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.

Moonbat Nation, Tasteful vs. Tacky, and the Things We Do Because?

field and stream

This is an interesting concept.

I can see it now.  This could be the cover of a beefcake (as in nude dudes) calendar with a fishing and hunting motif.   The sign is from a local construction site where they are building a Field and Stream store as well as a Dick’s Sporting Goods.  (Yes, for the sports non-enthusiast,  Dick’s Sporting Goods is a real chain of stores.)  This sign just struck me funny in a puerile, sophomoric way.  It’s bad that I still enjoy toilet humor at my age, but some things are just funny, and it doesn’t matter if you’re 8 or 80.

Today’s trendy habit of photographing every bloody thing under the sun (and I am oh, so guilty of doing it too) provides vast quantities of comedic fodder.  The horrible pics of moonbats in Walmart are proof of that.

thrift store explosion survivor

It just seems incongruent that in these times where everyone has a camera (usually part of the phone) and can take pictures anywhere, that people go out in public looking like something left over from an 80’s slasher flick or an unfortunate survivor of an explosion in a thrift store.  Just because you can go out wearing a halter top, SpongeBob boxers for pants, and you can dye your hair Ronald McDonald red, doesn’t mean you should.

Back in the 1940’s, for example (one of my favorite fashion eras) photography was expensive, and taking pics of people wasn’t a particularly easy endeavor.   It was unlikely that someone would take a random pic of you, and even more unlikely that your pic would appear on screen or in print, ever.  Even so, people dressed a bit more appropriately out in public.  There are no pictures from the 40’s of anyone out in public with underwear showing above belts or pant waists in the middle (or the bottom) of the butt crack.

sagging2_thumb

Women didn’t go running around outside with their back boobs showing either.  It’s no crime to be large, but if you are, dress appropriately.  No one wants to see that.

Back_Boobs793

(Not sure if this is a woman, but you get my drift.)

We have become a nation of freaky moonbats.  It started in the 1960’s when people started doing acid and other hallucinogens, and it’s getting progressively worse.  Maybe I’m noticing this because my parents pretty much opted out of the whole ’60’s counter culture scene except for the thing for Volkswagens.  I know more about old air-cooled Volkswagens than anyone probably should, but as far as I know, my parents are tee-totalers who only take drugs they have scripts for.

vw air cooled

Saturday we’re going to the Ohio State Fair, which among other things, is a Walmart-caliber freak show.  I’m going to try to sneak off some pictures as long as I can do it discretely.  Last year didn’t disappoint.  The Popcorn Festival in Marion is the world-wide showplace of Very Bad Tats (this is coming up in September) and I will have to try to sneak some pics of those too.   The Festival is not an easy place to get pics, as it’s crowded, but the Bad Tat Bazaar (or should I say Bizarre) will be interesting.

I shouldn’t say anything about tats (I do have a small but tasteful rendition of Théophile Steinlen’s Chat Noir on my right calf) but there’s tasteful, artistic tats:

IMG_20130513_093939

And then there’s tacky, drunk-and-stupid ones:

badtatbeer

I did- or I should say Steve-o, aka Mr. Borderline OCD did- some research before we did the whole tat thing.  He was diligent in finding a facility whose standards exceed the county health department’s for cleanliness and sanitation, and whose artists are truly artists.  Getting the Chat Noir applied was a surprisingly pleasant experience over all, and going to a reputable facility was much preferred over getting drunk and giving some recently-released-from-prison bubba with a modified Walkman motor full of hepatitis A, B and C a $20 to scribble permanent scribblings into my skin.  My best friend in high school did that, and she probably still has that particular ex-boyfriend’s name in three inch block letters on her back.  I don’t know if she got hepatitis or not from that jailhouse tat, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

Domestic Insanity and Drunk-n-Stupid Meet Passive-Aggressive Revenge

I know better.  I really do.

I’ve been somewhat ambivalent about taking Mom and Dad down to NC this Saturday.  I really doubt if Dad should be travelling this far this soon after open heart surgery, and I am freaky about taking him down in places where medical assistance is either not available or, if it is, it is, shall we say, primitive.  My sister lives in the middle of nowhere, and you have to drive through 12 hours of mostly nowhere to get there.  On the positive side Dad goes to his Dr. again tomorrow, and I will know for sure then if he will be OK to go, at least on a medical evaluation.

