jealousy

Matters of the Heart, Nostalgia, Jealousy, and Wishful Thinking

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I seldom allow myself to get caught up in sappy romanticism, but I continue to watch the unfolding Neal Schon/Michaela Salahi affair in sort of the same attitude as Central Ohio drivers who can’t help but to slow down (or stop entirely) to gawk at the daily freeway carnage.  I don’t want to watch- and it makes me feel a bit dirty and voyeuristic doing so- but in a twisted sort of way I can’t help myself.

The fact that Neal Schon is one of my most favorite musicians doesn’t help here.  If he were just an aging, mousy little-big-man – who didn’t pretty much write the soundtrack behind most of my life, I wouldn’t care.  I normally don’t give a rat’s ass who celebrities are, let alone who celebrities are screwing.  I try not to remember that most other people actually get some from time to time.  But the story behind this dalliance strikes a chord.

It’s easy to step back and brand Michaela as a “groupie slut” but I identify with her storyline more than I would like to admit.  I know what it is to be a largely ignored, unloved wife.  I can’t claim to either be attractive or to have as attractive or interesting (or wealthy) past lovers as Neal Schon, but I do admit that if I were given the right offer, hell, if I were shown the least bit of affection, I could see myself doing the same thing.  Especially if the offer involved being backstage with Journey and getting warmed up in Neal Schon’s bed every night.

I don’t see the opportunity arising for me, as I have all the sex appeal of a mutant troll.   I gave up on all the fairy tale BS back when I was 13. My best friend swore I would die an old maid, and my sister informed me that I might as well resign myself to trolling for dates at the blind school if I ever wanted a man.   If I looked like Michaela, I would have more to choose from besides men with either deep appearance, hygiene and/or deep psychological abnormalities. I wouldn’t put up with any shit from a man either. I might actually stand a chance of believing in all that knight in shining armor business, but in order to go fishing you have to have bait, and I’ve already gotten as good as my pathetic bait will ever attract. Jerry does bathe, and he does have hair and teeth. Hygiene (at least personal hygiene) isn’t his major malfunction.  Bonus.  Now if he weren’t raised by wolves (and if he hadn’t done all those drugs back in the 70’s and 80’s) he might have turned out OK, but I can’t ask for mental or emotional stability and regular bathing.  That would be out of my league. Last night’s drunken tirade was regarding how he thought the new shampoo I got him resembled horse jizz and that he wasn’t going to shampoo his hair with jizz.   It was mildly funny, but now I have to go back to CVS and get him the two-in-one Pantene he’s used to instead of the “Hair Thickening Formula for Men By L’Oreal,” that apparently is a bit too jizzy for his majesty’s liking. Such is my fate.  Some women get Neal Schon playing a special lead solo for their birthday, while I get the horse jizz tirade.

If I did have appropriate bait, or even more humanoid proportions, I might still want to pick one taller than me.(easy enough when you’re only 5’4″,and even Jerry is 5’10”)  I think Michaela must be at least 6’6″, so for her, finding a taller man might not be terribly easy to do.  It is kind of funny that Neal is only about 5’7″- and her height makes his shortness painfully obvious.

However, I could get past a guy being extremely short if he’s 1. the finest living guitarist in the world, and 2. able to buy me lingerie on Rodeo Drive.  I might even tell a few people what I think about their opinions.

I could overlook a LOT if a guy were a non-smoker, non-drinker who could actually pick his own whitey tighties up off the floor, but I know I am asking way too much here.

Admittedly I did feel a twinge of jealousy- not so much over Neal and Michaela – Neal Schon is way, way, way out of my pathetic league, but because no man will ever look at me in that way.  Granted, their relationship may be a tempest in a teapot, but it’s a hell of a ride while it lasts.  Might as well be happy and let them enjoy it.  Anyone who is fortunate to find love, if even for a moment, should be allowed to make the most of it.   Those of us who live in the world of, “Is he passed out on the john again?” can only envy you from afar. 

I can’t say that I could condemn either one of them.  If anything it proves that they’re only human, and nobody really knows the story under the surface.  Of course this affair may turn out to be shallow, temporary and sleazy, but whose business is that?  Perhaps some of my own jealousy is knowing that Other People have fantasies come true, when I come home only to wonder if Jerry will get drunk and stupid enough to wet the bathroom floor again.

Jerry is consistent though.  I know sort of what to expect, so he scores one for predictability.

Nothing Keeps a Good Dog Down, and (According to Clara) Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Green

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I know, sort of gross, but not as bad as I’d anticipated.  Sheena had three incisions, one for the spay – that one is barely visible, one to remove one mammary gland and nipple (not terribly aesthetically pleasing, but since the mass was right below the nipple, it stood to reason that it should be removed) and another incision to remove part of another mammary gland.  For having what amounts to a hysterectomy and partial mastectomy all at once, Sheena is remarkably unfazed.  Wednesday night, the day of the surgery, she was a bit in pain but mostly still stoned from the anesthetic and all the pain meds.  Yesterday she was a bit slow and tired, but today she has pretty much been trying to act like her normal hyper self- in spite of still being on Tramadol.  When Clara was hit by a car last year and had to have surgery to repair her front leg she was pretty well zoned on the Tramadols but they don’t seem to phase Sheena nearly as much.  Then again Clara was seven years old when she got hit, and Sheena is about three, if that.  Age does make some difference.  What really surprised me is the Vets at the clinic said Sheena was in heat when she was spayed.  She showed absolutely no signs, but then some dogs don’t.  Spaying her now may likely have saved her life although there is a good chance the mammary tumors were benign.  Mammary tumors in dogs are fed by estrogen- so in theory removing the tumors and removing the source of estrogen should prevent their return.

I only have two more days of Tramadols for her.  She has several more days of Keflex (what a joy trying to cram those down a canine gullet- the capsules are huge, and heaven help you if the capsule breaks, because Keflex is one of the nastiest tasting antibiotics there is, and I should know because I’ve probably taken every antibiotic out there at one point in time or another) for which I hope I have sufficient peanut butter.  It sounds mean but the only way to get pills down most dogs is to bury them in a wad of peanut butter, then scrape the wad of peanut butter containing the pills on to the roof of the dog’s mouth.

Clara of course is jealous, so much so that I joke that her brown eyes are turning green.  Little Miss Green-Eyed Monster resents the attention Sheena is getting, although I am sure she doesn’t remember all the special attention she got when she had all those stitches and then that seroma that had to be drained every other day for a month.  I did not enjoy that at all but at least she recovered fully.  I think dogs bounce back a lot faster than we do.  Lilo has not been nearly as clingy but then she’s always preferred Jerry.

Clara at the pet blessing.  Her eyes are still brown, in spite of her occasional jealous tizzies.

Jerry is in there whining about trying to caulk bathroom tiles- he’s about 8 or 10 beers into it which means I’ll have a mess to clean up tomorrow. He’s already trying to wheedle me into farting around with it too but I refuse to enter in to his drunk and stupid inspired home improvement attempts.  If only he would do this stuff when he’s sober, and preferably when I’m not home to hear about it.