Dog Doo, Tea Bagging, Dingbats and Family Annoyances

only chick

I’ve never been much for political correctness, but my boobs aren’t speaking to you, bubba.

I’ve always had a sort of loathing for meetings/seminars/workshops in which the facilitator requires the participants to wear name tags.  At least a name tag like this could have served a practical purpose in a few of those sort of events.  I appreciate my anonymity, and hide behind it whenever I can.   I never had the choice of a cute HK tag to wear, even as the only chick at most of the automotive functions (there still aren’t very many female parts or service managers in car dealerships) I’ve attended.

I really don’t give two shits in a high wind if some stranger from Moose Dick, Alaska, who I will never see again, remembers my boobs, or my name.  I’d rather he forget them both.  Unless he’s hot, and there are exactly -0- hot guys on the planet who have ever bothered to drool on my shirt.

I’ve considered it a plus when the boob-oglers had teeth and hair.

Of course now that I’m older, the kinds of guys who would be ogling my cleavage (providing their vision is still good enough) have gotten even more scary than they used to be.

Some older guys are hot.  Unfortunately they were hot when they were younger too, and they ignored me then, too.  I was a kegger when I was 21, and that has not improved with age.  I am not one of the beautiful people, and usually that doesn’t bother me much.

tbagI guess if you’re that dumb, you deserve to be removed from the gene pool.

Today I’m sounding pretty misandrist (which is unusual for me, because I generally like men and get along better with them than with other women) and I’m sure it has to do with Jerry.  He did go and work out last night which I am proud of him for.  I just hope he isn’t too disheartened to find out that he can’t keep up with me.  I can bench press more than he can.  But in all fairness I quit smoking over 10 years ago, I don’t drink, and I’ve been working out already pretty consistently for the past 3 years.  He’s 12 years older than me, still smokes like a freight train, considers beer a food group, and lifts weights 12 ounces at a time.  That mindset apparently doesn’t do jack for your upper body strength.

Jerry can be a horrible dingbat at times and he displayed that today.  I really hate any family member calling me at work unless it’s something important.  Usually it’s dumb shit that can wait.  Unless someone is in the hospital or dead, or by some Miracle of God I’ve come into some serious money, I really don’t want to hear about it.  I have to talk to enough people and hear about enough problems while I’m at work without listening to anyone’s tirade about this that or the other thing that I can’t remedy until later anyway.  Jerry calls me with stupid shit (pun intended) such as “Sheena had the shits all over the floor.”

poopYes, Jerry, clean it up!  With your bare hands!  Why not?

So then I get to dread cleaning up congealed diarrheal dog shit for all the rest of the day.  Thanks, Jerry, for being the shit monitor.  How about YOU cleaning it up every once in awhile?  Jerry’s really good about pointing out the (blessedly rare) dog or cat accidents, but then he claims that “I can’t clean it up, because I’ll puke.”  Granted, I have a very limited sense of smell, but I can see, and I can feel, and I can be weird about germs, so what makes you think cleaning up shit is less gross for me, Captain Oblivious?

Mom is just as bad. She will call me with some (usually) imagined crisis (usually involving Steve-o, Sophie, or one of my nephews)  that I can’t do a damned thing about, only to find out later that she was making yet another mountain out of another molehill.  Steve-o is 21.  If he decides he wants to hang out with his buddies, or whatever, it’s not a Federal case.  As far as how he is raising his daughter, he and her mother seem to be doing a good job. Barring neglect or abuse, I will not intervene with their parenting. I had a hell of enough time raising my own offspring to be butting in on how others raise theirs.

happy yr home

As far as parenting my nephews, apparently she doesn’t have the courage to approach my sisters every time she thinks they’ve stepped outside their bounds.  In reality, my sisters are much stricter with my nephews than I ever was with Steve-o.  Unless they are doing illegal things or egregiously immoral things, it is none of my business and my sisters are responsible for correcting them anyway.

“Mother” does not start with “s.”  She is his grandmother, but the no-smother clause works with grandparents as well.   She might be Catholic, but, Steve-o’s not.  (See the video clip from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life on Protestantism which is pretty funny.) Though I may not approve of fornication, I also know that a.) he’s going to, and b.) if he’s going to, using a rubber is a pretty good idea.  He already has one offspring that we know about.

old-lady-with-naughty-ooooooh-look“Oooh, what are you doing with condoms!”

I only wish Jerry had been calling to bitch about something as trivial as dog shit.  Apparently he failed to understand what I meant, on numerous occasions, when I said I was cancelling a very expensive automatic recurring withdrawal from my checking account (i.e. that I could no longer pay for his life insurance, etc. that had been coming out of my checking account, and that he swore up and down, “yeah, I’ll pay you for it” but never did.)  Apparently (oh lucky freaking me) dumb-ass answered the home phone when he was home at lunch, which is only really there for phone solicitors and other people I don’t want to talk to.  So the insurance people were wondering why we had cancelled, etc. (and those people are annoying as shit when they call because they get a spiff on every policy they convince you not to cancel) so, not remembering I said I was cancelling the EFT, he proceeded to call me at work and give me a nasty little tirade about it.

pretendidiotJust because I’m used to irrational tirades doesn’t mean I enjoy them.

