assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary, theology

Opinions, Assholes, and Whatever Floats Your Boat

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I can’t help it.  But if the cars/owners involved were Camaros or Corvettes, that would be even funnier.

I don’t think that I will ever be shocked again.  It’s been awhile since anything really shocked me.  There aren’t too many things that really rattle me.  The problem is that the things that do rattle me really rattle me.

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With the exception of rare genetic or congenital anomalies, gender is male or female.

Pick one.  Preferably the one that matches your plumbing.

I can’t say that I am celebrating in the streets or bathing my profile pic in a rainbow colored filter on Facebook. Nor am I shouting doom and gloom and proclaiming the end of the world because now Adam and Steve (or Annie and Eve) can get “married.”  Personally I believe that same sex relations are wrong in any context (and to me, positively vile)- but so are opposite sex relations out of their proper context (but I’ve been there with the heterosexual fornication and done that, hypocrite that I can be.)  I am not the Judge, nor do I want to be.  I’m guilty of “doing it wrong” too, just in a different way.

gay wedding

Two dudes.  Wonder who will clean up the piss splatters around the john?

However,  I don’t make a hobby of rubbing my straightness in everyone’s face and Making Them Like It.  I even use the term straightness almost lightly, as “asexual” is probably closer to what I am now.  I really don’t have any desire for physical contact with anyone.  I don’t like strange people touching me, and it’s been more years than I’d like to admit since I did anything other than sleep (or watch TV) in bed. The older I get the more averse to such things I become.

nosex marriage

Even so, if you have found your “soulmate,” and you want to have at it like rabbits in heat, whether it be male, female, mechanical, inflatable, or gerbil, I don’t care.  Maybe I am a bitter, old, frustrated bitty, but I just don’t want to hear about it.  That’s in the same category as wondering whether or not your grandparents still have sex.  Some things should remain a mystery.

I don’t care if you have the hots for a ’93 Ford Escort.  I really don’t care how people get their jollies for the most part, or who they choose to land in bed with, or why.

It only bothers me when you expect me to call it normal.

world rabies day

You celebrate your holidays, I’ll celebrate mine.

I do have to wonder about the World Rabies Day thing.  Is this observation a call to inform people about rabies and to prevent the spread of rabies?  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to celebrate Rabies, but there are some real freaks out there.

In all seriousness, I don’t believe anything good or healthy is going to come out of legalizing same-sex marriage.  I don’t think it’s healthy to teach children that this an acceptable lifestyle.  I don’t want my grandchild witnessing gay groping and make-out fests in public.  Celebrating same-sex attraction to me is sort of like celebrating heart disease or cancer- or getting excited about rabies.  We know things like heart disease or cancer or some things that some people do in the bedroom (gay OR straight) are not good for you, and eventually any of those things can kill you- but then human beings can be destroyed by things that society has traditionally condoned.

For instance, overwork can kill you- (been really close to that one) but nobody has ever gone to great lengths to morally condemn those who live to work even though that can be just as much idolatry- and positively poison to your physical, spiritual and mental health as anything else.  Nobody really puts up an argument to exclude or demonize the addicted-to-work.  Especially when that work-addicted person is doing your work for you.

Overeating can kill you- and gluttony is a sin- but do we actively seek to exclude and shame the fat?  If fat shaming really worked, we would be a nation of Calista Flockharts, and I don’t see that happening.

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Fanny is allowed to experience the feline lifestyle.  Fat and lazy is OK- for cats.

Perhaps the silver lining in the gay marriage movement is maybe the whole gay pride in-your-face attitude will become passé and less “trendy” now that it’s legal. Nothing serves so much as a buzz kill than making something once forbidden legitimate.

Maybe that’s why I pretty much gave up binge drinking by age 23.

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Sometimes Mom does not realize the absolutely horrendous double entendre she brings up.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

The Art of the Epic Fail, Double Entendre, and Sophomoric Humor That Makes Me Laugh

glory hole

I would like to see this church’s theological statement.  Just wondering.  But it is in the UK.