Another thing about this potential road trip that kind of freaks me is that I’m still having exactly the same issues I ended up in the ER for back in June.  Still have the heart palpitations and chest pain and all that mess, but according to the Dr.s I’ve seen including my family Dr., it’s nothing that’s going to kill me.  Yet.  I am still a wee bit apprehensive about driving continuously for 12 hours- Dad is allowed to drive, and probably will at least part of the way down, (Mom won’t be driving at all because she can’t drive manual shift,) but I’m coming back by myself since they’re staying all week. My sister or my nephew will be bringing them back.

I can’t die yet, because I don’t want to vote Democrat.  Ever.

Maybe I’m already on Obama’s death list and I just don’t know it yet.  Maybe there’s a little note in my medical records that says, “let this one die, so we can have more money to buy more pecker pumps for geezers and pay for birth control for people who should be keeping their legs together to begin with.”  I don’t think having heart palpitations constantly and up to the point of barely being able to catch one’s breath is “normal.”  But what the hell do I know?

Or maybe not?  Who knows?

I do know that I don’t want to go back to the same hospital where they called me Mildred and asked about my (non-existent) diarrhea,  put me in the same room with a howler monkey, and then told me that the reason why I have heart palpitations is because I don’t get enough sleep.  Then I go for the sleep study, get told I have sleep apnea, but not to the point where I need to be on a machine…I’m frustrated on that point.  I still don’t sleep for shit, haven’t for years.  I have to sleep at about a 45° angle to keep from drowning on the snot that drains down the back of my throat.   I don’t think I’ve had a really good night’s sleep since before I was pregnant with Steve-o- and he’s 21.  It doesn’t help that I have Tipsy McNumbNuts, who smokes like a chimney, screams like a banchee after a 12 pack or so, and has a taste for bad country music in the middle of the night, conspiring against my nightly repose.

Drunks should come with warning labels.

Jerry was on a roll last night even for a Monday.  I hope the boys at the shop are enjoying Tuesday Hangover Jerry today, ’cause it’s going to be a good one.  I hope they’re at least as loud and obnoxious as he was last night.

His TV, cable box, DVD player and stereo have been carefully configured (by me, he can’t figure out electronic anything) to be very simple to operate.  There is one button on the remote that turns the TV and cable box on and off.  It’s very simple.  Push the power button, TV and cable box turn on simultaneously.  Push the power button again and the TV and cable box turn off.  It’s not rocket science.  It is, however awkward at best to plug all this stuff in so that it works correctly.  I know what plugs in where, but I’m not particularly fond of the gymnastic feats I have to attempt to get the right things plugged into the right places.

It’s too hard for some people.

For some reason only known to God and maybe another drunk, finding the power button on the remote was too difficult for Jerry last night.  He wanted the TV off. So he unplugged everything- even unscrewed the freaking coax off the back of the TV and unplugged the AV leads from the DVD player for some bizarre reason.  Hey, kids, alcohol kills brain cells, just so you know!

Then to make it all the more entertaining, after prattling on all night last night on various rants and assorted nonsense, he’s sitting in the bed whining this morning that “the TV won’t turn on.”  Well, no shit, Sherlock, you unplugged every single wire you could unplug from every single AV device you have…

“Well, I need to watch the news,” he pouts, (insert Eric Cartman voice here) “and if I can’t watch it in here I’ll just use your TV.”

Oh, no you won’t.

Suffice to say as Jerry is a smoker with essential tremor, the world is Jerry’s ashtray.  To top that off, not only do I not want my bed to be full of stale beer farts and cigarette ashes, he doesn’t know how to operate my TV either, and I don’t need that screwed up too.  If he wants his little hole to be a fetid filth den, fine by me, but I like clean, fresh-smelling, burn-hole free sheets and a TV that works.

So at 6:30 this morning I’m back in the filth hole smoking lounge that is his room, behind the dresser, untangling wiring, plugging everything back in and moving the various electronics back to their proper places.  20 minutes later he was watching the stinking news on his own TV.  I could have wrung his neck.  Maybe it wasn’t nice of me to keep on muttering “dumb ass,” but it’s not as if Jerry being a dumb ass is a secret or anything.

I call ’em as I see ’em.  Then again, I’m fully aware he was raised by wolves.

I know he’s pissed at me for volunteering to take Mom and Dad to NC this weekend instead of frying my patoot off at the campground (I like going down there, but not when it’s supposed to be 95° and hotter all weekend.)  He’s pissed because he will have to remain sober so he can go back home Saturday night to take care of the dogs.  So all week long it will be passive-aggressive revenge (and as much drunk-n-stupid hijinks as he can stand to perpetrate) just so I know how much he will be “suffering” in his weekend sobriety.

