assorted rants, dogs, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel, theology

“Normal?” – Not My Relatives! Wanna Pet My Kid’s Skunk?

steve-o and astro

Yes.  It’s a skunk. Yes. It is sleeping atop my offspring.

I am more of a dog person than anything.  I like cats too, and I have cats, but to me there is nothing like the relationship one can have with a dog.

I have no idea what got the POMC started in on skunks, other than he really doesn’t connect with cats, and he’s somewhat freaky about dogs. He was dog bit rather severely when he was nine.  His right hand might look normal now, but that dog chewed it up like burger meat and he has permanent nerve damage.  Dogs have pretty much given him the creeps ever since, which really sucks.

ferret

He had ferrets in high school, much to my mother’s disgust, because ferrets have a funk.  Even I can smell ferret funk, which means they must smell pretty nasty to most people.  Odor aside, they just never really thrilled me much.  I’ve heard them described as “cat snakes,” which is about right.  Dinky, sneaky little bastards as far as I’m concerned.

skunk

In the skunk’s defense, he is de-scented and the only thing about him that really smells is his shit.  Skunk shit is nasty, nasty, nasty.  The skunk himself, however, is very clean and doesn’t really have a smell to him.

Even so, I’d rather deal with a dog or a cat.  Skunks have sensitive digestive systems and special nutritional needs. They have to have their food specially prepared (sort of like feeding a toddler) unlike a dog or cat who can eat prepackaged dog or cat food and be cool with it.  It’s also a real pain in the hiney to find a vet who will deal with skunks.  Their anatomy and physiology is nothing like dogs or cats, so the vets that will work with them generally cost up the wazoo.

exotic vet

Most vets don’t want to see anything that isn’t a cat or a dog.  I can’t say I blame them.

Skunks are a vector for rabies in the wild, which is enough to scare off most people from owning them.  However, the truth is that the only way for any mammal to get rabies is to be bitten by something with rabies.   Domestic, captive born skunks don’t have rabies, and won’t get rabies unless something with rabies bites them.  Captive born and kept indoors, skunks are just as safe to keep as a pet (and not a rabies risk!) as an indoor cat.

wpid-20150204_050005.jpg

Harmless as Jezebel? I don’t give my indoor cats rabies shots because there’s no way for them to get bitten by something that’s rabid.

Lucy

The dogs do get rabies shots because a.) they go outside and therefore in theory can be bitten by something rabid, and b.) state law requires it.

I am one of those weird people who can really go off on bizarre tangents at times.  I bought – and read with fascination-  this book some while back- Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus..  It’s a compelling read on a rather off the wall subject.  I will have to let the illustrious offspring borrow this one if he’s in the mood for some enlightening late night reading. Of course my tastes in literature are mostly non-fiction (science and history) and often tend to gravitate toward the macabre.

I don’t think I have one “normal” relative.  Not one.  My son passes for normal most of the time, but they are all certifiable.

Mom is probably the one that’s the closest to the cuckoo’s nest- she’s bi-polar with a heaping helping of anxiety, OCD, and extreme naïveté to go along with it.  Jerry is a laundry list of fun beginning with adult ADHD, Helpless Man syndrome, and ending with a rip roaring case of what I call “functional drunk.”

Dad’s gotten a lot more fun since he’s gotten old. It wouldn’t surprise me that like his own father he decides now that he’s 70 years old that, “I’m not old. I’m middle aged.” Nobody had the heart to tell Grandpa when he turned 70 that it was highly unlikely he’d see 140, but he did live to be 91.   I guess it’s all about your attitude.

There’s a phenomenon with some older people where their frontal lobe (the “traffic cop” of the brain) sort of wears out and doesn’t screen one’s conversation as thoroughly as it once did, or probably should.

So Dad, who used to be rather tight-lipped and taciturn, has gotten rather cheeky as he ages.  His oh-so scathing commentary is starting to remind me of my grandmother and great-grandmother (ironically my mother’s mother and grandmother, go figure) and it’s a hoot. It drives Mom nuts, on the rare occasion she actually gets the reference and/or the double entendre. I’m glad that most of the time it goes over her head, for her own sanity and well being.

Mom has her own special brand of near-senility which is even more creepy than my Dad flipping off traffic.  She has always gravitated to the mega-weird parts of Catholicism which is downright scary, but the older she gets the more she watches EWTN, goes to Mass and Confession, and is grabbing on that rosary.  Normally I would say religious disciplines would be a good thing, but she gets Really Weird with it.  She thought that if she left EWTN on all the time full blast that the POMC would see the Catholic light and become a priest.  Never mind that he’s pretty much agnostic and really creeped by “men in dresses.”

