cleaning rampages

The Things We Do For “Health,” and the Scourge of Domestic Drudgery

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Tapeworms, tapeworms, jolly jolly tapeworms, eat them up- YUM!

The tapeworm diet was featured on an episode of 1000 Ways to Die not too long ago.  I know I probably shouldn’t watch that show so much, but it is entertaining in a dark way to see the convoluted manners in which some people have managed to earn their Darwin Awards. While the thought of going from a size 12 to a size 2 in a few weeks is tempting, the thought of flatworms burrowing through my vital organs and feeding on my blood and other important stuff gives me serious pause.  If we give dogs a monthly de-wormer (essentially this is what Heartgard and other products that contain Ivermectin do- kill off any worm larvae that end up in a dog’s bloodstream or intestinal tract) to prevent them from getting tapeworms, heartworms, and other assorted wormy life forms because they’re harmful to dogs, then it would stand to reason that it’s not healthy to harbor tapeworms in one’s innards.

It’s interesting to note that dogs are always susceptible to worms because of the rooting around and scavenging that they do in the course of their daily activity. There are even worms that are spread by fleas and other disgusting insect life, which is yet another reason to avoid insect infestations.  Dogs’ preoccupation with all things feces also predisposes them to exposure to all sorts of nasty things (sort of like little kids.)  The difference with dogs is that they seem to have much hardier immune systems than humans- at least in regard to infectious disease- and digestive systems that can metabolize almost anything.

Lilo (and every other dog on the planet) might consider cat poop to be the highest of rare delicacies, but she won’t eat lettuce.  Unless it’s soaked in Ranch dressing, that is.

I wonder if the health “benefit” one would gain by losing weight on the tapeworm diet would be negated by the effect of the tapeworms munching on stuff they shouldn’t be munching on.  It’s one thing if they’re sharing that chili dog you had for lunch, but quite another if they are making a meal out of your liver, or your brain.  I guess the bottom line on weight loss by parasite is that it’s probably ill advised.

As far as burning up calories the old fashioned way, a rousing round of housecleaning can do that.  Even though it can count as exercise, I hate cleaning.  I consider exercise to be a necessary evil also. I don’t like it, but I also don’t like the prospect of my ass being as big as the front end of my car.  I don’t want to be the one trolling through the Newark WalMart in search of size 20 underwear.

These could also be a car cover for my Yaris.  Just sayin’.

The problem with cleaning, in my house, is that it is an ongoing effort in futility.  Jerry can destroy hours’ worth of scrubbing and cleaning in one drunk-n-stupid episode, as was evidenced last night.  All he has to do is get good and besnookered, go out to “water the garden” at dusk, and then traipse back on in the house, flopping about, soaking wet with dog shit caked on his shoes.

Let me fling poo on your linoleum!  YAY!!

Yes!  My purpose in life has been fulfilled- scraping dog shit off of the linoleum in the foyer, and then in the kitchen (thank God I got to him before he made it to the carpet, which I had also just scrubbed and cleaned Saturday) and then getting to (joy and rapture) scrape the dog shit off his old-man velcro shoes and hose them down.  Then I got to peel his wet and dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, and had to clean the floor up too.  Never mind that I had scrubbed down and mopped the foyer, the kitchen and the bathroom on Saturday.  Apparently I needed to do it again.

I would hire cleaning people.  If I could afford them- and if I wouldn’t be embarrassed at what they might encounter.

I have found beer cans in places where beer cans should never go.  Beer cans next to the toilet (why not just eliminate the middle man and pour the Natties right on down the john?)  Beer cans in his underwear drawer.  Once I even found a beer can in the litter box, which is making me wonder if Jerry is going down there (the cat boxes are in the basement) and helping the dogs sample the recycled feline buffet.  If it were only beer cans, it wouldn’t be so bad, but Jerry’s filth parade goes far beyond beer cans.

Jerry is also an incorrigible smoker.  If he removes a cellophane from a cig pack, it ends up where it lands- on the table, on the floor, in a house with a mouse- wherever, as long as it’s not in the trash.  The cellophanes are just the tip of the iceberg, not to mention the bane of all vacuum cleaners, especially when encountered in combination with copious amounts of dog hair.   Jerry also has essential tremor, so the world is his ashtray, literally.  That’s part of the reason why it pisses me off so much when he smokes in my car.  I don’t think he can actually make the ashes land in the ashtray, (in the car or at home) and I’m doing good when he actually puts the butts out in the ashtray instead of (acck, acck, acck) the toilet (bad enough) or in the sink.  Removing nicotine stains from porcelain is just so much fun.  I need just such a hobby.

It’s just depressing to spend an entire Saturday cleaning and the place is trashed again by Monday night.

Some more enlightened souls may ask, “Doesn’t Jerry do his share of the cleaning?” I know that there are some men who understand the importance of helping with errands, cleaning and stuff like that when their wives also work.  However, the fact that I don’t have 24/7 to fetch stuff for, clean up after, and cook for His Nibs does not register with Jerry.   Not at all.  He was raised by wolves.  He willingly wallows in squalor as long as it means he doesn’t have to think about where the beer cans, cig pack cellophanes, or dog shit lands.

So forgive me if I’m no Martha Stewart.

I can cook, but you can leave the decorating and cleaning to people who don’t live with Jerry.

Stuck in a Retro Funk, Losing My Mind, and Bad Responses to Stress

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Suffice to say my life is insane.

