cougardom, creative writing, dogs, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary

I Don’t Seek Approval, Party Like It’s 1899, and Things that Don’t Suck

2013I usually don’t succumb to the lure of corny party kitsch, but the light up necklace was cute.

I’ve said before I don’t deal much in the currency of optimism, so I don’t see this year being much of an improvement over last.  In fact, I started today out rather depressed.  Today’s been one of those days where I’m actually trolling for things to cheer me up a bit.  I’m actively fighting against the urge to just concede to the Dark Funk and give up.  I guess the fact that I’m fighting the temptation to just give into hopelessness is either a good sign, or it’s just an unwillingness to face the reality that my life is pretty much hopeless.

The best way to give myself a reality check, I’ve discovered is to make three lists- Things that Suck that I Can’t Change, Things that Suck that I Can Change, and Things that Don’t Suck.

Things that Suck that I Can’t Change:

Obama.  ‘Nuff said.

Personal poverty/ not being financially independent

Being stuck in Ohio, especially in the winter

Health issues* (can mitigate but not eliminate- bad heredity and effects from past diseases/injuries suck)

Jerry – especially when he gets into his “bitch about everything and blame everything on me” mode

Things that Suck that I Can (*theoretically anyway) Change

My own reaction to things that suck

My neglect of friends that I should make an effort to see and communicate with more often

I already turn off the “mainstream” TV news (can’t handle the constant Obama worship) and I already avoid following garbage on TV such as anything Honey Boo Boo or the Kardashians are doing.  Admittedly I probably get into true crime shows (TruTV, Discovery ID, etc.) and the Military Channel way too much.  I should probably cut down on “World’s Dumbest” and “1000 Ways to Die” and get back into reading a lot more than I do now (although I read a lot by any standard) and maybe get into something a bit more uplifting than unsolved murders, people earning their Darwin Awards, and 20th century history.  I mean, how much is left unturned regarding WWII and Adolf Hitler?

Things that Don’t Suck

God

The dogs and cats

The vacuum cleaner when it gets clogged up with Tipsy McNumbNuts’ cigarette pack cellophanes (the irony of which is that it sucks when the vacuum cleaner doesn’t…)

vacuumThere is no vacuum cleaner made that I don’t have to unclog, tear apart and otherwise rework every time I use the damned thing.

2013 pic

Somehow the deer in the headlights look is a little too typical for me.

Now that I’ve determined that God and the dogs and cats don’t suck, then it should probably follow that I should spend my time in the company of Entities that Don’t Suck as much as I can.

not dead yetSince for now I do appear to be vertical and sucking up valuable oxygen, let’s be creative and try to enjoy it!

I rather enjoy Victorian ephemera- especially patent medicines and other creepy stuff from that era.  I’m surprised anyone survived being treated with the stuff they used as medicine back then, since most of it included either alcohol or opium or various poisons like arsenic, but even today there’s some pretty questionable stuff being used as medicine.

pain killer axe woundImagine the same scenario today, only the rednecks have chainsaws, and the little girl has a bottle of moonshine.

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

That’s actually one of the few French phrases I remember from high school French class (Why in the hell did I take French?  Did I think I was going to be deported to Quebec?) and it means, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  Yes, they do, and not always in a good way.

Mugwump VDI didn’t think Harry Potter had to worry about VD.  Or was that “mugworts?” That sounds like VD anyway.  Something like that.

I’m thinking “Bad Hump” would be a better name for a VD cure-all.  “Take this stuff for last week’s bad hump.”  Or you could just leave it to Dr. Butts:

butts_dispensaryI want to be cured via the US Postal Service.   By Dr. Butts. Yeah.

It’s really kind of scary considering that there really were no cures for VD in Victorian times, and if you got the syph or the clap it could kill you.   Sort of like AIDS today, and heaven only knows whatever other deadly STDs are lurking out there that nobody knows about yet.  Forced chastity might bite in a lot of ways, but I’m old enough to know that 1.) no man is worth a deadly disease, and 2.) there are such things as “meat substitutes” if you get my drift.  The advantage of the “meat substitute” is you don’t have to fix it dinner or unclog its cigarette pack cellophanes from the vacuum cleaner.   I only wish I’d figured that out 20 years ago. Just don’t run out of batteries.

piles-cure01va

Piles: Old time word for “hemorrhoid” – just an FYI

Why is it that back in the day being German cast some sort of legitimacy upon medical quackery?  And I find it hard to believe that a medical doctor would spend most of his life on a hemorrhoid cure, but then everyone needs a purpose.  I’ve still not figured out exactly why I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen, so I’m the last one to talk.

valium_bigThe 20th century wasn’t much better, but at least you could get a good night’s rest, forget about your hemorrhoids AND forget about your pathetic lack of self-esteem!

