Dancing in My Mind, and Memory is Bittersweet

snow white yeah right

No, I don’t believe in that “Happy Ever After” shit.

I’m one of those people who does a lot of living behind my own eyes.  I can be remarkably scatterbrained when it comes to things such as “where’s my stuff?” or “what’s that dude’s name?, ” but when I happen upon an experience or an event that I want to remember, those memories remain vivid and in living, breathing color.  Believe that.

For me the garden of memory is almost more alive than the real thing, if that’s possible. Sometimes that’s not so good, especially if I am stuck on a scene of disappointment or rejection, or mourning, but some trips to the garden of memory are positively magical.

Over the past few years I’ve allowed myself to fall into the pattern of being constrained by what I see as the limitations of my circumstances.  Admittedly being married to a chronic boozer who has ED and a laundry list of other physical and psychological issues is a huge downer, and not exactly good for one’s self-esteem.

drunk

Jerry enjoys his beer drinking- and isn’t compelled to do anything about it.

I’m not referring to self-esteem in the vapid sense of “feeling good about yourself,” as in the phenomenon where some people treat their kids as though they deserve a prize for remaining vertical and continuing to suck up valuable oxygen.  I’m talking about self image in a realistic way: I may be scatterbrained and wired differently than most people, but I manage to function somewhat effectively.  I might be plain and proportioned like a mutant troll, but fuglier people than I still manage to have relationships, and fuglier people than I still manage to get laid from time to time.  So I may not be “normal,” but I’m not that screwed up, I hope.

TorridTeaser

Old, yes, but I’m really, really, really low mileage.

It’s as if his dysfunction colors my outlook, and to a degree it does.  I can’t say that going years without participating in the horizontal mambo is a good thing.  I didn’t ask for the celibate life, and I truly don’t care for it.  Being treated as a glorified maid and gopher doesn’t do much for feeling feminine or desirable or any of that business that I would like to say doesn’t matter, but deep down on some level it does.

A big part of me feels like a failure because in the back of my mind I guilt trip- what if I’d done more?  What if I’d been more perceptive, more loving, or maybe less frumpy and boring?  I guilt trip because maybe I shouldn’t feel the way I do (and I don’t acknowledge my feelings all too often, and when I do, I try not to give them much credence, which is probably a good thing) and that I should just suck it up and be glad Jerry can still dress and feed himself-for now.

turbovibe

I don’t think I could handle the guilt trip if I just picked up and left, and that’s messed up too.  I said I would stay with him, though it’s been a very long almost 20 years.  I feel like the life has been sucked out of me- to the point that a mere acknowledgment from a ghost from the past left me almost euphoric yesterday.   Someone still gives half a shit!  A half of a drink of water in an endless desert! It’s a sad state of affairs when I get that little affirmation.

But there is life beyond my limitations.  I did have a life in front of my eyes, at one time.  And I did enjoy myself for a moment in the garden of a particularly sweet memory yesterday and it did lift my spirits more than it probably should have.

There was a time- and maybe this is just my own wishful thinking- that I was desired and wanted and pursued.  As much as I don’t want to admit to having a need to be wanted by men or even by a man (this reminds me way too much of the fairy tale bullshit shoved down little girls’ throats as they’re growing up) even I want to be more than just the one who gets to clean up the cat puke or dog shit, (Jerry’s really good at spotting it, but apparently unable to pick it up for some unfathomable reason) or the only one to run errands because I’m the only one who’s sober.  Living like that – as a sort of an indentured servant- doesn’t do much for one’s emotional and spiritual wellbeing.  I’ve said it before that my marriage at best is sort of a symbiotic relationship, but at worst, is more like a parasite-host relationship, which is sad but often true.  I try to regard Jerry’s indifference in context because he really does care more about beer and football and cigarettes than pretty much anything else.  Therefore I need to stick to my own agenda and interests- and fantasy life if that’s all I have, if I have any hope of staying remotely sane.

drawing butts

I wish I had the courage to reach out to an old friend (though paramour would probably be a more accurate word) and lay it on the line.  Even if I risk rejection (oh, and believe me, I do,) my heart hasn’t changed in over 20 years. I have to come clean with how I felt then and still feel today, and admit it, even though the time and the circumstances probably aren’t any more “right” than they were back then.