To top that off, she’s also blithely ignorant that it’s really, really gauche to ask someone who is a confessional Lutheran and who has done a lot of theological and spiritual soul searching to come on down to the Catholic cathedral to venerate some dead saint’s bones.  Apparently the Catholic school she went to didn’t teach too much about Martin Luther, the 95 Theses, and the Reformation.

I had to decline the bone-gazing and necromancy out of conscience, but as far as she knows I declined because I had to do laundry.  I’d rather tell a little white lie – though I really did do laundry- than go through a detailed theological dissertation on why I don’t venerate saints’ bones.  I don’t need to hurt her feelings.

Even the POMC is borderline OCD. His car and motorcycle both are testament to that.

Both of my sisters could be called “castrating bitches,” due to the fact that they both can run a man like a railroad.

And here I sit with my own frailties and funky wiring.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, political commentary

A Minimalist Approach, Sweat Tsunami, and What Really Matters

fail

And people wonder why I don’t trust the media.

The more I read in the news, or worse, the more TV news I’m subjected to, the more I discover that most of it is not only insanely trite and boring, but also not very applicable to me.

Kilauea-Volcano

Unless that volcano is erupting in my back yard, or my bed is above that 500 foot-across sink hole, I’m inclined not to give a rat’s ass.  I really don’t need to know about it, either.

I will be so glad when the Y pool is opened back up again (this is week 2 of 2 weeks of scheduled maintenance) for two very good reasons.

scandal-abc

I hate TV news.  I’m starting to get Don Henley’s point.  Even if I am listening to my headphones, the various news networks are plastered on the TV screens in the machine room, and they’re captioned. That wouldn’t be so bad, except I am compelled to read anything in print.  (This is one of the things about hyperlexia that can really suck- that compulsion to read everything that’s in print.)  For me, visual always trumps auditory.   What I hear never drowns out what I see.

I am coming very close to hitting my personal vapidity overload threshold.  I could care less whose school is on delay, what cologne my dogs should be wearing this season, and the less I know about Obama’s vacations and Obama’s flagrant violations of the Constitution,  the more sane I can try to remain.

fundraiser

Obama is thoroughly corrupt and loathsome.  I don’t need to keep on observing the media’s attempts to make him look good.

There really isn’t much in the morning news that has any sort of relevance in my life.  Now I know why I don’t watch it voluntarily.  I know most of the normals watch TV news- which is why it’s on during the morning workout hours- but the way I’m wired there are certain things I can only take in tiny doses, such as the Kardashians, gay men who try to tell me how I should dress, and natural disasters in divers parts of the world.  I get what news I really have to have on a need to know basis, usually online.  That minimalist strategy helps me turn down the mental noise.  Why should I get my undies in a bunch over things I have no control over?

gay fashion

No self respecting straight man would be seen dressed like these two- not even on Halloween.

Even though I have my coping strategies, being on the spectrum makes it easy for me to overload and get overwhelmed and depressed, so I have to make a conscious effort to try to be somewhat careful what I load up in my head.  It either has to be practical, or at least funny.

sweaty

The other thing I sort of dislike about working out on the elliptical machine vs. swimming laps in the pool is I hate sweating and I hate being hot.  After 40 minutes on that machine,  my clothes are completely soaked and one can actually wring the sweat out of them which is absolutely disgusting.  Even though my morning workouts are always followed by a thorough, insanely soapy, and ultimately freezing cold shower, that icky sticky sweaty feeling is nasty while it lasts.  Not to mention my clothes- they go directly in the wash when I get home.

I see people wearing workout clothes for more than one day at a time and I sincerely hope that either a.) they don’t sweat like I do, or b.) they’re washing that stuff out every night.  I’m not OCD or a germophobe- at least not to extremes- but my workout clothes are absolutely unwearable after one workout until they’re washed again.

Body-Solid-Elliptical

40 minutes of exercise is 40 minutes of exercise, but it’s a lot more pleasant in the pool.  At least then all I have to wash off is the chlorine.

I am thankful to be able to have a Y membership, don’t get me wrong, but it can be frustrating when I have to shift to a different plan.  I don’t mind doing the elliptical now and then as a change of pace, but every day, and in the summer- not so much.  In the middle of winter it might not be so bloody hot.