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assorted rants, creative writing, historical interest, misanthropy, theology

Cosmic Crap Shoot, Happenstance Cathedrals, Everywhere and Nowhere

If Asthma cigs are so great, why deny the kiddies?  Or do they just have to suffer from the paroxysms like the brats they are?

The more that I study the evolution of science, I am amazed regarding how much we don’t know, and how much of what we thought we knew that has been proven wrong.  Personally I would like to see if any of those three-pack-a-day Camel smokers from 1950-whatever are still alive, or if they all ended up dying from emphysema like Aunt Sam.  Aunt Sam (short for Samantha, no, she was not a former dude, even though her voice was so trashed and raspy she sounded like one) died back in the late ’70’s- thankfully she didn’t take anyone out with her.  She went out presumably the way she wanted to go: gagging on an unfiltered Pall Mall as she lifted up her oxygen mask to take another hit.

Sure, Sam, you keep on smoking these mo-fos and you’ll live forever!

Then again, not so much.  Aunt Sam was only 59 when she died.  She looked about 318.

Medical science has evolved quite a bit in the last century, but it’s too bad that a good deal of that crucial knowledge came too late for some people.   Jerry’s Dad still believes that kerosene is a hemorrhoid cure, and he’s also under the assumption that women have prostates.  I can only hope that he doesn’t think you have to buy boxes of Tampax to go swimming and horseback riding.

I could only safely wear white after the hysterectomy- nice try guys!

A good number of astronomers, physicists and other scientists who have achieved notoriety or academic acclaim (because they could understand the math that I just am not wired to get) are atheist or agnostic in their belief systems.  Even Carl Sagan, who had so much insight on astronomy, was a self-described agnostic.   Cosmology (not to be confused with cosmetology or cosplay) is the science of the origin and the evolution of the universe.  I would have to attribute the origin of the universe to something other than random chance.  Maybe it’s just me, but whenever “random chance” is involved in my life it’s never a good thing, and is almost always indistinguishable from Murphy’s Law.

Perhaps to maintain my mental stability I have to trust that there is a higher power or a supreme being, because I could never get the math, but even I get enough math to understand that the odds of coming up with the universe, life, and Steve Perry in spandex are pretty much so astronomically high as to be statistically impossible.   I find it hard to believe that a cosmic crap shoot is all there is, even if the placement and timing of the universe and life could be proven to be random.  Tell me, Who is throwing the dice?  Perhaps it is my own human limitation to assume that if something is created, that it necessarily had to have a creator behind it in some way.

I don’t necessarily take the Garden allegory literally, (and I don’t believe the Genesis account was meant to be taken at face value,) but it would have been cool to wander about naked in a garden all day with wild animals.  Just sayin’.

I don’t necessarily take the Flood story at face value either.

Blaise Pascal (and I’ve outlived him by four years so far) was a mathematician and also somewhat of a theologian.  He put forth the notion (Pascal’s Wager) that even if you can’t prove that God exists that the odds that He does are strong enough that it’s worth your while to live as though He does.

The only problem with living like there is a God is that it’s impossible to do so aside from His grace.

This being said, I am definitely not the greatest example of piety and selflessness out there.  Mother Teresa, I ain’t.

I tend to connect more with things spiritual in happenstance cathedrals- places that seem unlikely and that are often temporary.  If it’s quiet, if it’s secluded, and if there’s a sort of chaotic beauty, those are the kinds of places where I feel closest to God.

I loved places like this abandoned railroad bridge.  It was destroyed in the early 1990’s for its scrap iron.

I’d have to say there is some kind of solace in the chaos of entropy, and in the patterns to be found in the disorder, as strange as that sounds.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been to one of those convergence points that seems like everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  There are simply some places where time isn’t what it is everywhere else, and I find those places to be amazingly spiritual and amazingly renewing.  I don’t have an explanation for them just as I have no way to effectively convey how I know God not only exists but is present in and through everything.  That’s just about how metaphysical I can get, and then I simply have to say I don’t know.