Joy.

I know I shouldn’t let him take financial advantage of me, (and I’m done with subsidizing these ridiculously overpriced insurance policies) but I will have hell to pay for it.  I’m not looking forward to that at all.

Pragmatic and Loving It, More Things I Need to Do, and Aging (Crankily)

I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve been on the theme lately of history and real life (thanks, WildBill for pointing that out.)  I think most of us have a really good idea what our own personal utopia would and would not contain, (I know I would not pre-empt World’s Dumbest on TruTV in order to televise basketball games and the endless commentary on them, for starters)  but the practical application is that we have to live in the dystopia we find ourselves in. 

I wish I knew where to buy the Darth Vader condoms.  I would have an econo-box shipped to Steve-o, anonymously of course, as if he wouldn’t be able to figure out who was behind such a practical gift. 

I don’t condone pre-marital fornication, and in my ideal world Steve-o would save himself for marriage.  Reality is not my ideal world.  I try to maintain an open dialogue with my offspring, even when I don’t agree with him or condone what he does.  I have to love him regardless of what he does or how he screws up.  I would rather know the truth, and I would rather for him to feel safe to be honest with me. The worst thing I can do is to go into an apoplectic fit whenever he does something I don’t agree with so he feels motivated to hide things from me.  My mother still does that, (she is very Catholic, after all) and I’ve never felt comfortable sharing anything in regard to my love life with her for that reason- even back in the day when I did have juicy tidbits to share.  I still remember Mom’s epic tantrum when she found my evil sadistic sister’s birth control pills.  I was glad that firestorm was not pointed at me.  I knew to hide mine better than that- and to keep my escapades to myself.   Although I’m not a huge fan of situational ethics, I don’t want Steve-o fathering offspring he can’t afford to support.  If that means strongly recommending he use prophylactics when he fornicates, that’s what it means. Of course, if he were to slip up and surprise me with an unplanned grandchild, I would hope that he would trust me enough to know that I would help him do the right things to support that girl and that child in any way I could.

So far, so good.  I should go ahead and send out those condoms though, even though at the current moment he’s living in a sausage farm.  I should pay him that surprise visit to his apartment in Lima too, just to satisfy my own curiosity at how nasty any domicile with three young men living in it can be.  I’m visualizing something along the lines of the Delta House.  (Remember, from the movie Animal House?) I am sure Martha Stewart would not approve.

I know enough to understand that reality is dystopia.  If I had any say in how the world works, I would be six feet tall, 120# , look like Demi Moore, and Jerry would be transformed into a non-drinking, non-smoking doting husband with the body (and libido) of a scrumptious young boy toy.   Obviously, there are a lot of things in this world I have no control over.  How I deal with the fact that reality doesn’t always follow my rules is going to determine my effectiveness and my happiness in life.  I think Clint Eastwood said it in the movie Heartbreak Ridge: Improvise, adapt and overcome.

I improvise and adapt quite a LOT.  Overcoming, well, sometimes that’s a crap shoot.

Tonight I need to Nair my face and dye my hair again.  Tomorrow night it’s time to re-do the claws.  I have to do what I can with what I have, which is sort of a scary thought.  Reminds me of the days when I held that old Subaru together with duct tape, pop rivets and bumper stickers.

I still have some of the pink glitter polish.  That’s always fun.

The main reason why I even bother with acrylic nails (other than my natural nails are flimsy and don’t grow well) and funky nail polish is that longer nails sort of offset my big, meaty man-hands.  I’m proportioned like some sort of bizarre troll.  I’m all upper body and torso with really short arms and legs.  My feet are normal sized (7B, which these days is actually considered small) but my hands are behemoth, which makes no sense.  I usually can’t wear womens’ gloves, which is a source of frustration because I like nice leather driving gloves in the winter.  I found a pair that fit well a couple of years ago, and miraculously, I haven’t lost either one of that pair.  I will play hell replacing those, although I have to say I do like the Isotoner gloves Mom got me, even though they are not leather.  They do fit well. 

From the waist up (except for the shortness of my arms) I look like I should be 6′ tall.  From the waist down, I have very short legs.  God has a sense of humor.  All I have to do to see that is to look in the mirror- or try to find pants that are the correct length.  Petites are high-waters, and “Average” length pants scrape the ground.

Jerry had his happy fun bi-annual Dr. appointment today.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.  He wanted me to make him a list of stuff to bring up to the Dr. so that he wouldn’t forget. I did, but it was a pretty tame list.   I should have sent my version of the list, but I would have to have written it in very small print and then hid his glasses.

Here’s my version of “Things to ask the Dr. Regarding Jerry’s Health”-

Which blood tests are you doing today and why? 

Please schedule a colonoscopy and prostate exam.  With Extreme Prejudice.

Is drinking a 12 pack of Natties 3-5 nights a week normal?