I’ve gone through a bit of a humor drought as of late and it shows.  It’s always better when I can laugh at things I see.

Over the weekend Steve-o and I, and Mom, and Sophie went to the zoo.  The weather was unusually nice for Ohio in Monsoon season- as in it wasn’t pouring down torrential rain.  The thing about public places, and even attractions like the zoo where the admission price should serve to keep some of the riff-raff out, is that it’s a human freak show out there.  I thought Kroger’s on the first of the month was bad.  The only places I’ve seen worse tats and even worse clothing choices are the Marion Popcorn Festival and/or the Ohio State Fair.  I will be taking pics at both of those events this year.  It’s almost as fun as taking pics of tacky Christmas decorations.

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Is there a reason why you want to verify your gender to others via a forehead tattoo?

I had a camera on me, but didn’t really feel cool snapping off pics of the Behemoth Butches with Extra Long Leg Hair while Mom was pointing and wondering out loud, “Which one’s the guy?,” and Steve-o snorts out even louder, “They’re bull-dykes!”  Mom, of course, replies by exclaiming, “That’s disgusting!”  Mom and Steve-o’s conversation back and forth on the human freak show they were observing all around them was funny, if not predictable.

One has to remember that Mom is 1. very Catholic, 2. very conservative, and 3. from a very rural locale.  She has lived a sheltered life. At least when she was growing up, the nuns wore full-body garb that would have covered up their buzz cuts, hairy legs, trucker’s wallets and such.

nuns 1

Even I remember Sister Mary Refrigerator Perry from CCD- she was about 6’5″ and a good 320# at least.

I didn’t take any pics of strange people at the zoo, (should have, because they would have been good) because I prefer taking pictures in stealth, without other people’s (loud and frequent) commentary to draw attention to what I’m doing.  So I have no gratuitous pics of these “girls” with their lovely buzz cuts and their fetching ensembles of XXXL t-shirts, cargo shorts, trucker’s wallets, white socks and Chucks.  Trust me-the world is better off.

Bull-dykes or not, I figure, live and let live.  Their lifestyle choices- including their rights not to shave their legs, and to consume more slop on a daily basis than a pen full of feeder hogs- are none of my business.  But the one chick did have more hair on her legs than Steve-o does on his head, which was a tad bit alarming.  She also outweighed him by about 100#, too, so I’m glad she didn’t hear him.

My granddaughter did enjoy the aquatic life in the aquarium though.

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It’s almost disturbing when Steve-o and Mom and Sophie are the only normal people I observed the entire afternoon.  They were so normal that they were abnormal- no tats, no multicolor hair-dos, no mouth piercings, and a child who was dressed appropriately and actually behaved herself most of the time, which is hard to do when you’re 14 months old.

It’s getting really weird to watch people in public places these days.  It’s as if the world has become WalMart, and that couldn’t be a good thing.

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This is so sad, but it’s true!!!

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Makes me wonder if he was climbing the fence, or if he just had a sadistic older sibling?

When I look at this pic, I thank God I was not born male with the two older sisters I had.  I’d probably been nutted so many times by the age of three that I’d been made a castrato, had I been male and left to the mercy of my sisters’ evil meathooks.

I still got the living hell beat out of me, but at least, being a biological female, I come upon a high soprano vocal range honestly.

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assorted rants, creative writing, dogs, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Dog Doo, Tea Bagging, Dingbats and Family Annoyances

only chick

I’ve never been much for political correctness, but my boobs aren’t speaking to you, bubba.

I’ve always had a sort of loathing for meetings/seminars/workshops in which the facilitator requires the participants to wear name tags.  At least a name tag like this could have served a practical purpose in a few of those sort of events.  I appreciate my anonymity, and hide behind it whenever I can.   I never had the choice of a cute HK tag to wear, even as the only chick at most of the automotive functions (there still aren’t very many female parts or service managers in car dealerships) I’ve attended.