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cougardom, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Glow In the Dark Monstrosities, Medical Fun and Total Hemorrhoidal Takeover!

If I see these things in someone’s yard, I’m reporting an alien invasion, because that’s what these bastards look like.

What would you have to be smoking to want these in your yard?  I found this ad while I was trolling through the newspaper coupons.  Some of the shit being hawked in those circulars is even worse than the “As Shown on TV” garbage.  At least the “Easy Feet” thing is useful for old and/or lazy people.  It does something.  It has a purpose, even if only to scrub some geezer’s bunions.  The meerkats only look strange and make your neighbors wonder if you’ve been getting in the cat’s catnip stash again.

Clean feets is happy feets!

I can ‘t think of any good reason to have glow-in-the-dark meerkats in my flowerbed.   Even though the mail order crap mixed in with the coupons was pretty nasty, there were some good coupons this week – especially the $2 off Nice-N-Easy and $2 off Venus razors coupons. Both items are things I will always have need for, and will definitely have need for before the coupons expire.  There were some coupons for Charmin too, which is nice.  Jerry goes through enough toilet paper to deforest the Amazon, but it’s amazing to find a man who uses toilet paper to begin with, so I try not to complain.   I occasionally buy the Charmin Basic if it’s on sale, even though Jerry complains that any TP other than Angel Soft aggravates his ‘roids.

Personally I think the ‘roids are taking over.  One day he’s going to go to the Dr. and I’ll get a call telling me that there’s nothing left but ‘roids.  Today has been one of those days where he has been nothing but a huge whiny pain in the ass and it’s almost funny.  It amazes me just how big a pussy he can be.  It really pisses him off when I’m doing something for me (like getting my scripts…) so I’m not readily available to kiss his ass.  Too damned bad.  It is possible to delay your beer drinking by an hour or two to drive your own happy ass over to your buddy’s so you two can shoot the shit.  Why do I have to take you over there and then sit around like a lump of shit (so you can have a ride without waiting for me to come and get you???) watching the two of you get drunk?

I had to go back to the Dr. today and as I suspected, my numbers were dismal but not quite as horrible as I’d imagined.  So I get my dosage on one of my blood pressure meds increased, my insulin increased, and my statin completely changed.  All of which are going to cost me more (which I knew was coming…) but they did give me some insulin pens which are so helpful when it costs me $215 for a script of 5 pens.    Then it’s back for more labs and fun in August.  Yay.  On the bright side the snots seem to be reasonably contained so hopefully my blood sugar and blood pressure will get back to some semblance of normal, now that I can actually sleep.  I just hope that increasing that one blood pressure med doesn’t put me to sleep in the middle of the day.

No, this is not me sleeping.  1.) I am a brunette, and 2.) I snore.  Loudly.  I wake myself up snoring.

I sort of had a sadistic idea for a video game for Jerry- one where the hemorrhoids invade (imagine the epic song “2112” by Rush -go to 20:30-) and when they (the ‘roid invaders of course) win the game ends with the end of “2112” where Alex Lifeson says in that funky voice:

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

Yep, the ‘roids have taken over Uranus.

My sister (not the sadistic oldest one)  is a programmer.  She’s not really a gamer, as her specialty is writing software to control industrial robots, but I’ll still have to ask her if she can build me some kind of fun game like that.

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assorted rants, cougardom, historical interest

You’re Supposed to Do What with WHAT?

Image

Just when I start waxing nostalgic on the “good old days” I happen across this lovely ad from the early-to-mid 20th century.  Now I understand where Jerry’s Dad gets the kerosene-as-hemorrhoid-cure idea from.  I guess you can’t have hemorrhoids if your asshole is burned shut.  I guess a man can’t smell a dirty pussy if you load it up with disinfectant.  Sounds somewhat logical, eh?

I shudder to think of the effect of douching with Lysol cleaner.  If I discovered my snatch is reeking like a tuna boat in high summer, obviously, I would be either a). wondering if I should be showering once or twice a day rather than once a month, and barring infrequent bathing as the cause of the malodorous affliction, I’d b.) start wondering if dear old Tom had been doing some tomcatting on the side and brought home a not so nice social disease.  Maybe that hair pie smells rancid because of the clap?  Does Tom have some ‘splainin’ to do?  Did his mother not warn him of the hazards of dipping his wick in some strange without wrapping it?

