cruise

Politically Incorrect Theatre, a Lovely Hiatus, and Welcome to the Gallery of Fashion Don’ts

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I know what I want for Christmas! A revolver always makes a lovely gift-to-self, no?

I already have a revolver (and it was a gift to myself) though it’s a Taurus, not a Colt.  I believe in the 2nd Amendment, and packing (i.e. legal concealed-carry) has become a reluctant necessity for some of us.  There are some places and situations that are just plain unsafe for a woman to go alone and unarmed today.  I don’t want to be a victim.  Better to be armed and never have to use it than to need protection and fail to have it.

I don’t believe that packing is the right option for everyone.  I hesitated for a very long time before finally deciding to get gun safety training (and even then it was on my Dad’s insistence) and to get my permit.  Much to my surprise, I discovered that I actually enjoy shooting, and I can hit a target with a .357 a lot better than I thought I could.  The shotgun (I also have a Mossberg 20 gauge) is a bit more of a challenge.  Most people have an easier time with a shotgun vs. a pistol, but go figure, the pistol is more effective for me.  That being said, I do think that no one should even consider owning a firearm until they’ve had general gun safety training.  Even with safety training, it is essential to become intimately acquainted with how your particular firearm works.

No, I did not go on a cruise, gay or otherwise, but I had a nice few days’ away.

The meaning of words can change drastically in the course of a generation or two.  It also used to be possible to entertain kids with a simple puppet show.  Today even the very youngest kids need to be occupied with electronic stimuli.  My granddaughter is five months old and is currently learning to push buttons so they will make noises.  Then again, she also chews on her toes in between bites of cereal and fruit when she eats, so she’s pretty easily entertained- now.  I am curious to see what it will take to entertain her in a year or so.  All I can suggest to Steve-o is that he might want that portable DVD player for the car.   If such a thing had existed when he was in car seats it might have saved me a lot of irritation, if having to listen to Thomas the Tank Engine, Pokémon, and Power Rangers ad nauseam would have been better than his incessant screaming.  That just might be a toss up, though Thomas was a lot less offensive than the damned dinosaur. (I couldn’t handle Barney. Thankfully, Steve-o didn’t care for him either.)

I might just get him that portable DVD the more I think about it.  I’m sure he will love all those various princess, My Little Pony, and Hello Kitty movies- that I’ll make sure she gets.

If you’re watching this swill for the plot, you have Problems.  Just plead that it’s only on so the kid will shut the eff up. Boys, no one will get it that you’re having fantasies about the horses’ hineys.

I had a really fun time with my granddaughter Friday and Saturday.  It’s scary, but she’s already crawling and sitting up and she’s not even six months old yet.  It won’t be long before she is getting into everything and wreaking general havoc.  Yes, grandchildren are the ultimate payback.  Now, Steve-o, you might just start understanding why Mom was so flipping paranoid about so many things.

Of course medical fun is on my agenda a lot more often than I’d like it to be.  Yesterday I got to get another blood draw (had already had one Thursday in anticipation of my Dr.s’ appointment yesterday) because the lab forgot to do the A1C test which is probably the main reason for getting my blood tested every three months to begin with.  I think the Dr. and the nurse were more upset about it than I was.  I don’t freak over blood draws, but I know some people do.  The nurse kept on apologizing for having to take my blood again, but it’s really no big deal.  Hopefully I get a three month reprieve on blood draws (until I have to do it before my next appointment in November) but whoop-de-doo.  It really doesn’t bother me anymore. As long as my clothes stay on, medical procedures truly don’t phase me.

This is really all it covers.  For the waist down, you get a paper sheet.  Joy and rapture.  Yeah.

The only Dr. appointment I find unnerving anymore is the paper-nightie one, regardless of who does it. The first time I had it done, (I was 16 and I really wanted to get on the pill, you know… so I went to the county health clinic rather than my family Dr. which turned out to be a Bad Idea,) the guy was a medical student, and he was more than a little rough with things, and that memory has given me the willies about this procedure ever since.   My current gynecologist is excellent- I can do nothing but applaud his repair work that is allowing me to live free of pelvic pain, and even three years later I am so thankful I had the hysterectomy/major repairs.  Although I know I have to get all that checked once a year to make sure the repairs are holding up and to verify that nothing else in that vicinity is screwing up, these days I don’t like taking off my clothes for any purposes other than showering.  I have always found pelvic exams and mammograms to be rather unpleasant, but I’d probably be twisted if I enjoyed it. (Necessary, yes- and guys, you are not off the hook- get that prostate check you’ve been putting off!)

Sunday we took our obligatory trip to the State Fair.  I like to go to the fair, if only to marvel at all the bizarre specimens of humanity.  You don’t have to pay for the freak show at the fair.  The freak show is free- just look around and you’ll get treated to:

Bad Tats-

Isn’t that special?

Completely inadequate coverage:

This looks good- how?

WTF?  On many levels.

Horrible hair designs:

Oh. Dear. Lord.