I really don’t give two shits in a high wind if some stranger from Moose Dick, Alaska, who I will never see again, remembers my boobs, or my name.  I’d rather he forget them both.  Unless he’s hot, and there are exactly -0- hot guys on the planet who have ever bothered to drool on my shirt.

I’ve considered it a plus when the boob-oglers had teeth and hair.

Of course now that I’m older, the kinds of guys who would be ogling my cleavage (providing their vision is still good enough) have gotten even more scary than they used to be.

Some older guys are hot.  Unfortunately they were hot when they were younger too, and they ignored me then, too.  I was a kegger when I was 21, and that has not improved with age.  I am not one of the beautiful people, and usually that doesn’t bother me much.

tbagI guess if you’re that dumb, you deserve to be removed from the gene pool.

Today I’m sounding pretty misandrist (which is unusual for me, because I generally like men and get along better with them than with other women) and I’m sure it has to do with Jerry.  He did go and work out last night which I am proud of him for.  I just hope he isn’t too disheartened to find out that he can’t keep up with me.  I can bench press more than he can.  But in all fairness I quit smoking over 10 years ago, I don’t drink, and I’ve been working out already pretty consistently for the past 3 years.  He’s 12 years older than me, still smokes like a freight train, considers beer a food group, and lifts weights 12 ounces at a time.  That mindset apparently doesn’t do jack for your upper body strength.

Jerry can be a horrible dingbat at times and he displayed that today.  I really hate any family member calling me at work unless it’s something important.  Usually it’s dumb shit that can wait.  Unless someone is in the hospital or dead, or by some Miracle of God I’ve come into some serious money, I really don’t want to hear about it.  I have to talk to enough people and hear about enough problems while I’m at work without listening to anyone’s tirade about this that or the other thing that I can’t remedy until later anyway.  Jerry calls me with stupid shit (pun intended) such as “Sheena had the shits all over the floor.”

poopYes, Jerry, clean it up!  With your bare hands!  Why not?

So then I get to dread cleaning up congealed diarrheal dog shit for all the rest of the day.  Thanks, Jerry, for being the shit monitor.  How about YOU cleaning it up every once in awhile?  Jerry’s really good about pointing out the (blessedly rare) dog or cat accidents, but then he claims that “I can’t clean it up, because I’ll puke.”  Granted, I have a very limited sense of smell, but I can see, and I can feel, and I can be weird about germs, so what makes you think cleaning up shit is less gross for me, Captain Oblivious?

Mom is just as bad. She will call me with some (usually) imagined crisis (usually involving Steve-o, Sophie, or one of my nephews)  that I can’t do a damned thing about, only to find out later that she was making yet another mountain out of another molehill.  Steve-o is 21.  If he decides he wants to hang out with his buddies, or whatever, it’s not a Federal case.  As far as how he is raising his daughter, he and her mother seem to be doing a good job. Barring neglect or abuse, I will not intervene with their parenting. I had a hell of enough time raising my own offspring to be butting in on how others raise theirs.

happy yr home

As far as parenting my nephews, apparently she doesn’t have the courage to approach my sisters every time she thinks they’ve stepped outside their bounds.  In reality, my sisters are much stricter with my nephews than I ever was with Steve-o.  Unless they are doing illegal things or egregiously immoral things, it is none of my business and my sisters are responsible for correcting them anyway.

“Mother” does not start with “s.”  She is his grandmother, but the no-smother clause works with grandparents as well.   She might be Catholic, but, Steve-o’s not.  (See the video clip from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life on Protestantism which is pretty funny.) Though I may not approve of fornication, I also know that a.) he’s going to, and b.) if he’s going to, using a rubber is a pretty good idea.  He already has one offspring that we know about.

old-lady-with-naughty-ooooooh-look“Oooh, what are you doing with condoms!”