I have no problem cleaning the floor with Lysol cleaner, or even adding it to a load of laundry that’s really skanky, (you can still buy liquid Lysol cleaner today) but methinks Lysol is a bit too harsh for feminine hygiene purposes even if you dilute it a bit.

It makes me so glad that I live in a somewhat more enlightened time.  Now if we only had some polite way of telling the guys that the order of things is: shower, then BJ.  If you’re really hot, you might get one in the shower.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Denial is Not a River in Egypt, (Though I May Be Its Queen,) and Interesting Words

I would never describe myself as “optimistic,” “naive,” or “trusting.”  On a good day I am pragmatic, jaded, and wary.  On a bad day I am pessimistic, burned out, and paranoid.    Today’s prevailing emotional state lands me somewhere between a good day and a bad day, a perfect neutral on the scale. 

Admittedly, in my ongoing effort to maintain some semblance of mental health, I overlook quite a few realities.  I am pleased that Steve-o is gainfully employed and I hope and pray he stays that way.  Even so, I am worried about the upcoming birth of his offspring.  The whole grandmother thing doesn’t bother me too much- I am old- and far younger women than I have been first time grandmothers.  What does tug at me is the fact that the two of them aren’t married, and that fathers of children have precious few rights in such a situation.  Fathers don’t have much say in their children’s lives even if they are married to the children’s mothers.  If they decide not to get along, Steve-o will have to a.) pay support out the wazoo, and b.) fight for what little rights the state does accord fathers. 

Maybe some of my worry is actually my bad habit of guilt tripping just a wee bit.  Then again, the male contributor of Steve-o’s DNA wasn’t particularly interested in him, (or any other child, unless- like his current wife’s children, it came with a monthly government check) and I think it was the happiest day of my ex’s life when he learned he could sign off his parental rights and never pay child support again.  Perhaps I am just cynical- or my ex was not normal, or a combination of both- but I had always been under the impression that most guys deep down really don’t care that much about their kids. 

I have to admit that one of my fears is that I will be cut out of my grandchild’s life in much the same way that I rescued Steve-o from enduring weekends and holidays from hell with my evil ex mother-in-law.   Granted, I know better than to give a 20 month old an entire box of graham crackers .  I have more sense than to collect highly breakable crystal figurines and display them within the reach of a toddler (I have large dogs…my house is Sheena-proof-duh),  and I’m just not cruel enough to make a three year old sleep alone in the basement, but, should the baby’s mother decide to give Steve-o the heave-ho, I might never get to see my grandchild. 

The difference might just be that I don’t think Steve-o will give up on his offspring without a fight.

I am astonished by how much he really seems to care.  He’s been to the Dr. appointments and the ultrasound.  He makes sure she pays attention to her diet and health and he doesn’t smoke around her.  He even bought a four door car and is trolling about for super safe car seats.  Again, I am not prone to mushy sentimentality, but for a guy who didn’t plan to become a father any time soon he is getting with the program and on top of that, I honestly think he is looking forward to the impending birth.  I don’t think she is going to allow him to record any video, but I know he’s going to be right in there watching every gory detail.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually observed “natural” childbirth.  As far as my own personal experience, there is absolutely nothing natural about childbirth, but some women are able to give birth without surgical intervention.  When my sister had her first two kids, both times my poor brother-in-law couldn’t handle the sight of blood, and he passed out pretty early on in the proceedings.  I went in with her for lack of another warm body, and partially out of my own morbid curiosity.  Thankfully, she always had her kids quickly and with very little trouble, most unlike me.  It’s not that terrible to observe the birth process, but then I have had automotive technicians call me “iron guts.”  Once I had to retrieve a finger that one of the guys got chopped off in a fan blade, ice it down, and then drive his sorry ass to the ER, while the rest of the guys stood around freaking out because there was blood.  Pussies.  At least they were able to reattach the poor guy’s finger, although his hand looked pretty nasty for a long time. 

I don’t know if Steve-o has gotten the “iron guts” tendencies from me or not, but I get to find out soon enough.  I get to do one of my favorite things, which is to be a fly on the wall and observe from a distance.  In the matter of giving birth I far prefer being an observer versus being a participant any day. 