That sort of honesty has always seemed to me to have far more risk than reward.  I am so terrible at reading the motives and behavior of others.  I have enough trouble with my own motivations to try to figure out what sort of mischief is brewing in other people’s minds.

Side Effects May Include “Death,” But At Least I’m Enjoying the Ride

sideeffects

 

I have to wonder at all these TV ads for various prescription meds.   There are a lot of them- especially the ones for rheumatoid arthritis and psoriasis- that actually say in their disclaimers that using that drug can lead to death.  I think I’d rather deal with  joint pain and skin rash.  The last time I checked, stiff and inflamed joints and/or unsightly skin are just a tad bit less severe than death.  Of course you have to weigh the risks vs. benefits when you decide whether or not to take a certain medication, but I try to steer clear of the ones where “death” is listed as a possible side effect.  I’m not a fan of “occasional bleeding from the eye sockets” or “prolonged anal itching” either.

pills

I know that the trial lawyers are always trolling about to strike it big on the pharmaceutical companies because someone dies (or is somehow maimed)  from a side effect of a drug.  There’s always a commercial on telling people they can get compensation if their son’s ADHD meds gave him titties, or if the pelvic mesh or the artificial hip gives out, or if that pesky vision loss brought on by gratuitous use of ED meds just won’t go away.

viagra-side-effects-300x265

Speaking of rides, I am enjoying mine immensely.  I am quite impressed with the Corolla so far.  Usually I know pretty well what I will and won’t like from the build sheet and tech specs.

14corolla

This car doesn’t really scream “mom sedan” like the older Corollas.  I had a 1998 (that was the last Corolla I had) that I really liked- but it was a bit on the frumpy side.  That’s why I just had to have the 2000 Celica when it came out.  I did take a moment to drool over the Scion FRS while I was at the dealer, but I need a four door, and I really don’t want to attract the attention of law enforcement.  This Corolla is about the same size as the older Camrys and is quite a bit larger than the Yaris, but it still doesn’t feel like a land yacht.  The steering and suspension are a lot more responsive than the Yaris (not a surprise there) and it doesn’t get blown around in the wind like the Yaris did.

The freaky thing about this car is the electronics.  It has navigation and Bluetooth and all the toys (which I am still learning) and those things are pretty fun.

Of course I am weird in how I buy cars.  I know pretty much exactly what I want before I even contact a dealer, and I know pretty much what I’m willing to pay.  I know the tech specs – all that stuff about suspensions, transaxles, engine displacement, torque, horsepower, etc. – and features better than most salespeople, although the navigation and smartkey options are new to me.

I’ve always appreciated the four cylinder sports car- along the lines of the ’83 VW GTI  or the 2000 Celica, both of which I can still smack myself for trading off- but in practical application I’ve had more four cylinder econoboxes and mom sedans.

I think I’ve found an interesting compromise here.

A Day Without Scatological References is a Day Without Sunshine, and Selected Sophomoric Observations

assholeinground

As long as we have this clear.

There is a classic scene from one of my favorite, and timeless movies, The Jerk, where Navin Johnson’s Dad explains to him the difference between shit and Shinola.  For those who may not be aware, Shinola was a waxy shoe polish that was popular in the beginning of the 20th century.   I know that sometimes I have a sophomoric obsession with things scatological, but it seems that many people in this world are having a hard time telling the difference.

I can go on and on about entropy and devolution- especially after perusing the illegitimate president’s mostly plagiarized speech (lots of tidbits lifted from the State of the Union address given by President G.W. Bush, 2007) and realizing that this despot is hell-bent on ruling by executive fiat, but there isn’t much I can do about that.  Obama is pretty much beyond rationality, and the only course for rational people is to do what they can to mitigate his nonsense and attempt to block his unconstitutional actions for the next three years.   Nothing productive or positive will get done in government as long as the Imperial BO is still squatting in the Oval Office, but hopefully by the grace of God (and a gridlocked Congress) some of the potential damage can be thwarted.

king obama

Let’s just say I wasn’t surprised by the last blast of hot air to come from Washington.  Obama makes me want to puke.