And completely stupid tat designs such as: (though I’d already included a bad tat, I saw plenty of really bad tats at the fair!)

Even when I have it, I don’t really want to advertise it.

I admit I forgot my camera this year, which really sucks, but I don’t think I’d had the courage to take a pic of the 500 lb she-behemoth snarfing a footlong corn dog in one bite even had the camera been handy.  That image has seared itself into my retinas.  Woof.

Ode to the Winter Funk, 54 Going on Two, and I Need a Cougar Cruise

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Shit Happens.

The bad thing about the recent cruise ship disaster is that it’s a reminder that almost every time I plan a vacation and either a.) take Jerry with me, and/or 2.) spend money doing it,  that disaster is exactly what I end up with.  Taking Jerry with me simply means I will spend three or four times more than I’d budgeted for as well as I will be treated to a “vacation” of catering to him.  Oh, how I remember the 20 mile excursion through rural West Virginia to find a KFC, only to return to the hotel and discover they neglected to put eating utensils in with the dinners, and the lovely evenings spent in the smoking cubicle of the Niagara Falls Hooters because they were the only restaurant within walking distance that served American beer.  Believe me, Canadian cuisine leaves a lot to be desired anyway, (the food tasted greasy and bland with a faint hint of Clorox everywhere we went in the Niagara Falls area) and Hooters’ wings are way overrated even if you get them in the States. 

I will have to do some research if and when I ever get the opportunity to go on a cougar cruise.  The idea of being on a cruise ship (statistically, boating on an ocean liner is safer than driving, so why not?) still appeals to me even if I am the type of person who has to wear Factor 50 to walk out the door in the daylight.  Nobody said I had to use the outdoor pool.  However, I will make sure of a few things.  First of all I am not really one of those people who wants an iron clad schedule.  I understand that the ship stops at certain ports and you have a definite timeframe should you wish to go ashore.  That’s fine, a loose framework.  But to follow a group around in a micromanaged sort of fashion does not appeal to me at all.  Give me two hours to go investigate something and let me wander around and come back. 

The last time I took any time off for any type of what could loosely be called vacation activity was last June when I took Mom and Dad to NC.  In a curious turn of events, it seems when you do the math, it can easily be discerned that my soon-to-be born granddaughter was conceived right about that time.  That’s what I get for having Steve-o come to watch the dogs and leaving them free food and movies, but they are adults.  Sometimes things happen when young adults get bored, even if you do leave out the good movies like Super Troopers,  The Jerk, Beavis and Butthead Do America, Clerks I and II, Porky’s, and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.   I know it’s been a long time but even I can (distantly) remember young lust.  There was a time in my life (when the air was dirty but sex was clean- if and when I could find a compliant partner-) that any excuse was a good excuse to get busy.

I still need a real vacation, as in 1.) getting away geographically, including turning off the farking phone, 2.) getting away from being a babysitter, which means Jerry will have to fight the dogs for food for a few days, and 3.) going somewhere interesting to do interesting things. 

The problem with this is that in order to do any of the above for any length of time, one needs cash.  With Mr. 54-going-on-two going on his regular throw money away pity parties at the hell-hole every time he gets the least bit irritated at work I don’t see this happening.  It’s pretty sorry when you can’t trust a grown man to stay out of a rip-off gambling joint.  I would leave him at home alone for a few days if I could take most of his cash, all his plastic and his debit card so he wouldn’t be able to go to the hell-hole.  I figure he could eat on $10 per day, but he would have to do without beer and smokes.  Pity that….

I guess that’s enough of me channeling my inner bitch, although it gets aggravating.  I know winter in Central Ohio is depressing especially when you can go from torrential rain to frozen tundra in 24 hours or less.  One thing about January weather is that odds are, it’s going to suck.

The Lost Art of Redneck Cookery, Historical Excursions, and Inevitability

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It is fortunate that my grandmothers taught me how to cook. Since it is legend in my family that my Mom’s atrocious culinary offerings caused Suzie the Dachshund’s premature death, I’m glad my grandmothers were around.  In all fairness, Suzie wasn’t a particularly picky eater, even for a dog.  She was known to eat underwear, socks, rocks, her own poo, Barbie heads and assorted limbs, and pretty much anything else that would fit in her gaping maw.  So Mom’s cooking- I can still see the mashed potatoes with the big black burnt flakes and the accompanying “gravy” that was the texture, flavor, and consistency of partially hardened concrete- might have been a contributing factor or even the final tipping point, considering Suzie’s complete lack of discernment in her eating habits.   

I won’t say that I am the best cook there is by a long shot, but I can hold my own with most old-time redneck cuisine.  I can roll my own noodles, (no I do not “roll my own” anything else, except maybe pie crust) fry chicken, grill steaks, bake breads, pies, cakes and cookies, make soups and casseroles and roasts, etc.  Unfortunately these are skills that most young people see as being quaint and obsolete.  I could not be any more weird to the kids if I went out and shot deer, tanned the hides and made my own shoes .  My son and his friends consider microwaved ramen noodles, pizza delivery, and Taco Bell to be the apex of fine dining. 