At least I’m working out. I don’t look like the buff chick on the machine up there but at least I don’t look like this:

very-fat-woman-eating_130682670469

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

A Head Start on Contagion Season, (No I Am Not OCD- Yet) and Other Projects

I just bought a germ mask, and I will wear it when I am surrounded by sickies.  I have no problem with that.

I really don’t want to be some kind of paranoid germophobe.  I try not to be, unless I am surrounded by people sneezing, hacking and hawking up lung pieces.  Then I get nervous.  I do try to take reasonable care of myself.  I wash and sanitize my hands often.  I refrain from eating or drinking after others.   But when someone comes into my proximity with any kind of respiratory funk (especially the rude mo-fos who don’t cover their sneeze, or who cough and snot into their hands and then finger my stuff) I get a bit more assertive regarding contagion control.

I love disinfectant.  Especially when the loogie hawkers are out there.

When someone starts coughing, hacking, and hawking up contagion all over the place, and especially when they just spread it around everywhere without mind to hygiene, like little kids do, I spray the perimeter of my workspace with Lysol and wipe down pretty much everything I touch with the Lysol wipes.  I hate being like that, but dammit, I don’t need that shit.  I don’t expect people to stay home with head colds and minor respiratory funk, but I do expect them to observe the basic hygiene rules.  Cover your cough or sneeze.  Wash and sanitize your hands, and keep your mitts off of my stuff, especially when you’ve just hawked a loogie into a Kleenex, fingered all over that, and then neglected to wash or sanitize your hands.  I do not need to experience your booger slime.  And the further away you stay from the immunologically weak (like me) the better for us all.

Keep your snot to yourself.  Or I will Lysol your ass.

When I get a basic head cold it almost always turns into a sinus infection, bronchitis or pneumonia (or all of the above,) and a good case of the strep throat could actually kill me, should it morph into rheumatic fever (again.)  I hate being sick with a passion.  It makes sense for me to be a wee bit paranoid, and a wee bit generous with the Lysol.  I do the same for others.  Should I have the respiratory funk myself, I have no problem taking steps to sanitize and refrain from spreading contagion to others.  I don’t want to intentionally (or neglectfully) spread disease to others.

I have had the opportunity to add some interesting tunes to my playlist- I got a Jethro Tull CD for a quarter at a garage sale, and added “Bungle in the Jungle, ” “Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die,” and “Sweet Dream” to my MP3 collection.  I also added Kansas’ “Hold On” and REO Speedwagon’s “Back On the Road Again.”  I never really got into Jethro Tull back in the day but I’m really enjoying it now.

If I keep this up I’ll either have to get a new MP3 player or upgrade to a bigger memory card.

Jerry should never, ever let me dress him.

I don’t know what it is straight men have against bright colors and bold patterns.  I know Steve-o is not very good at the whole “matching” concept- as a child he would come up with the most outrageous ensembles, and I couldn’t in good conscience let him go out in public wearing let’s say- a green t-shirt with orange sweat pants and one purple and one black sock- with sandals.  It was probably good for his self-esteem (yeah, wasn’t everything…mustn’t do anything to damage the offspring’s self-esteem) that I would convince him to change clothes, or at least wear two socks of the same color, or at the very least, take the socks off if sandals were the footwear du jour.  I can’t stand to see people wear socks with sandals.  What’s the point?  Sandals are meant to let your feet air out.  If you have funky looking feet wear socks- and shoes.   The good thing was, if Steve-o did manage to leave the house looking like flypaper for freaks, the peer response generally would prevent the same fashion faux pas from happening again.

If you dress like them, they will come.  Hawking loogies and bearing snotty secretions.

Now that Steve-o is an adult straight male, his ensembles generally consist of: loose-fitting man-jeans, white socks, skater shoes, assorted white, black, grey and blue t-shirts, often with catty sayings.  In winter one might add a black Monster hoodie to the mix.  There are no matching skills necessary with his wardrobe.  He wears uniforms to work, which solves the “what to wear to work today” question.  That is probably a blessing, considering some of his own personal attire.

Safe boating?  Probably not.