Sometimes I think that if there is such a thing as parallel universes and/or if there is a universe for every possible combination of actions and decisions, that I got dropped in one of the more insane sets of possibilities. There are physicists who say that everything boils down to one big long complex equation.  It probably does.  Just don’t ask me to explain it.

Standard_Model_Equation

I was doing good to pass high school algebra.

The really scary thing that I’ve come to realize is that the “powers that be” who have all sorts of high faluting expensive pieces of paper from supposedly prestigious institutions of learning, are proving themselves to be rank imbeciles.  Maybe I’m just cynical, (and largely self-educated,) but I think these supposedly prestigious institutions care about two things: the money, and where the money’s coming from.

Maybe I’m being negative and fatalistic, but I am beginning to believe that higher education has been hijacked, and that the “powers that be” are presiding over a continual dumbing down of the populace.  Sadly, such a theory makes sense.  If you want to remain in power, and acquire more power, it might be in your best interests to keep your subjects stupid.  That was the mindset behind the Romans’ free bread and circuses.  Keep the people fat and sassy and uninformed, and they won’t care if you strip them of their rights.

bread and circuses

Americans don’t even need the Olympics to be distracted.  The Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo are enough.

honey-boo-boo-

See what I mean?

There isn’t much that I can do.  I can try to find the humor in popular culture, but even that is a sort of bittersweet adventure.  Some things are funny and some things are just plain sad.  Why do the media care about people who dress up little girls to look like street walkers- and why do they follow around adult women who already look like street walkers who have nothing better to do than spend money on stupid things and cavort around with gangsta rappers? Are we obsessed with such bizarre families and weird behavior because the circus freak shows of days gone by have become politically incorrect?  Instead of “Let’s go to the carnival to see the bearded lady, ” it’s “Let’s watch Mama June?”

Plus ςa change, plus c’est la même chose.

I enjoy perusing ads for Victorian patent medicines and other nostrums that were popular in the mid-to late 19th century.  You just want to believe they would work even though most of the “medicines” were comprised of heroin, alcohol or a healthy combination of both.

parkers tonic

You might not be “cured,” but you’ll be too stoned to care.

I also find humor in some of the 19th century euphemisms for ED (which is itself, a euphemism, but it’s just not nice to say “he has a limp dick.”)

self abuse

Certain parts of the body enlarged…hmm?  And exactly what is a tansy?

Now if I could get my hands on this and if it actually worked, I would be a most delighted old bitty.

save the drunkard

I thought that was what that “Anabuse” pill was for – to make you puke every time you take a drink.

E.D. Soup, Face Nair, Pathos, and The Vacuum Cleaner Sucks

Maybe I’m the only one who sees the humor in this.  My thought is: Is the soup ostensibly a cure for E.D., or is it something designed to cause it?  Is there salt peter in it?  I know E.D. is no laughing matter- it can be rather pathetic, especially if you’re a woman consigned to involuntary celibacy because of it.  Of course, the poor guy at the Chinese joint (who is from China, and English is not his first language) probably had no idea “E.D.” is a common abbreviation for “erectile dysfunction.”  He used E.D. as an abbreviation for “egg drop.”

I love Chinese food and Chinese restaurants but I never really had much of a taste for egg drop soup- generally I prefer wonton or occasionally hot and sour.  This order of egg drop soup was for one of the guys I work with.  I am not going to ask him if his soup order affected his love life in any way.  That would be TMI.  There are some things I really don’t care to know.

Now I remember what I forgot to get at Sally’s- Face Nair.  I do have that handy $5 off coupon I got for renewing my card which will cover most of it.  I buy plenty of stuff at Sally’s- more than enough to justify having the discount card.  They are the only ones who have the fiberglass nail wraps and acrylic resin I use on my nails.  I hate the powdered crap (it doesn’t work) but the liquid acrylic resin with the spray hardener is the way to go.  It’s similar to the stuff used in auto body repair.  Go figure.