I only wish Jerry had been calling to bitch about something as trivial as dog shit.  Apparently he failed to understand what I meant, on numerous occasions, when I said I was cancelling a very expensive automatic recurring withdrawal from my checking account (i.e. that I could no longer pay for his life insurance, etc. that had been coming out of my checking account, and that he swore up and down, “yeah, I’ll pay you for it” but never did.)  Apparently (oh lucky freaking me) dumb-ass answered the home phone when he was home at lunch, which is only really there for phone solicitors and other people I don’t want to talk to.  So the insurance people were wondering why we had cancelled, etc. (and those people are annoying as shit when they call because they get a spiff on every policy they convince you not to cancel) so, not remembering I said I was cancelling the EFT, he proceeded to call me at work and give me a nasty little tirade about it.

pretendidiotJust because I’m used to irrational tirades doesn’t mean I enjoy them.

Joy.

I know I shouldn’t let him take financial advantage of me, (and I’m done with subsidizing these ridiculously overpriced insurance policies) but I will have hell to pay for it.  I’m not looking forward to that at all.

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assorted rants, dogs, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel

Cats and Dogs, the Natty Impaired, and Physical Fitness

petting chartI love this chart, because for the most part, it’s true.

Most dogs are not terribly body sensitive.  Sheena is a bit head-shy, but I think that’s because she’s deaf, which means she’s highly reliant upon what she sees and she doesn’t want anything to obstruct her vision.  Lilo is extremely body sensitive (don’t even try to touch her feet or tail without giving fair warning) for a dog, but she’s an exception rather than a rule.  Clara must think she’s a cat, because she adores having her butt scratched as much if not more than a typical cat.

Isabel and Jezebel (the two black cats, and the oldest and youngest) are cling-on cats.  They love attention, seek it out, and can’t get enough physical closeness, petting, cuddling, etc.  Fanny (the behemoth silver tabby and white) and F.B. (Fluffy Butt, the tortoiseshell Angora) are both more selective about who they want attention from, for how long, and when.  They have their moments of wanting attention, but they also have their moments of being downright anti-social.  Especially Fanny.

jezebel isabelMe (Isabel- right) and Mini-me (Jezebel- left)

Jezebel is not going to be a terribly large cat.  Isabel is very small for an adult cat (just over 5#) and Fanny was bigger than her by the time Fanny was three months old.  Jezebel is about 18 weeks old at this point and is maybe 2 1/2- 3#.  Jezebel will likely grow and fill out a bit after she’s spayed, but I doubt if it will be by much.  Isabel’s spayed too.  Cats do most of their growing before their adult teeth come in.  Jezebel already has her adult incisors and canine teeth (yes, cats are carnivores and therefore they possess four elongated canine teeth, like all other carnivores) and it likely won’t be long before she gets the premolars and molars too.  An interesting (nerd alert) aside- a cat is actually more of a true carnivore than a dog, because a cat is an obligatory carnivore that requires meat in their diet to survive, whilst dogs can survive without meat in their diet.  Cats cannot manufacture their own taurine, which is an essential amino acid that has to do with vision and regulating heart beat.  Dogs (and humans) can manufacture their own taurine, but cats can only get taurine from meat in their diet.

Vegans beware- put your cat on a vegan diet and it will soon go blind and then die- so don’t impose your meatless lifestyle on your cat.   Or on me for that matter.  I may not need meat to live, but I sure do like it.

snickersF.B. is a beautiful cat, but she despises cameras.  I was lucky to get this one.

F.B. is probably the quietest and most unobtrusive of my cats.  She likes attention if it’s one-on-one, and she loves to just chill with the other cats. For the most part she sits back and observes, and sleeps.

fanny2Fanny was aptly named.  That’s what I get for listening to Queen.

Fanny is huge.  17# for a female cat is big.  She has big bones, and she has big meat on the big bones also, which is ironic because Isabel and Jezebel- each- eat more than she does.  They are tiny and svelte, yet they are eating machines.  Fanny is a fussy eater who eats only a very few things, (for instance Fanny refuses Vienna sausages, which the other cats adore) and she slowly and methodically chews each bite.  I feel for Fanny and her metabolism.    She also has a bit of a jealousy complex and an attitude.  She was not at all happy about Jezebel coming in and taking her position as the young petulant indulged one, even though Fanny’s four years old and should be over it by now.

claranlilo1Clara and Lilo have always been close.  Sometimes Lilo will get into Clara’s crate with her.