Sheena Loves Cops, and Other Tidbits Better Left “TMI”

Cops can also be creatures of habit.  I know a couple of them who love to park across the road and watch Jerry when he’s getting drunk and stupid out in the garage.

I’ve said before that my mentally challenged Husky mix, Sheena, has Issues.  One of Sheena’s passions is to escape the confines of our back yard (and it’s not that difficult considering it is surrounded by a rather elderly, oft-repaired fence) so that she can play with the kids at the Drunk and Domestic apartments behind the body shop.  Sheena has never met a human that I know of that she doesn’t like.

This mentality seems so foreign to me in a dog, especially because I am used to dogs being quite a bit more aloof.  Clara and Lilo have to be carefully introduced to new people and strange dogs.  You have to earn their trust.  Sheena is not like that at all.  She is a 75# galoot who will love you forever just for petting her.  This makes Sheena a bit more difficult to manage than the other two in some ways.  Unlike a normal dog she doesn’t really alert on strange people encroaching on her territory.  She only really barks when she wants to go out.

Jerry, as is typical for him, decided to get shitfaced last night.  Jerry being shitfaced is not news, but I was bound determined to get an early bedtime and at least try to get some sleep.

So I turned off the phone and shut the bedroom door at about 9PM, hoping at least for a quiet night.  I should know better.

Around 10:30 I hear incessant pounding on the front door.  Clara and Lilo start in going nuts barking and howling and wanting to eat whatever’s on the other side.  Jerry is running around with no shirt on babbling incoherently (thankfully he still had pants on) until I caught the word “cops” in the prattling.  So I put on enough clothing to be decent and go out to investigate.  Sure enough, there’s a cop car in the driveway, two cops on the porch, and Sheena’s sitting in the back seat of the cruiser sporting that shit-eating grin that only dim-witted dogs can completely pull off.

I apologized to the cops, (who must have really thought I was some kind of a nut job running outside in an old t-shirt and shorts with no makeup and my hair sticking straight up) thinking that either I’d be fined or otherwise in some kind of trouble, but they were cool about it.  They said Sheena was no problem at all, and she got in the car with them most willingly.  To their credit, they weren’t interested in making my life more difficult.  They just wanted to make sure Sheena got home safely.  They could have been dicks about it had they wanted to be- by rights, even though she is duly licensed, because technically she was neither confined nor leashed, they could have taken her down to the Dog Shelter and I’d had to gone to a rather unsavory part of town and paid $125 to retrieve her.  Yeah, it’s easier to just go around the corner and drop the dog off at home, because everyone at the D&Ds, and the cops, because of how often they are called out to the D&Ds, know whose dog it is.  Sheena is rather memorable if only because of her resemblance to the Abominable Snowman.

Close enough…

It’s a good thing Jerry generally doesn’t remember the nasty epithets that roll so easily off my tongue when I am rudely awakened- let alone rudely awakened and then left to deal with cops.   It’s also a good thing that Jerry had a shred of sentience back in that crude reptilian part of his brain that kept him from interacting with the cops, mouthing off, and getting his sorry butt carted off for drunk and disorderly.  In Ohio all it takes to get busted for drunk and disorderly, and to get to spend the night in the nearest correctional facility, is for a cop to see you shitfaced.  Jerry knows this from personal experience, and suffice to say that retrieving him from public custody would be far more expensive and unpleasant (and I would have to encounter a far more unsavory crowd) than trying to retrieve Sheena from the Dog Shelter.

Both Clara and Lilo are terrified of cops, especially two big burly ones like the ones who brought Sheena home, but Sheena seemed to like the attention.

I’m glad the cops had mercy on poor Sheena.  She’s had a rough enough life.  However, either Jerry needs to find Sheena’s current escape hole (not usually difficult as an uncoordinated 75# dog has to fit through it) and patch the fence (again,) or refrain from letting her out the front door (which considering how shitfaced he was last night is within the realm of possibility.)

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

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.

Clandestine Observations, Weed Whacking While Drunk-and-Stupid, and Hooray for Technology!

I never realized how much more affordable covert surveillance equipment has become in the past few years.  Some of Jerry’s drunk-and-stupids would be positively You Tube gold.  The time he tried to start a fire in the fireplace with gasoline would have been right up there with the stuff you see on World’s Dumbest or 1,000 Ways to Die, only flashpoint doesn’t kill you, (usually) but it does burn off body hair.