The medical profession has its share of tantalizing, technical words that baffle outsiders.  I know quite a few medical terms (especially the more gross ones) so I can catch a few snippets here and there that most people won’t get.  I’ve probably spent more time in doctor’s offices and hospitals than the average person too, although camping out in medical facilities is one of my least favorite activities. 

Here are a few of my favorite medical terms:

eviscerate: to rip the guts out of

co-morbid: along with, as relating to diseases that like to travel together

gynecomastia: man-boobs (really, you can look it up!)

exsanguination: bleeding to death

pruritus ani: butt itch

 

It’s not necessarily a medical term, but, piles: old time word for hemorrhoids.

I’m a veritable fountain of scatological information today!

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cougardom, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

You Might Turn Blue and Die (or Not,) Pharmaceutical Fun, and Science?

Today’s science is tomorrow’s quackery.  Case in point- the “medicated” cigarettes shown above are in a museum.  I don’t know of any Dr. who would recommend smoking anything for the “temporary relief of the paroxysms of asthma.”  I don’t know of any Dr.s who would use the word “paroxysm,” even though it’s a pretty cool word.  Here’s the definition according to Merriam-Webster:

paroxysm: (n)
1: a fit, attack, or sudden increase or recurrence of symptoms (as of a disease) : convulsion <a paroxysm of coughing>
2: a sudden violent emotion or action : outburst <a paroxysm of rage>
 
In my world, synonyms for “fit” are always welcomed, if for no other reason than to keep me from sounding as if I am repeating myself incessantly.
 
If I do no other service in this world, I can only hope to expand someone’s vocabulary.
 
I would love to find a pic of it, but there was an old patent medicine featured on the Science Channel program, Oddities, that was supposed to contain strychnine and testicles- and 18% alcohol, ostensibly to help one forget that he was not only drinking powdered gonads, but was also poisoning himself.  100 years ago, the testicle tonic would be considered modern pharmacopoeia.  Today it would be considered just plain gross and poisonous, but science, like history, has to be taken in context.  100 years ago, cocaine was believed to be therapeutic.  How any of our ancestors lived long enough to procreate is beyond me.
 
I’m sure that some of the pharmaceuticals we use today will be eliminated or phased out due to side effects.  I just read today that benzocaine- a topical anesthetic found in Blistex and cough drops- can make you turn blue and die if you OD on it.  Apparently if you OD on this stuff you can get methemoglobinemia  ,which sounds like a really scary condition in which you turn blue because you can’t get enough oxygen in your blood, so you die.   I wonder if it’s in Carmex, because that’s generally my cracked-lip remedy of choice.  I would hate to begin my trip to the Great Beyond by OD ing on Carmex.
How many of us remember the old style mercury thermometers- or playing with liquid mercury in science class?  Now mercury is considered hazmat.  Apparently you can touch it and die or something. That would have been handy information back in 1980-whatever when we were farking around with the stuff.   Then again, apparently kids who fail to wear a helmet while riding a bike, pedaling a Big Wheel, swimming or (let’s hope the really paranoid people out there don’t jump on this bandwagon) eating a cheese sandwich, risk grievous head injury should they fall and skin a knee. 
 
No wonder kids are fat, if they have to suit up for a moonwalk just to go out and get some bloody exercise.  We got plenty of exercise back in the Dark Ages, and it was bloody at times, but scars add character.  I must have a lot of character as I have plenty of scars from cuts, scrapes, burns, falls, etc.  Even as uncoordinated as I am, I usually managed not to bang my head on stuff.  My arms and legs, not so lucky- but I have managed to go 42 years and still have all my fingers and toes, which given my complete lack of physical prowess- and complete lack of protective battle gear to play in as a child- is pretty impressive.
I can see some advantages in this kind of protective play gear had it been available to me as a child.  I probably would not have gotten nearly as much sunburn.  I also probably wouldn’t have felt as much pain as I was getting my ass kicked either.  However, I do see some distinct potential for dehydration and hyperthermia (overheating) if one were to wear this on a hot day.
 
I think part of the paranoia surrounding one’s offspring comes in part from the fact that people don’t have as many kids.  When you have three or four kids they might seem a bit more expendable than when you only have one.  People also have to spend a lot more money on kids today, so children just playing like normal kids jeopardize your investment . The calamity factor- and the potential for catastrophic expense- rises exponentially when they go out and do stupid and reckless things. 
 
