Things to be Thankful For, Tempus Fugit, Taxidermy and Coffee Tables

murphy's

It has been a difficult past week for me.  I am thankful I don’t live in Boston.  I’ve been struggling with anxiety and panic attacks again and I’m sure that if we had random bombings going on in Columbus on top of the events (which were not related and had nothing to do with the Marathon bombing)  that got me back in the scared rabbit mode, that would send me bat shit crazy over the edge.

Of course, when the shit hits the fan it comes at one from all directions.  I really don’t feel like getting into the particular details, because I’m just now starting to settle back down enough to stop hyperventilating and for the PVCs to let up some.   For those who aren’t acquainted with medical lingo, PVC stands for premature ventricular contractions.  It means the bottom half of your heart goes off before it should.  It’s a sort of catch in my heart rhythm that I usually don’t notice, and is likely a (supposedly harmless) side-effect of rheumatic fever, but it’s aggravated by stress.  This week has been nothing but continual stress on a stick.

When the PVCs get going bad, the runaway train feeling and constant catching and pounding keeps me awake and I’ve actually gone to the hospital for it once (won’t do that again)  because they were happening so often I’d freak out and couldn’t catch my breath.

freaked

One thing I will say about that last hospital trip is that I’ll die first before I call the squad from home again.  They kept me overnight- next to a poor old woman with dementia who screamed like a howler monkey all night- and did the whole cardiac workup.  This was back in July.

Supposedly the whole PVC thing is perfectly “innocuous,” but this assessment came from the same hospital where I was mistaken for a 95 year old woman with a flaming case of Montezuma’s revenge.  I know for being 44 I’ve been rode hard and put away wet, but I don’t think I look 95 just yet.  I don’t know if I should trust them or not.  Eventually I will end up needing a pacemaker or other correction for the abnormal rhythm, according to the cardiologist who ran all the tests, but not quite yet.

That’s not terribly reassuring.  The question is how do you know when the rhythm gets so out of whack that it’s time for the pacemaker?  Do you have to fall over or pass out or almost die?

“Yeah, Mildred, just take some Imodium and your screaming shits should be gone in no time.”

“But I’m not Mildred, and I don’t have the shits.”

Hopefully if and when the Big One hits, I will be in close proximity to any other hospital but that one. Unfortunately it’s only a five mile trip down I-270 to that particular hospital from my house.  The better hospitals are on the other side of town.

Either that or the Lord will take me quickly so I’ll not have to endure the indignity.

fred sanford

To add insult to injury, a guy I used to work with died on Wednesday.  He was an Army vet and a very cool individual.  Unfortunately he had been severely ill for several years before he died.  Even worse his wife had him in an open casket (I loathe the whole open casket thing to begin with) and he looked really bad.  The calling hours were last night.  Even though I had a horrible week and just wanted to go home and go to bed, I thought it best to go and to pay respects and offer condolences to his wife- she is a lovely person, and I really felt for her after going through so many years of his illness.

I did offer some words of condolence to his wife, but I had to beat feet quickly.  Nobody likes funeral homes, and it really sucks when it’s someone who was cool and died too young from nasty diseases (emphysema and heart disease.)   But after being stressed out and freaked all week I couldn’t handle being in a funeral home for more than a few minutes.  The PVCs kicked in with a vengeance and I couldn’t catch my breath.  That was my cue to get in the car and take off.

grill coffin

You might as well do something funny if you are going to do those horrible open casket displays.

coffee table

Steve-o will probably have me taxidermied and installed in a glass topped coffee table.  He is a sick puppy- but creative!

One thing I will say about untimely death is that it is an ever present reminder : tempus fugit- time flies.  Even when it seems to be standing still.

Slowly I’m calming back down, and I am trying to look around and be thankful for the moment, and remember that life is short.

Bad Fashion Choices, Where did the Pink Toilet Paper Go? and Other Mysteries

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When, oh, when will the “pants halfway down the ass” trend go out of style?