Clara (top) and Lilo (bottom) have been close ever since we got them.  Clara had been with us a few months when we got Lilo, and they are only a few months apart in age.  Even now that they’re older (Clara’s 10, Lilo’s 9) they still occasionally play tug of war with their toys and play-fight with each other.

tugofwar3They still enjoy this, even though Clara’s bigger and usually wins.

sheena311Sheena is well, Sheena.  She is her own dog.

Sheena’s part Husky.  Sheena has a number of flaws that are consistent with inbreeding- severe hip dysplasia, deafness, gross motor deficits (may or may not be related to HD) and she’s downright goofy.  Maybe some of her cognitive deficiencies are related to the fact that she used to live at the Tetanus Farm which was also a puppy mill and (suspected) meth lab.  There’s a reason why it’s a bad idea to procreate with first degree relatives, and that applies to dogs as well as humans.  But Sheena’s endearing in her own weird way.  I have a soft spot for rejects and misfits.  That must explain Jerry.  A warning to women: if a guy’s 38, straight, and never married, there is a good reason why.

Today begins Jerry’s fitness program.  He’s the one who wanted a membership at the Y and actually gave me money to pay for it.  This is almost scary in a way.  I can’t imagine Jerry in work out clothes, on a treadmill or elliptical, or lifting any sort of weight over 12 ounces.

He will be so disappointed when he discovers the only fluids available at the Y are water, diet soda and fruit juice, and there are no beer holders on the cardio machines.  But I will be happy if he at least goes and gives it a try.

On the other hand, I am anxiously looking forward to enjoying the indoor pool, being able to swim laps starting at 5:30 in the morning, and being able to work out on the ellipticals. Swimming and elliptical machines are two modes of exercise that allow me to get the cardio and strength training I need without destroying my joints even more than they are already.  The Y also has nice showers, so if I choose to go there to work out before work instead of working out at home, I can actually swim laps, do some cardio, and then shower and go to work from there. Nice.

jerry richard simmons

Hopefully he won’t think this is what I mean by “work out clothes.”

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary

Despair, Venting and Cool 80’s Music

I’m trying really hard not to fall into the trap of despair.  I know I should be seeing the glass as half full rather than half empty and all that, and I’m responsible for my own attitude.  This being said, I’m trying to stay out of that festering pit of gratituous self pity that I can get mired in if I’m not paying attention.  Chronic depression, the mental disorder that keeps on giving.

I’m dreading my excursion to the Dr. on Monday.  I know that even though I’ve gained some ground in the Snot Wars that whole business has thrown both my blood sugar and blood pressure off whack, and neither of those have gone back down to where they should be.  I really, really can’t afford any more meds and tests and such, and it’s frustrating that I try to do the right things and I’m still screwed.  Sometimes I just wish I could just quit taking all the damned pills and shots and going through all the bullshit and just drop dead, but it’s not that easy.  Knowing my bad luck I’d just turn into a drooling vegetable and/or end up a double amputee or something and then be even more screwed, so I’m not going to take that path.

I’m also quite pissed off about the POMC and the financial aid bullshit he’s going through.  Supposedly he is still a “dependent student” even though a.) he works full time, b.) he pays all his own bills, and c.) is supporting his own child on top of everything else.  Where in the hell did they get this noise that he’s still a “dependent”- he doesn’t live with me and I can’t claim him or his expenses for tax purposes- SO why in the flying effing hell do they need my farking tax information if I”M NOT PAYING FOR HIM?????  Hello?  Obama, you jackass, is this what you call “education reform”- counting a student’s parents’  income  as if it were the student’s, even if the student doesn’t live with and/or isn’t financially supported by his parents so that it’s harder for the kid to get financial aid?   Of course this is his last year of school (YAY!) but every single time the kid has applied for financial aid he- and me by  proxy- has gotten nine kinds of shit.  Why do they have to make it so damned difficult?  Why the hell am I involved at all?  He’s a farking adult!!!!  Is he supposed to be a 21 year old titty baby?   He supports himself and provides a good deal of support for his own kid.  If anyone needs/deserves a break it’s someone like him who is 21 and NOT still leeching off his parents.  Does the government really think it’s a good idea for parents to support their adult children ad infinitum?  Is this their answer for lazy, ill-educated thugs who want everything handed to them and for their parents to cover for them until they’re 40?  It really gets on my freaking nerves.

