Creative Use of Free Speech and Feminine Hygiene Items!

Every time I go up north I get some kind of culture shock, whether it be the chick in the 5X snowman print jammies (with the thong strap hanging out) attempting to single-mouthedly devour an entire Taco Bell, or the dude in the Walmart with a face full of piercings, and arms covered in various white supremacist tats that I wish I had been able to get a picture of but I didn’t have the courage.  I always get to see the cutting edge of redneck culture when I visit my parents, and this weekend did not disappoint. 

Dad did wonder why I wanted a picture of that, until I blew it up and he could read what was written on the Kotex.  Then he had to acknowledge that it was funny, and worth taking a pic.  I am glad that Steve-o never put Sharpie + maxi pad together when he was going through his Puberty Demon visitation.  I am sure he would have left Kotex commentary everywhere.   I know he covered one of his buddy’s cars in them once, but they must not have had a Sharpie handy.

I can think of better pranks, but this one is fairly harmless.

One of my favorite things about digital cameras is just how easy it is to point, click, upload and share.  I know the guys at work have been begging me to get a video camera for the longest time so they can observe Jerry’s antics, but I can’t dig it up in that little emotional stub I have in place of a heart to do it.  Just because it is potential YouTube gold doesn’t mean it’s very nice to film it.  Admittedly, after last night’s oat opera episode I did feel like getting some sweet, sweet revenge, but I plugged in the Skullcandys (they have some really nice noise cancelling headphones) and enjoyed some favorites from the 80s instead.  I don’t know why, but when Jerry gets into his “I wanna crank up bad country music” mode, he goes for the twangiest, most god-awful country station in the area.  Even when I used to get shitfaced (and this was years and years ago)  I can’t think of a time when I was ever shitfaced enough to enjoy Boxcar Willie- or Willie Nelson for that matter. 

Fanny, my behemoth wandering feline, is adjusting much better to her collar, bell and ID tag than I thought she would.  I did get a few days’ worth of stink-eye out of it (and cats are masters of the stink-eye) but once it got through her head that the collar wasn’t coming off she has gone into normal Fanny mode which is, “aw, what the hell, as long as I get food.”  I should also say catnip, because she goes apeshit over that.  Every cat I’ve ever had except Forrest (and he had major Issues) has positively adored the stuff.  Isabel rolls and thrashes in it, as does Fluffy-Butt, but Fanny (who normally is not a fighter) will swat the other two away and actually attempt to box them.  It’s hilarious to watch.

It’s almost sad that I’m reminded of poor Forrest.  He was half-Siamese and had the most beautiful blue eyes.  However, the poor guy also had feline herpes, and had been kicked in the face by his previous owner, so he had a broken jaw that never healed right, and most of his teeth were missing.  Feline herpes is not a social disease in the way we think of social diseases in humans.  It is a disease that can be prevented with a vaccine, but the vaccine has to be given before the cat gets herpes for it to be effective.  The herpes infection is present in many cats that never show symptoms, but for some cats, like Forrest, it weakens their immune systems and predisposes them to wicked eye and respiratory infections.  The first time he got sick he was dehydrated, blowing snot, had to get sub-cu fluids (this is not a fun process) and had to be force fed with a syringe.  Then he had to take the l-lysine supplement for the rest of his life, which did give him several years until he got sick again and he died almost as soon as he got sick the second time.  Poor guy was only 12, which isn’t all that old for a cat, but he had suffered a lot before we got him, and he had a weak constitution.

Oh, well.  Poor Forrest.  And yes, he was named after Forrest Gump, because when we first got him he was terrified of everything and it seemed all he did was run.

Beauty Tips for the Bar Fly, Better Thee Than Me, and Double Entendre

I am by no means anything to look at.  I try not to leave the house without makeup lest I traumatize small children and dogs, but I’ve not been shitfaced drunk since that fateful morning sometime in 1993 when I woke up submerged in a bathtub full of cold water next to a half-eaten Domino’s pizza.  Blood pressure meds and rotgut liquor don’t mix too well.   More than a half a glass of wine and I pass out these days.  So, it sort of shocked me when I got e-mails with these subject lines today:

Top  10 Bar Hopping Hairstyles

How to Get Bar Stink Out of Your Hair

and my favorite- How to Look Good Hungover.

I don’t look good stone sober.  If I would look better with a hangover, perhaps I should try it out.

I also wonder what kind of hairstyles are kind to the bar fly?  Sinead O’Connor’s? 

It’s low maintenance, there’s nothing there to absorb the bar stink,  and if someone pukes on your head, it just wipes off.  I do sort of wonder about her, though.  She shaves her head, but lets man-fur grow on her arms?  Ewww.  Let a little bit of hair grow on your head, but shave your arms!

There are a number of things in my life I am quite thankful for.  Saying goodbye forever to the purveyors of certain feminine products comes to mind.  I don’t miss one minute of Aunt Flo and the curse, believe that.  

Why do they try to make the packages seem to be so damned cheery?  Should the Naproxen bottles have stoned people and flowers on them too?

Maybe they just didn’t give me good enough drugs to enjoy all the swimming, horseback riding, kitten-cuddling, butterfly-and-unicorn watching, and lacrosse playing (???) that everyone else seemed to be doing during that “special time” of the month.  It seemed no matter how many Midols or Naproxens I managed to down that I was 1.) sitting in a sticky glob of my own stinky coagulated blood that always seemed to defy containment in those lovely feminine hygiene devices, and 2.) using every ounce of restraint (whilst inwardly writhing in pain) to keep from throttling Jerry and/or everyone else who happened to piss me off.   I don’t miss that shit one bit.  In this regard, menopause, surgical or otherwise, rules.

I love my granddaughter, don’t get me wrong, but I am quite thankful that I’m not the one dealing with car seats and diapers and so forth all the time.  Then again in a way I can sort of appreciate her more because I’m not doing the Mom thing 24-7.   I watched her for a few hours yesterday while the kids ran some errands which was very nice, but it was also very nice to go home to sleep in my own bed and only having to worry about the dogs.  Getting up and having to get Sheena out at 4AM is bad enough.   I have to wonder how Steve-o survived being an infant as insane as my schedule was, but I also admit I really regret not being able to spend much time with him other than getting the necessary things done.  I am reminded so much of how much I missed with him, but there’s nothing I can do to change it now.  I can be grateful that he’s not a serial killer, he is a straight man, and he seems to have a decent head on his shoulders -at least once you get past those nasty earrings.

I think double entendre is one of the highest forms of humor, especially when I always seem to be around people who don’t quite get it.  Mom is notorious for letting such innuendo go right over her head.  I can only hope that Steve-o does not try what he was joking about last night for a variety of reasons.  Just because it’s a pump and it generates suction does not mean it’s suitable for a certain part of the male anatomy, so leave the breast pump alone.  Ewww.  I don’t think he would do it.  Mom never even got the hint which was probably a good thing.  Catholics regard oral sex as a sin, so I am pretty sure her mind didn’t go there.   They don’t even condone masturbation the old fashioned way, so I’m pretty that any hanky-panky involving a machine of any kind would be a sin too.  Sex is only OK if you’re procreating and not enjoying it. I bet Mom would freak if she knew that (long, long ago) I actually had sex with a man, with the lights on, not in the standard missionary position, AND, I liked it. 

Now I know why I’m not Catholic.   If the opportunity for sex ever arises again (unlikely, but who knows?) at least I will be free to enjoy it.  (sans critters, of course!)