Back in the day I would be using some coping strategies that unfortunately are forbidden to me in my cougardom.   My health and the vast array of meds that I have to take simply to remain breathing and above ground have pretty much made it impossible for me to: work until I fall over, and then drink until I forget everything.  My advanced age, sense of morality, aversion to guilt, general introversion, and fear of divers social diseases and/or emotional entanglements prevents me from seeking out the attentions of “friends with benefits,” so casual sex with near strangers is pretty much out as a stress reliever too.   What worked when I was 25 (and even what I wish would have worked when I was 25, i.e. casual sex, hell- even formal sex would be an improvement over none) will not work now, unless I want to wake up dead.  I’ve watched far too many episodes of Dr G and /or 1000 Ways to Die.  Although I know death is inevitable, and might even be preferable to some situations I’ve lived through, I don’t want to earn a Darwin Award in the process of dying.

I mean, who really wants a epitaph that says:

Here lies a feisty old tart/Who messed around with all the old farts/She partied and drank, the nasty old skank/Till the excitement exploded her heart

My idea of excitement is when I put my old Journey videos in the DVD player so I can drool over 30 year old visuals of Steve Perry.   That’s about all I can take.

Then again, the more I think about it,  it might not be too bad to come and go at the same time, except it may be a bit morbid for the other party involved.  I mean, what would the surviving partner do?  Call the squad or cut out the middle man and call the morgue directly? 

Reagan would have had enough sense to avoid such a situation, so that appears to be a good response.  I could also ask the Magic 8 Ball, whose response to the question, “Should I find myself a fine young boy toy?,” is “Outlook Not So Good.”

No shit.  If you’re going to go fishing, you have to have the appropriate bait.  I am genuinely afraid of what my sorry carcass would reel in.

Usually I don’t resort to gratituous self pity as a defense mechanism, but I’ve been sort of down lately.  Being busier than hell usually helps because it keeps my mind occupied and out of mischief for the most part, but the reality remains the same.

There are a few things, as usual, weighing on my mind that are dragging me down.

1. My illustrious offspring has spawned.  The spawning was NOT planned.  This is scary on many levels, especially knowing that he likely carries a boatload of dormant bad genes- just from my side of the family.   I shudder to speculate on the scary things that could be lying dormant from the sperm donor’s family. The poor child has the potential for some very scary looks, including red hair, extremely blond hair, curly hair, extreme shortness, and troll-like proportions to name a few.  The fact that he is neither married to the baby mama or gainfully employed is even more frightening.  The baby is due in late February/early March- the suckiest time of year to have a birthday.   No one will remember it, and even if they do, everyone’s still broke from Christmas, so the poor child will get shitty birthday presents if he/she gets any at all.  I know.  My birthday is 2-26.  One year all I got was a box of Whoppers and a quarter to spend in the vending machine at the Revco.  Most years everyone just forgets.

2. This means I’m officially a grandmother- not like with Jerry’s grandkids who everyone knows are way too old to actually be my grandkids.  I don’t care if they call me Grandma or Hey You Funky Lady- I don’t have a problem treating them like grandkids.  They’re remarkably normal kids, and the good part is that at the end of the day they go home, but most people can figure out that it’s highly unlikely that a 42 year old would actually have a thirteen year old grandson.  His daughter is 30.   I was lucky to have gotten busy the few times in my life that I’ve had the opportunity.  I sure as hell wasn’t getting any action when I was 12 or younger.  With Steve-o everyone can work out the logistics.  Your mother has had sex four times in the past 25 years – Guess which occasion resulted in spawning you?  This means if DNA proves the child to be his…I certainly can’t deny it.

 

 

Jerry of course has his own (highly annoying) responses to stress, i.e., seeing downing a 12 pack of Natties as a physical challenge and then getting hyper (normal people pass out, but no such luck) and trying to “clean.”  The problem with Jerry’s cleaning rampages is that they are uncannily like Mom’s manic cleaning rages of yesteryear.  I do not find this late night cleaning compulsion to be nostalgic in any sort of positive way.  I loathed being awakened to scrub the toilet in the middle of the night as a child, and I have no desire as a cougar-aged woman to unclog the dog hair from the vacuum cleaner at 9PM.  Just because Jerry thinks that housecleaning at bedtime is an appropriate and satisfying activity when I’ve been awake and busy since 4AM does not mean that my mind and/or body are going to agree with that.  He is fortunate I didn’t rip his face off, but I’ve either mellowed out in my cougardom or I was just too tired to put up much of a fight.  Option two is most likely.  Arguing with a drunk is just about as effective as nailing Jello to a tree anyway.

Note to self: remember to vacuum when he’s either sober or not home so he doesn’t attempt to use it and clog it up with those damned cigarette pack cellophanes he leaves all over creation.

My class reunion dinner is fast approaching, and I’ve already paid for it, so I am curious to see who shows up.  I sense a bit of nostalgia- and a desire to see a few old acquaintances- but an even more overwhelming sense of “stop and gawk,” which is the phenomenon here in beautiful Central Ohio that occurs when there’s a car wreck on the freeway. Oncoming traffic slows up simply because everyone wants to stop and gawk.   You don’t really want to look, but you really want to look.   I hope that for $30 it will be a nice dinner, anyway.  It will be an excuse to get out for a bit anyway.

 

 

Spare me from the ’80’s hair!