This just plain looks dorky, and further proves my theory that the devolution of humanity is moving forward at an incrementally swifter speed. The other disturbing fashion trend I observe rather frequently here in beautiful central Ohio is large women failing to wear enough clothing to adequately cover their surface area.   There is no crime in being large, but I don’t want to see your “muffins.”

I also feel it unnecessary for you to burn my retinas with the visual of your behemoth buncakes so tightly wrapped in stretched out spandex so that I see both the cellulite and your size 20 thong.   Neither do I want to see the misspelled memorial to “Cuzzin Skeezix, RIP 6-3-03” that’s tattooed on your shoulder along with a badly drawn eagle with “Freebird” written under it.  Either you’re memorializing your cousin, or paying tribute to Lynryd Skynyrd, but it’s sort of in poor taste to do both with the same tat.

woof

May I suggest less revealing swimwear?

walmart

Really?  You thought your two year old’s shorts would fit your lard ass?

I’ve wondered for a long time where the pink toilet paper went.  Grandma always had pink toilet paper, to match her pink bathroom and her pink shitter lid covers and all that, even though Mom got on her about it because Mom thought there was something in the dye that would both clog up the john and give you ass cancer.

Then again, Mom had some pretty weird thoughts about both plumbing issues and what gives you cancer.  In her world there was a major choice between pouring bacon grease down the sink (granted, that will clog up your plumbing, and I do not advocate pouring grease down the drain) and getting cancer from consuming bacon and/or bacon grease.  I solve that problem by letting the dogs eat the bacon grease, because I figure Jerry eats enough bacon that if it gave one ass cancer he would have it by now, and dogs don’t generally live long enough to get ass cancer anyway.

However, I don’t pour bacon grease down the sink.  Ever.   That shit will clog the pipes, and the plumber is expensive.  The last time I had to call a plumber was over the catfish head in the disposal.  That cost $250 as well as the dude left an epic shitcaked mess all over the kitchen floor.  You would think for that kind of scratch the dude would have returned my under-sink items to their former locations and freaking mopped the floor.

Northern Toilet Paper Pink

Grandma had these stacked under the bathroom sink.

Even so, I sort of miss pink toilet paper in a strange kind of way.  It did cost a bit more than plain white, but not that much more to make any kind of difference.  I think the greenies scared people off of it, but Grandma had neither ass cancer nor plumbing issues associated with it.  For my own use, I prefer regular white toilet paper, simply because it’s easier to see whether or not you got the job done, but colored toilet paper was sort of a curious thing.

I’m kind of glad to know there are people weirder than me.  For instance, who would want black toilet paper?  Vampires?  And if you can’t see what’s on the paper how do you know when you’ve finished the job, unless you have a wet wipe -or a bidet?

black tp

This might be a hit at the funeral home.

Then there’s the quandary regarding men and toilet paper.  If a roll lasts a single guy a month, what is he doing with it? I have to assume he’s blowing his nose with it (men do not buy Kleenex, but they will use them when women strategically place them) but probably not wiping his ass.

I do the laundry.  There’s either not much TP being used for actual hiney hygiene, or they’re doing it wrong.

ridengo

Solve two problems at once, and never endure another filthy gas station bathroom again.

On Maudlin Sentiment, Man-Clean, and Dirty Laundry

I don’t know what motivated me to take this pic but I find it interesting.  A couple of years ago I went with Steve-o to tour a technical school in Connecticut (thankfully he ended up in Lima, OH, which is sort of a long story, but the Connecticut foray was an interesting road trip.)  Just outside of Hartford CT, there are small family farms and it really is somewhat picturesque.  I took a pic of the compost pile above because I found it such a contrast- lovely scenery, a beautiful sunrise, and- boom-  a steaming pile of shit.  What an appropriate metaphor for maudlin sentiment.  I am not the type of person who responds well to flowery diatribes and superfluous praise.  In fact, I see right through it.  Cut to the chase and tell me what you want.  I have learned the (easy to me, at least,) lesson that no one butters a piece of bread without intending to take a bite out of it.   Nobody butters me up unless they want something from me.

