbing that a few of the phone number tags are missing, meaning that at least a few people entertained the idea of inquiring on this item.  I can just imagine an inquiring caller’s conversation regarding this lovely artifact:

“Hi, I’m Bruce, and I’d like to know more about your fabulous rubber fist!”

“Oh, yes, it’s just super!  But I have three others just like it and I really don’t need a fourth, you know. I only have so much room.”

Which brings me back to the movie, Borat.  The guys inquiring on the fist might have amputee friends back home. “I’ll find you a new arm in America!”

At least I didn’t actively encourage my son to eat whilst sitting on the john. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I didn’t encourage it either.

I had to get a laugh out of this- a woman parking her twins on kiddy potties in the middle of a McD’s or other fast food joint somewhere in Utah.  I am not the squeamish type, and the seats in most fast food joints are probably just as germy as the kiddy potties to begin with, but having your kids sit on the crapper pretty much in the nude, dropping a deuce through lunch is a bit much.   This is all the more motivation for me to do what I normally do on the rare occasion I dine of fast food.  I normally eat in the relative quiet and cleanliness of my own car.

The only time I go into a fast food joint is if I’m traveling and have to use the ladies’ as well as score some chow.  I am not a huge fan of public bathrooms, but if you gotta go, any crapper with a door will do.  Guys have the advantage here because most of them can keep a two-liter drink bottle for the purposes of whizzing on the go (make your own trucker bomb) but that’s just not practical for chicks.   I am not going to drop my drawers along the side of the Interstate to whiz for some jackwagon to take pics and plaster them all over creation.  I will concede that the public restroom is only one notch above the public fitting room (and I do NOT try on clothes in public fitting rooms ever) as far as creep factor, but sometimes necessity rules.  I don’t see myself going to adult diapers any time soon.

Far be it from me to judge another’s fetish but the “adult baby” fetish is just plain gross.  This dude looks like he should be on one of those sex offender/predator lists, no?

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

 

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.