Just thinking about Jerry’s most disturbing inadequacy is depressing.  I can forgive the drunkenness, slovenliness (even right after his tirade of a few minutes ago, when he was bitching because I had not cleaned his mess up in a more timely manner, and the tirade that directly followed the “you need to clean up my mess- again- tirade,” when he bitched about how he didn’t like how I listed his crap on Craig’s List,) and his downright lack of anything resembling consideration or manners, but I find his unwillingness to address his E.D. the worst of all his flaws.  I know he was raised by wolves and that explains a lot of his ignorance and rudeness.  But one would think a normal man would actually care whether or not Willie works, and  I would presume a normal man with a limp willie would do something about it.  I am surprised his Dad hasn’t told him to soak it in kerosene (apparently this is an old time Appalachian hemorrhoid cure) but I doubt that he and his Dad have had a man-to-man about his malfunctioning member.

I’m learning to tune out the bitching.  I even have noise canceling headphones so that I can drown out the oat opera torture sessions.  I don’t have a reasonable substitute for a real man though, and that bothers me sometimes.  In fact, it bothers me a lot of the time.  So much so that it requires me to (vehemently at times) resist the temptation to reconnect with a certain old friend.  As much as I would love to rekindle communication with this particular old friend, I don’t trust myself.  There is too much potential there for me to cross boundaries it would be wrong for me to cross. Suffice to say if times and places and circumstances had been different-there could have been something wonderful there- but if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.  Some things simply weren’t meant to be, and I am enough of a realist to know better than to ruminate on impossibilities.

Color me old-fashioned, but I am not the “friends with benefits” type.  I can’t say that I am a terribly emotional person, but even the rational side of me has a hard time making the disconnect between physical contact and emotional attachment.    I have a hard time with any sort of physical contact with people anyway- even men I find to be attractive.  I generally don’t like to be touched even in the most innocuous ways.  I even hate having my hair cut because I don’t like people touching my hair.  I do my own nails partially out of poverty and partially because it is weird for me to let people touch my hands.  Even if I had the emotional connection I would need to even want to get physical with a man,  I can’t live with the guilt and I’m not into those kind of games.

There are days I really want to knock Jerry on his ass but then I’m probably not the easiest person to live with either.  I try to be quiet and stay out of the way for the most part.  It’s safer that way.

I can’t help it.  This is funny.  I know there are those who will claim that humans can do just fine on a vegan diet.  Perhaps this is true, and more power to the vegans and vegetarians out there.  But I like meat.  I also find it ironic that vegans would keep cats (and many do) knowing that cats are obligatory carnivores.  Cats will die without meat products in their diets.

I can eat meat…but…never mind.  It’s not nice. I’m trying to keep my mind out of the gutter, and my heart from despair.

Maybe someone will get me something on my birthday list.  Even the 12 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper would be nice.  Or a new vacuum cleaner that actually sucks and that still has wheels on it.  The vacuum cleaner, the one thing that is supposed to suck- doesn’t suck very well unless I constantly empty the dirt box and unclog the dog hair from the intake.

The vacuum cleaner sucks more when it doesn’t suck.  What irony.

If beating my rugs would get the dog hair out of them, I’d try it.

Still Sucking Up Valuable Oxygen, the Beauty of a Lean Christmas, and Being the Stealth Cougar

This morning I was reminded that God must have some purpose for me as I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen.  Perhaps it is to keep on depositing money in Steve-o’s account.   It’s always creepy to hear of a person near my own age with no known health issues to simply drop dead for what appears to be no reason.  In a way- though I’ve been warned I probably won’t make it to old age-it makes me wonder if I am going to end up one of those people who still have a mind but their body goes all to hell.  My great-grandmother (who died at age 94 and was more mentally sound than I am now until she had the stroke that killed her) had a plethora of bodily ailments- rheumatoid arthritis, heart issues, lung cancer (she was a hard core smoker for 40+ years,) breast cancer, you name it -but until the last two weeks of her life her mind was all there.  Then you have the old people whose bodies seem to hang in there just fine but their minds are gone and they turn crazy as a shithouse rat.  If I were prone to wagering, which I am generally not, I would say my body will go before my mind does.  I can’t say which is worse.  It would suck to lose your mind, but as they say, “ignorance is bliss.”  Some of the happiest people I’ve seen are mentally challenged, and I’ve seen some people with genuinely brilliant intellects who are emotional and spiritual shipwrecks.  Perhaps the wisest answer is to trust that God will get you through with the hand He deals you.  Now I know why I don’t play poker.