It’s better to tell it like it is so that people know exactly where you stand.  Of course I don’t think Jerry has washed a dish in his life- which is OK with me- I eat off of those dishes and utensils too,  and I would rather have them clean and in one piece (tremor disorder and wet, soapy, slippery, breakable dishes do not go together well) than to attempt to drive home a point.  Perhaps the general laissez-faire attitude toward caution and cleanliness that is prevalent to the male of the species is the reason why so many mothers fail to train boys to do domestic chores.  I have to admit I didn’t usually press the issue of washing dishes with Steve-o either, not because I was afraid of him breaking dishes, but because I know where his hands have been.  Anyone who can jam his index finger up his nose up to the third joint and pull out a worm-like, amazing green, streamer of snot should not be fingering things I’m going to be eating off.  I know his hygiene has improved in the past few years but still.  No matter how much soap is in that dish water,  the snotty visual remains.

There is such a thing as “man-clean.”  Man-clean is when something is sort of cleaned up, but not very well. 

This toilet is man-clean, because you can actually see some white porcelain here and there, and there is clear water in the bowl.   Before the man “cleaned” it there was no toilet paper, and the bowl was full of used chili dogs and processed Natty Lites.  Putting toilet paper on the roll is a Herculean undertaking for any man, so he’s going to want brownie points for that, even if he used up most of the roll blowing his nose in it.  Flushing deserves even more points, especially if the plunger was involved.  Of course this level of clean is not acceptable to any woman, so when a man would report that he “cleaned” the above bathroom, a woman would don a pair of gloves, grab the Clorox and get to scrubbing.

I think men are allergic to Clorox.

Man-clean as it applies to keeping young children remotely sanitary is especially scary.  “Hosing off the big chunks” is not an acceptable approach to bathing kids, or dogs for that matter.   If it still smells like puke or shit, or it still has snot encrusted on it, you didn’t finish the job.

I got to experience man-clean as it applies to laundry last night.  In a rare and daring stretch of ambition, Jerry decided to put a load of laundry in the washer all by himself last night.  Jerry and his attempts at using any household appliance scares the hell out of me, especially after he caught the microwave on fire several years ago.  Handy hint: if you put popcorn in a 1200 watt microwave on full power for five minutes, the result is FIRE.  Just so you know.

Anyway,  Jerry didn’t make the typical man mistakes with laundry which generally include: washing whitey tighties with red t-shirts (leads to pink undies,) overloading the washer (leads to all kinds of potential fun) or putting too much soap in.  He didn’t do it right though.  He forgot the fabric softener, which you don’t do in beautiful Central Ohio for two very good reasons.  The hard water here is legendary.  Failure to use both liquid fabric softener and a dryer sheet will leave your clothing so incredibly crunchy it will crinkle and crunch and almost stand up by itself when it dries.  This time of year is especially bad because you not only get crunchy clothing, but crunchy clothing with static cling.

I put in a dryer sheet when I put his stuff in the dryer for him, but I am not responsible for his jeans standing up all by themselves.  He’s going to have a very scratchy day.  I buy liquid fabric softener for a reason. 

I hate ironing.  I admit it.  That’s why most of my clothes are knits.  Of course Jerry has a thing for oxford shirts rather than t-shirts or knit shirts, and most of the time (unless you hang dry them or retrieve them from the dryer right away) oxford shirts need to be ironed. 

That reminds me, I need to get his dress clothes to the dry-cleaners before somebody dies.  It’s been over a year since we’ve had to go to a funeral (Grandma’s, sadly enough) and unfortunately odds being what they are, someone’s going to die and then I’ll catch hell for not having his clothes ready for him.  I don’t know why he bothers dressing up to go to the funeral home when these days guys show up in Dale Earnhardt t-shirts and cutoffs.  I know it’s tacky to show up at the funeral home looking like the Grateful Dead, and I am somewhat old school about that- I have black dresses for funerals and other formal occasions- but he’s a dude.  Nobody expects dudes to dress up unless it’s absolutely required any more.