 

I thought cutting him off the teat once he got teeth was the right thing to do, but apparently the government doesn’t think so!

Anyway, now that I’ve got that venting out of the way, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so pissed.  It could always be worse, but I guess the frustration is that I deal with the same shit over and over and over and it keeps coming back. 

On the bright side, I have been trolling about for even more MP3s for my collection to add to my cloud drive and player.  I was never much of a Rod Stewart fan back in the 80’s- I always thought him a bit too on the mellow side- but I’m enjoying some of his stuff now.  I have a lovely eclectic mix of tunes- mostly because I really can’t stand most of the local radio stations, and I can’t really narrow down all the music I like to one particular genre.  I like classical, I like blues and jazz and funk, and of course I get into rock and metal- especially the orchestral, grandiose rock of the 70’s and 80’s.  Maybe it’s because I played music long ago, and I studied classical voice, that I tend to be a bit fussy and perhaps even a bit highbrow at times.   I wonder if I could remember how to play bass after 15+ years of not playing at all.  I still have a voice and I still have the range (a little over 3 1/2 octaves- alto II through soprano I, believe that) but my age, lack of stamina and constant snots pretty much keep me from doing much more with that besides singing in the car and at church.  Yes I sing it loud and sing it proud in church.  Lutherans can get away with that.  I’m kind of curious to see on Sunday- I have to go to my nephew’s Confirmation- if the Methodists can crank it out. 🙂

I’ve got to get in a better state of mind.  Maybe a few rounds of “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” might help.

All the cool musicians looked better in 1981.

I have a good time with that- until I remember that Rod Stewart is older than my Dad.  Then I get kinda sorta creeped out. 

 

 

 

 

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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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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, misanthropy

Definitely Not Normal, So Adjust, (and Learn When to Say “Tough Titty!”)

I never really liked the word “normal,” because “normal” is a most subjective word.  What is normal for me is probably not normal for most other people, and vice-versa.  That’s OK, because I’m comfortable with the way I’m wired, and I can navigate with it pretty well.   The problem for me is that the rest of the world isn’t wired the same way, so I have to modify my methods and approach accordingly in my interactions with the rest of humanity.  My peculiar wiring gives me some advantages (for instance, for me, speed-reading has always been a mechanism that is both automatic and near and dear to my heart) but my wiring also gives me disadvantages when the only route I’ve been given is not the well-traveled road.   I see much that others miss, but I miss much that others see.  I miss the subtle cues of facial expression and body language that most people cue in on automatically.  I have to make a conscious effort not only to read non-verbals, but also to be sure that I’m sending the right non-verbals, both of which are vexing for me.  I’d much rather communicate in print so I can revise as necessary and say what I mean to say.  I also have to make a conscious effort to do anything requiring gross motor skills.  I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was almost 8 years old, and in spite of intense physical therapy when I was 3-4 years old, and my mother’s misguided attempt to force me into ballet lessons a few years later, (too bad they didn’t have video cameras then, because my abysmal attempts at ballet dancing would have been a hoot to watch) I’m still doing good to walk without falling. 