I am holding fast to my vow to avoid buying people a bunch of crap they don’t need and that I can’t afford.  I am enjoying the simplicity of my Charlie Brown disaster tree although I did take the time to fix the lights so that they all light and they blink when they’re supposed to, at least for now.  I will buy the nieces and nephews loads of candy- since they are still young enough to be able to enjoy it- and that will be about it.  Anyone who doesn’t like that is cordially invited to send Steve-o money to free my finances up so I can spend money on something other than him, taxes, insurance or scripts.

I have to admit I still enjoy the eye candy and I really don’t think the young dudes realize it.  I just look old enough to be your Mom.  I know, I’m harmless enough, but in a way it’s sort of depressing.  Most guys my age and older don’t offer much of an appealing visual.  There are some notable exceptions (Mike Rowe…) but what woman wouldn’t find him fine to look at?  I guess for safety’s sake I should only be looking at dudes from afar because I know just how easy I can be tempted should an opportunity arise.  The good thing is my frumpy looks and rather boring appearance are good for keeping me chaste if nothing else.  The bottom line is I don’t get offers, which is probably a good thing.  This old white chick is extremely low mileage, probably for the same reason Ford Edsels weren’t particularly popular.  Even though they ran, they were ugly and awkward and not terribly fun to drive.  Such is my fate.

I had the opportunity to embarrass the snot out of Jerry Saturday night.  One of his buddies from the shop wanted Jerry to procure him an Asian porno flick.  I’m not terribly impressed by porn- most of the time it’s just plain gross, the music is horrible and the plots are contrived- but what the hey, we were out on Morse Rd. anyway.  So I took him to the Lion’s Den.  The couple who manage the store were very gregarious, displaying toys and telling him which movies were on sale and so forth.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him turn such a bright shade of red.  I could tell he was trying to look away as I was casually perusing the “toy” section.  We got the movie and got out fairly quickly but I have to say I enjoyed seeing him so embarrassed.  He didn’t offer to buy me any toys while we were there, which was kind of lame, since nature has dealt him a rather crappy hand in that department.    Let’s just say for politeness sake I tolerate involuntary celibacy, but I don’t enjoy it.  I really shouldn’t blame nature for his ED either- beers don’t drink themselves and cigarettes don’t smoke themselves-and drinking and smoking both are linked to ED.  As I said, he could at least procure me some battery operated substitutes, but go figure. 

I am reminded of a medical joke: A little old man goes to the Dr. for a complete physical. The Dr. asks the little old man to show him his sex organs.  The little old man wiggles his index finger and sticks out his tongue. 

Perhaps he doesn’t want to enhance my fantasy life any more than I do on my own.  It’s truly not funny although I try my best to find humor in it, lest his ED problem become yet more fodder to feed my discontent and depression.  Living with Mr. High Maintenance would be a lot easier if we had any kind of a sex life.  It’s particularly frustrating that he refuses to seek medical help or to even to try alternative kinds of bedroom fun (i.e. toys,).  And he wonders why I sleep in a separate room, in my own bed.  Part of it is because I have to sleep on an incline due to my constantly draining sinuses- to keep me from drowning in my own snot- and that’s the official answer I give, but the real answer is I see little point in the inconvenience of sharing a bed (with a snoring smoker no less) unless there’s a some action going on every once in awhile. 

I have to move forward from this subject (I almost used the phrase “get off,” then thought better of it,) before I go from slight melancholy to full blown depression.

Suffice to say that for some reason the Good Lord is keeping  me breathing, even with my laundry list of  physical defects and medical issues, when others who appear perfectly healthy drop dead for no apparent cause.  No matter how much I may speculate and think it unfair that those who have so much to live for are taken out of the world in a seemingly untimely manner, and people like me who basically are just sucking up valuable oxygen and waiting to die linger on for no readily apparent reason, it’s not my judgment call.  Go figure.  I’m not in control and that’s a very good thing.  Ask not for whom the bell tolls.