Jerry’s wardrobe is remarkably similar to Steve-o’s- except that Jerry likes the button-up oxford type shirts in addition to t-shirts.  He likes the same boring colors though- white, blue, black, gray and occasionally brown.  No patterns, and unlike Steve-o, no catty sayings.  Jerry does like a front shirt pocket for smokes though.  I find shirt pockets to be vestigial and at best, decorative, as far as my own purposes.  It’s awkward for an ample-chested woman to use shirt pockets.  Grabbing to get something in your pocket makes onlookers think you’re grabbing your bazongas, which is just about as socially taboo as a woman having a nice long scratch on her nether region.  Besides, if I really want to keep tabs on something, I’ll shove it in my bra.

It’s probably for the best that men don’t generally go for the complicated or outlandish when it comes to attire.  Imagine this:

A world of guys dressing like this would be interesting, but rather scary as hell.

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Observations of the Great Unwashed, and The Mind is the First Thing to Go

I’ve always been a bit scatterbrained.  My brain does not generally work like a flow chart.  Somehow I go from point A to point F and it usually ends up making sense in the end, but where I got the idea to skip all the points in between I don’t know.   I make some really strange connections that are logical to me but to no one else.  I wouldn’t call it ADHD, because I can truly focus and be detailed- perhaps too much so- when necessity calls for a high level of detail.   I get lost in details very easily if I’m not careful.  But in the normal course of life I have my own personal scribbled mental shorthand that serves as a sort of guide to daily activity. 

This tendency to skip ahead in the logical progression of things sometimes leads to forgetting and/or misplacing things.  I know I should probably slow down or write things down or something like that, but I am not a very good planner by nature.  I always have way too much to do and I wonder how I get any of it done.  I know how easily plans get screwed up and then you end up having to improvise anyway.  For good or for ill, most days I’m winging it.  I think Steve-o has inherited the same characteristic- forgetting those little details, like socks.  Few things are funnier than an adult male (with birdy narrow feet) in purple Hello Kitty socks:

At least someone had a spare pair of socks that didn’t smell like fermented cow shit like the ones he had worn the previous two days.

I’m sort of pissed off that I lost my Skullcandy headphones that I’ve had for about 3 years (a record for me and headphones, as I lose them often) and I had to buy a new set.  The new ones are nice- but I have no freaking clue where in the hell my other set ended up. 

Then there’s the Fanny incident.  I know Fanny tries to get out, and I usually have no problem keeping her in because she’s both big and slow.   Yes, I was sleep-deprived in a bad way and just plain crispy Thursday night, but it’s no excuse.  My ineptitude and oversight  is not worth a dead cat. I know the next time I go to the pet food joint (probably tomorrow) that I am going to have to get her a collar and tag- with a bell- and she will wear it even though I know she hates collars and I will get several weeks’ worth of stink-eye over it.  Cats are vindictive creatures, and Fanny is no exception.  If she were like the other two cats who have absolutely no interest in the World Beyond the Door, then I wouldn’t need to do it.  Perhaps with a bell on I will be able to hear as well as see her.

Sometimes I go digging either in my room or in my purse and I find stuff I didn’t realize I had.  That’s just plain wrong.  I don’t know if I am becoming forgetful simply because I have been  chronically sleep-deprived and constantly running at full bore for such a long time, or because senility is setting in.  I don’t sleep well and haven’t for years because my sinuses drain 24/7.  I have to sleep on a 45° angle (picture a large wedge pillow, because this is what I have to use) to keep from choking to death on my own snot.  It’s better to live with the constant drainage, because if they don’t drain, they get infected and inflamed and I can’t breathe at all. 

NNo one should ever have to worry about choking to death on snot, but I have to.

I guess choking on snot would be a better way to go than ODing and croaking on the crapper like Elvis, or ODing on dog anesthetic like Michael Jackson (Propofol is actually one of the better dog anesthetics because it is metabolized quickly, and can be used on dogs that are sensitive to other anesthetic agents, BUT, even in dogs respiration has to be strictly monitored because one of Propofol’s side effects is that it can stop breathing) or ODing and drowning in the bathwater like Whitney Houston, but I really don’t want to go that way.   I don’t think I’ll be ODing on anything voluntarily, but one of my deepest and most primal fears is being suffocated to death.  I blame my sadistic oldest sister for that one, as well as for my inability to eat or drink after other people- especially blood relatives.  No I will not take a bite off the fork that you stuck in your filthy mouth and slobbered all over.  Not until it has been duly sanitized.   To this day if you take a swig off of my pop bottle, you own it.  I don’t  want it back.  Ever.  Even if you swear you don’t backwash.  I refuse to consciously swap saliva (and whatever else is in the backwash you leave behind) with anyone.  Not the old man, not my son, and probably not even Steve Perry, should he ever have the opportunity to hijack my Diet Dr. Pepper. 