I know the incident when the POMC had to get crowns and multiple root canals after some “buddies” of his sabotaged his bike (something about 160# of fourteen year old boy hitting the pavement mouth first is really not good for his dental health) cost me over three thousand dollars- and that was after the insurance paid. I couldn’t leave him to go through life with a Billy Bob mouth- and the crowns are lovely- but now I see why some mothers strap a helmet on their offspring at birth and don’t remove it until the child is potty trained, literate and no longer on a parental health insurance policy.  The bad thing about that particular incident is that he would have needed a mouth guard to mitigate this injury.
 
Even if he had been wearing a helmet (which I seriously doubt, knowing him) it wouldn’t have done jack to protect his mouth unless he would have had one of those full face motorcycle helmets. I can only imagine the mocking he would have gotten from his posse for wearing a full face motorcycle helmet to ride a BMX bike.

I wonder if it would do me any good to start wearing a helmet now?  Probably not.

Then again, science has advanced from the days of patent medicines with really gross stuff in them, at least I hope.

Pile is an old time euphemism for hemorrhoid. Another fun fact to share with friends and family, best reserved for conversation over the dinner table,at least if you’re looking for shock value.  I have to wonder if the “active ingredient” in the A.J.P. Pile Cure is kerosene.  It wouldn’t surprise me.   If it’s burnin’ it’s workin’!

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assorted rants, cougardom, misanthropy

A Peaceful, Easy Birthday Everyone Forgot, and I Like It That Way

At my age it is a lovely thing when everyone forgets your birthday.  Jerry can’t remember his own birthday without either straining to read the fine print on his driver’s license, or by checking with the BMV, so I forgive him for that.  His family doesn’t bother to recognize birthdays, likely for two good reasons.  His Dad and his Dad’s fourteen other siblings were born at home, deep in the hollers of rural WV, and none of them have birth certificates.  The date- and year- listed as his Dad’s birthday on his Dad’s driver’s license is likely not his Dad’s actual birthday, but someone’s best guess.  Since his Dad got a social security card and driver’s license long before you had to have a birth certificate to acquire either, his Dad is grandfathered in.

I wonder if he would be able to get a passport?  If he were really pressed could he prove he is an American citizen?  Our friend Bob is an American citizen but he was born in London (his Dad was American but his Mom is English) and his birth certificate is in London.   Bob can’t get a copy of his birth certificate unless he goes to London to get it, but you can’t go to the UK without a passport.  Thankfully the Social Security people recognized his honorable discharge from the Marines as proof of citizenship.  Bob still can’t get a passport though, because when he tried he was told that one has to have a certified copy of one’s birth certificate.  Then again, I highly doubt that Jerry’s Dad would really need a passport for anything, unless they make it mandatory to have a passport to cross the border from WV back to Ohio.  The birth certificate requirement to acquire a passport is probably a blessing in disguise to keep old rednecks from traveling abroad and perpetuating the “Ugly American” stereotype.  Then again, maybe our foreign friends have never tried getting rid of hemorrhoids by soaking them in kerosene.

When you have so many family members that every day is someone’s birthday or so it seems, it’s a lot harder to remember every one and a lot harder to afford to buy gifts for every one.  So, I can see where Jerry gets the idea to  simplify his life and just celebrate all his family’s birthdays every day with a 12 pack of Natties and a couple of packs of smokes.

I do find it entertaining how some people remember my birthday sometime in the middle of March and then send sheepy, belated wishes.  It’s OK to forget.  I don’t really want to be reminded that I’m one day closer to death anyway.

Over time one gets a new appreciation for bodily functions functioning as they should.

Admittedly not everyone forgot my birthday. The BMV doesn’t forget.  I renewed my vehicle registration last week.  No way do I want to drive around in the Central Ohio suburb with the largest number of cops per capita with an expired tag.  I don’t even remotely want to give law enforcement any reason to approach me for anything.  Cops make me nervous.  My Facebook friends remembered, because your friends get reminders automatically.  I appreciate everyone who wrote on my wall today.  My friends from my church group remembered for the same reason- all of our birthdays are on the contact sheet.  But my family all forgot, which is funny as hell.  Steve-o remembered to call- to remind me he needs money.   Jerry acknowledged me coming back after I’d gone in to work this morning with a rousing, “Where’s my breakfast, woman?”  So the world remains the same.

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