A better term for “normal” in my world would be “neurotypical”- meaning the vast majority of humanity, i.e. people who can walk across a room without tripping on their own feet, and whose perception is not perennially “cranked up to 11.”   Neurotypical people have to learn to read the written word the hard way (something I still don’t understand, because I can’t remember a time in my life when I couldn’t read) but for the most part they automatically pick up on empathy and relating to others, while I have to consciously develop and practice those skills- the hard way.  I also have to train myself to narrow my focus, otherwise I would be kept awake by a star’s reflection in my window or by the whistle of a far off train.  The danger in this is if I turn down the perception knob too much or hone in on one tiny spot for too long I truly do shut off the rest of the world.  One of my greatest talents is the ability to ignore. I have to consciously keep a balance between the two extremes.   I can go from near-catatonia to panic attack in a heartbeat if I fail to keep the “need to shut down” and “need to experience everything” parts of my mind balanced. 

I have suspected for a long time that I have Asperger’s Syndrome- the description of Asperger’s explains much about my rather “abnormal” intellectual and social development.  I understand how easy it is to simply shut down.  It’s hard for me to describe, but I can see both how and why autistic people do shut down.  It’s easier than the constant fight to maintain the balance, and it beats panic attacks and/or manic rages.  Leave me alone in the ivory tower, because it’s a lot easier that way.  Yes, that I most certainly understand.

I remember all too well Mom used to backhand me for “being rude” or “staring” when I couldn’t see what was wrong with a.) stating the obvious, or b.) making an observation.  Then again I may have had some advantages in such a harsh upbringing.  Mom was a big believer in operant conditioning, and more specifically the negative reinforcement component of operant conditioning.  She would backhand you for a dirty look, or for missing a response whilst doing the Catholic calesthenics during Mass.  In her economy one’s behavior better be appropriate at all times, and to flying hell with any reason you might provide for behavior she deemed inappropriate.   My sisters had a different MO for beating the hell out of me, (unless they could beat me and make me scream so Mom would also beat me- for screaming) and they beat me a LOT more often than Mom ever needed to.  They beat the hell out of me because I was an easy target and it was something to do when Mom locked us outside and cranked up the volume on the TV.  Who knew sadism could be so entertaining?  Today they have video games for that, but not back in the 70’s. 

In my opinion, “telling it like it is,” is simply being honest.  You can be honest and tactful, but tact is an acquired skill, and not necessarily one that I excel in.  I acquired a good measure of tact with the quickness when I was about five- after I commented that one of Dad’s friends was getting really fat. Gotta love that operant conditioning. You will shut up after being backhanded into next week- but it didn’t change the fact that Dad’s buddy was getting downright lardy.  One of the nice things about cougardom is that I don’t have to be as tactful as I was required to be when I was five.  Age buys one at least a slight bit of gravitas in some ways.  I can call a lard ass a lard ass and get away with it, though if I must comment on someone’s superfluous girth, I generally just say “large” and move on.  I’m not consciously trying to be rude, but I do call it as I see it.  I can make commentary as much as I want to at my age without having to be as paranoid about offending people. 

One of the reasons I really hate political correctness is that it gives people excuses to be wussies.  I was never allowed to simply follow the path of least resistance and shut myself down to the point of being cloistered away in a padded room with a stack of adult diapers (though I think I would actually have to leave my little private enclave to at least use the toilet and bathe) and vast selection of reading material.  No one catered to me.  I had to adjust to everyone else and if I didn’t like it, it was tough titty.  I was held to a higher standard because of my IQ scores, with no mercy or accommodation for my motor deficits or emotional and social deficits.  My family forced me to be social and to function in the neurotypical world whether I wanted to or not.  I was not given the choice to withdraw from human interaction.  The best metaphor I can think of is that I was thrown in the pool and left to sink or swim.  No water wings, no instruction, no floatie for me.  Use what you have and figure it out.  I probably could have done without all the beatings and likely the attempts at ballet lessons too, but for the most part I don’t think that I would have the ability to function in the “normal” world today had I not been forced to do so. Sadly, today no one has the audacity to require kids to adjust and to learn how to navigate the world with the wiring they’ve been given. 

Granted, I am probably not an exemplary picture of mental health.  I freely admit I have Issues.  Then again, had I not been thrown into the fire I can guarantee my Issues would be far more profound and limiting.

So, just shut up and make it work.  That’s what has to be done sometimes.

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