Does Jerry still have a liver? Or lungs?

Is there any medication that stops incessant bitching?  Dilaudid worked pretty good for this when he broke his ribs.  He slept good, and he was so quiet he didn’t bother me much at all.  That was Good Stuff.  I haven’t slept so good since.

Do you have any free samples of Viagra?  Can Jerry have a few of them?

I should have sent my list.  I did put “depression” on his list but I bet he won’t have the balls to be honest about it.  In all seriousness, Jerry is depressed, and he has been for so long he thinks being depressed is normal.  I used to think that too, but somehow I know better.  Again, it’s that difference between what my utopia would look like and the dystopia I live in.  Jerry hasn’t got the clue that he will never live in a perfect world and he is unwilling to adapt to the one he lives in.  Maybe Prozac would help.  I know it helps me. 

Then again, I have to admit I really enjoyed that week when he was on the Dilaudids.  It’s never been so quiet.

Which One Doesn’t Belong?, Evil Ice, and Creative Timing

“Uh, the Doritos and Twinkies sort of taste like spermicidal lube!”

I guess one could think of condoms as “picnic supplies,” though that is a bit of a stretch.  It’s been almost 20 years since I’ve been lucky enough to indulge in a “nooner,” though I do understand some people see action more than once every other decade or so.    If I found it necessary to include condoms in my picnic planning, I would be more concerned as to how often the gas stations rotate stock. 

Speaking of which I am always sure to check the expiration dates on any edibles I get from gas stations.  I would have taken a pic of it if I’d had the camera on me, but I spotted some very old (and very overpriced) Tums in a Speedway station on New Year’s Eve.  I remember this because I’d stopped there to pick up some more Diet Rockstar on the way to the New Year’s Party and Jerry had wanted some Tums.  Under the thick film of dust I was able to spot an expiration date- 2-2001.  I can guarantee that if the Trojans in the Speedway date back to 2001 that they probably aren’t going to be terribly effective at preventing STDs or unplanned pregnancies. 

I wasn’t cruel enough to buy Jerry the expired Tums, but I did rotate them up front so the oldest stock would be the first one someone else grabs.  In most retail stores the freshest stuff is in the back as the old stock is supposed to be rotated up front so it’s sold first.  I admit it, I look at the dates and I try to find the freshest one possible even if it is clear in the back.  The only exception to this is sale meat, which they mark down because it’s almost expired.  I buy sale meat and freeze it or cook it right away so the date really doesn’t matter as long as it’s not expired or already turning green.

I know a lot of edibles are still edible far, far out from the expiration dates but there are some things I don’t take a chance on, and if I have to pay the same amount for something that expires tomorrow vs. something that expires next week, I want the one that expires next week.  I know, it ‘s a mind game, but it makes me feel as if I’m more savvy in getting the fresher one.

Central Ohio weather is usually sucky in one way or another but today and tomorrow we are being hit with freezing rain and ice storms.  I don’t mind snow so much but I hate the ice.  I almost fell on my ass several times just trying to get in my car this morning. It’s always precious to try to chisel half an inch of ice off of the car just to be able to drive it too. 

However, the ice storm made it a lot easier to get right in to Great Clips over lunch.  I got my hair cut and out the door in about ten minutes which was very nice.  I don’t like anyone fingering my hair but getting my hair cut is a necessary evil, especially as I like it kept short.  I was also able to go to Sally’s for face Nair so I don’t have to do those little tasks later. 

Hopefully I will go home and will be able to enjoy my pork and kraut in peace.  I’ve had a lovely pork roast slow cooking all day today.

I find the above illustration at the least, disturbing, and at the most, downright infuriating.  I understand that universities make a LOT of money off their sports programs (I live in Columbus after all.  Our only professional sports teams are hockey and soccer.  Since we don’t have an NFL team in Columbus- I have been told there are no good NFL teams in Ohio- I get to hear the OSU football hoo-hah constantly) but why do they continue to pretend that the “student athletes” are “students?”  Wouldn’t it just make more sense to give the scholarships to those who can make the most use of them (i.e. those with I.Q.s a little higher than that of paint) and just pay the best football players to play football for them? 

Let’s face it.  There are guys who can play football and there are guys who can understand nuclear physics, and do all kinds of important scientific research and so forth.  They are usually NOT the same guy. I know in rare instances jocks can have brains too, but intellectual prowess and sports prowess are almost always mutually exclusive.

I would be curious to know just how much intellect goes unrecognized in this world because the holders of said intellect weren’t able to afford to pay for the expensive pieces of paper to prove it.

I also wonder how many people have the expensive pieces of paper without the intellect and knowledge that should have to go behind them.  I know I have encountered many, especially within the world of education, which is especially ironic.

This particular thought train is starting to piss me off.

Perhaps the brainiacs aren’t as fun to watch as football (??) but I’ll have you know that people with above average I.Q.s tend to have below average physical coordination.  We fall a lot. 

But I’d still rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass, even if I could play football and go to school for free.