Speaking of 1,000 Ways to Die  today I had to explain to some Uncle Dad (ill-educated backwoods redneck) that there’s a reason why one does not install a remote start kit on a vehicle with a manual transmission.   Something about disabling the neutral safety switch (the gadget that keeps you from starting the car unless you have your foot on the clutch) is one of those Not Very Good Ideas.  Just color me ethically cautious, but 20+ years in automotive have made me both cautious and cynical when considering the average person’s ability to understand simple directions, i.e. being 100% sure the car is in neutral when you try to start it without having your foot on the clutch.   If I’m telling you a particular modification is not a good idea, chances are I’ve either tried it (lots of experience in the School of the Burned Hand) or observed the carnage when someone else did.  I spent way too many years of my life in mechanical shops and in close proximity to body shops. 

It  does beg the question why would anyone want a remote start kit (even if you don’t drive a manual transmission car) to begin with.  I don’t want my car running without me in it.  This is Ohio, and winters can get cold, but it does not get cold enough here to warrant letting any modern car run unattended for any length of time.  That’s why vehicle manufacturers came up with all the nice innovations such as computer controlled idle and timing and electronic fuel injection.  The electronic controls make the necessary adjustments to idle, timing and fuel mix to adapt to the ambient temperature, so that puppy is going to start and run even if it’s cold.  Start the bloody thing and take off already, that’s how newer vehicles are designed.  It heats up quicker that way (both the engine and the heater, which gets hot because the cooling system from the engine gets hot) and it saves gasoline.  It’s not like back in the day when you had to play with carburetors and chokes and mechanical distributors and such, only to put the car in gear and have it stall out if you didn’t let it sit and idle and get relatively warm first.

Believe me, I don’t miss carburetion or conventional ignition one bit.  The scary thing is I am old enough to remember both- and know how they (are supposed to) work.  Rube Goldberg had nothing on 1970’s and 1980’s (blecch!) domestic carbureted vehicles’ fuel and emissions systems. It’s a bloody engineering marvel if and when they DO work.  Most of the time they didn’t, especially in the the depth of a wet, cold Ohio winter.  There’s a reason why nobody is still driving their old 1982 Chevette- many reasons, actually, but I don’t think there are very many of those old turds left that still can be driven- even if the floorboards by some Act of God failed to rust through.

I may be one of the last surviving women on the planet who knows how to decipher GM carburetor (and differential, and speedometer gear) charts.  Just because I know how to look up the component parts for these old carburetors in the old GM charts doesn’t mean they are available (most probably aren’t) but it’s a quaint old skill, sort of like using a slide rule, or writing a letter using pen and ink.  The guys who play with vintage/classic cars will understand exactly what I’m talking about, but most people will scratch their heads and wonder what the flying thunder I’m talking about.  Have fun rebuilding that four barrel Rochester for your Chevelle.  There are vintage suppliers who still deal with that old stuff, but as for me, progress is a good thing.  I may be many things, and not all of them lovely, but I am certainly not a technophobe- especially as it applies to the automotive world. I want to see a car that gets 100MPG (if it’s not too dorky- like the Smart Car that has no room but still doesn’t get any better mileage than my 4 door Yaris sedan- or expensive I would probably buy it) and for the most part I like the electronics and gadgetry available today.

However, I don’t need a remote start, even if it were safe to use them on a manual transmission vehicle (and trust me, it’s NOT!)  I really don’t mind being a bit cold for a few minutes while the heater warms up, and there are few things I disdain more than wasting gasoline.

Speaking of wasting gasoline in creative ways, I got to observe yet another drunk-and-stupid adventure last night.  Joy!  I am afraid to look in the back yard.  Jerry found himself a very sweet high-faluting John Deere weed whacker.  Now, I don’t get excited in the least about yard implements.  I don’t like yard work, and I’m doing good to even start a lawn mower or a weed whacker.  But Jerry loves yard work, and he loves the lawn tools, with the passion that middle-aged men have for all things lawn, and he gets even more excited about dangerous gasoline-powered toys when he’s good and besnookered.  After a twelve pack, and after Bob showed him how to put line in this particular weed whacker, Jerry was out to weed whack everything.  I stayed in the house with the dogs.  I am only hoping he steered clear of the tomato plants, the eggplants and the zucchinis.  I will have to go investigate tonight when I get home and can see the carnage in the light of day.  I am hoping he kept his whacking activity limited to the weeds around the sidewalk and the hedges, but redneck + alcohol + gasoline powered lawn toy is bound to equal some sort of mass destruction of plant life and anything else he could reach with the whacker.

I need to get some of the spy camera and micro DVR stuff.  Jerry out running amok with the weed whacker would have been priceless You Tube fodder.