The relevance of learning cooking skills  just doesn’t register with the POMC.  He worked at Taco Bell for two years and figured that was enough cooking for him.   He thought I was completely nuts to be boiling a chicken and rolling out noodle dough when you can get chicken-n-noodles all ready to be microwaved in less than five minutes, courtesy of Marie Callender. 

In my humble opinion- while some microwave meals aren’t half bad and I am not above eating them on occasion- when you do have the time and motivation to do the authentic slow food thing it tastes better.  My old time redneck cuisine isn’t all loaded down with salt and preservatives and heaven only knows what else either. 

Admittedly, most women of my generation (and most likely those younger than I) are about as clueless about home cooking as I am about football or other assorted man-sports.  My grandmothers’ generation was probably the last generation to consider cooking an essential skill. 

So here I am with my archaic skill sets- yes I can cook and bake, and do needlework for what it’s worth.  I enjoy down-home slow cooking when I have the time.  So there.  But it does disturb me that it’s a dying art.  It’s getting harder and harder to find things like shortening, cornstarch and various spices. Even worse, it’s getting harder and harder for me to find the time.

I am looking forward to Dad’s Birthday Cruise on Saturday.  It’s sort of disquieting for me to go since I’ve not had a classic air-cooled VW for years, but his buddies in the car club are cool and it’s always a good time.  I wouldn’t miss it barring extreme illness or Act of God, since it is also Dad’s birthday party, and an opportunity for me to get him an embarrassing gag gift.

We always go to one or two historical sites in Marion County.  This year we are going to the tiny village of LaRue to see a collection of Jim Thorpe memorabilia and then to check out another guy’s extensive collection of license plates.  Dad is always good at picking out interesting places to go.  I was sort of disappointed that we weren’t doing anything architecturally related this time, (I so enjoyed touring the Harding Home and Etowah a couple of years ago,) but it’s good to mix it up.  I might be surprised at what I get to see.

In a way it is almost painful to go home and revisit the past.  So much that I see in the history of those places points to a future that should have been better and brighter than today.  Unfortunately I was born into a place and time that was just on the cusp of catastrophic decline, and in a sickening sort of paradox, as I grew up, I watched it all fall and disintegrate and decay.

I know the reasons behind the fall, but hindsight is 20/20.  When one is confronted with the lingering shadow of what could have been, that which has become a spoiled, dusty, failed memory, and today’s more sordid reality, it can be disheartening. Sometimes when I drive past the decaying monoliths of a long-dead industry I see my own heart, my own spirit- something that belonged to the past and sort of exists, at least in form, but isn’t really there anymore.

I look at the idle, rusting frameworks and I see my own metaphor drawn out, speaking the unsaid, wrought in cold, dead steel.

Everywhere and nowhere, all points converge here.

I can find divers examples of proof for the devolution of humanity, believe that.  Just go to WalMart.

I don’t know what is more frightening- WalMart in the summer, or the stunning vision (or was that a sight) of fat, bald dudes in Speedos that we were treated to at Put-In-Bay.

The Birthday Cruise always ends at the Marion Cemetery, which I have not even come close to fully perusing despite emptying out my memory card and spending a Sunday afternoon last March taking pictures of almost everything that caught my interest. A 2GB card is not enough, especially if you want high res pics.

I’ve always thought this to be the saddest monument in the Marion Cemetery, poor six year old Wallie.  For being almost 150 years old, his monument has held up remarkably well.  Perhaps a grieving mother put this up years after Wallie’s unfortunate and premature passing, but it is consistent with the often maudlin Victorian traditions of memorializing the dead.  In those days death wasn’t just an Old Person Thing confined to hospitals and nursing homes, shrouded in wiring and tubes and technology and sanitized by distance and closed doors.  In 1864, when Wallie succumbed, death was a Living Room Thing, something that visited old and young alike, that was intimate and piercing and all consuming. 

Perhaps in society’s sanitization of death we have also depersonalized it and in the process have stripped ourselves of some of  our humanity.  We live with the false assumption that we have forever. 

Granted, medical science has come a long way in postponing death.  I would have likely been worm food thirty-odd years ago if not for antibiotics (yes people did die from rheumatic fever) and was almost worm food for sure twenty years ago- even with an eleventh hour c-section.   Delaying the inevitable is exactly that, though.  We all have to die, but we aren’t very good at facing it.

Dylan Thomas exhorted us to, “Rage, rage at the dying of the light.”  I think there is a sort of futility in that gesture.  On one hand there is the tragic death of one who seems to forfeit so much potential- someone young, someone with a great deal of talent, but then there is also the tragic life of one who is suffering and weary of life who longs for the sleep and peace of death and can’t find it.  God can make sense of such paradox, but I can’t.

There have been times in my life when I have wondered why I have been left to suck up valuable oxygen while those who I feel to be more worthy of life die.  That’s a question that I can only leave to faith- and to trust in the wisdom of God.  I figure no matter how long I am here, it’s only for a limited time.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…