At least I am not as OCD as Mom.  She is one of those people who refuses to touch the inside door handle in a public bathroom, and she still believes you can get VD from a toilet seat.

Maybe not so much VD, but let’s hope that is some sturdy plastic going on there.

I had to take a picture of this sign the other day. It was sort of depressing though, because as I thought about it, no I can’t remember when the last time was, and I am not talking about flowers.  I’m not sure if Clinton or Bush II was President.   I am a pathetic specimen for sure.

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cougardom, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Truly Tasteless Holiday Decor, Stupid Parenting, and Gratuitous Self Pity

I have a pink Christmas tree, complete with pink lights.  Mom got it for me last year.  Believe me, I am putting it up.  Watch me go.

Like most people, I have a deep ambivalence toward the holiday season.  I enjoy the decorations – especially tacky ones– but I sincerely abhor crowds, especially when all I’m trying to do is get basic grocery staples or scripts and I have to fight off the unwashed hordes.

I don’t like feeling as if I have to do all kinds of shopping either. My relatives already have way too much crap they don’t need.  I do too.  Please forgo the kitschy crud and either give me a gift card (Target, Kroger’s or Speedway, especially) or even cash.  That way I can get something I need rather than another hideous green sweater, or hinky nasty dinky earrings that I will never wear.  I hate shopping unless I can do it online. Whoever isn’t happy with a gift card and/or what I can manage to get ordered online, sorry about your luck.

The cooking business is actually something I enjoy as long as I have the time to do it.  My grandmothers ensured that I was proficient with the culinary arts (at least the old-time redneck version thereof) so there will be no shortage of such holiday favorites as pumpkin, apple and chocolate cream pies, scalloped potatoes, turkey-and- dressing, homemade gravy, homemade noodles, baked mac and cheese, cheeseballs, etc.  I like to serve the old-time comfort food.   If other people want to bring funky stuff like spinach casserole (not bad, really) or hummus (got to love the extra garlic version) that’s cool- I am not a food snob and will try just about anything once, but make sure the staples are covered.  I would hate to see Dad disappointed because there were no scalloped potatoes or reduced sugar chocolate cream pie, or have the nieces and nephews wonder why I didn’t bring the baked mac-n-cheese.  Lasagna is lovely (I made both red and white lasagna Sunday night that is divine if I say so myself) but it’s not a substitute for turkey with homemade dressing and gravy. 

Although I have rather diverse and eclectic tastes in food, there are some items commonly served around the holidays that I can do without.  I find fruit cake to be just plain vile.  I can’t eat it.  Fruit cake might as well be head cheese or pigs’ feet, which are two items that I have also tried and find positively gut-wrenchingly disgusting.  I’m also not a real big fan of green bean casserole.  I like the stuff that goes in it, but there’s just something about the combination of green beans, mushroom soup and deep fried onions that doesn’t thrill me.  I can eat it, but it isn’t something I find imperative to serve.  Sweet  potatoes (some people call them yams) are another item that I can do without.  Since I am diabetic I can beg off the candied yams (gross, gross, gross) without too much trouble. 

Yesterday’s news proved yet again that there is no shortage of the second most common element in the universe: stupidity.  Suffice to say that anyone stupid enough to leave one’s offspring in one’s (running) car whilst running into a convenience store to get smokes really shouldn’t be left alone with children.  I am glad the mother got her little boy back safely, but I’ll bet that’s the last time she will leave him alone with Baby Daddy for a long time.   I was certainly no shining example of superlative parenting, but I never left my kid alone in a running car regardless of whether or not he was strapped into a car seat- no matter how bad I needed smokes.

Ironically, Steve-o, in preparing for his upcoming role as Baby Daddy, seems to be a tad bit on the OCD side of things. He’s reminding me a bit of Mom and her Clorox obsession.  When Steve-o was a newborn (and a large, robust one at that) Mom tried to Clorox everything that came remotely close to him.  I swear she bathed him five times a day and changed his (freshly Clorox’d) clothes on the hour, every hour.  His dire concern with everything being Just Right and Super Clean for his little girl is not only reminiscent of Mom and her fussiness with the POMC, but it’s also richly hilarious- considering that he ran from Mom screaming bloody murder when she chased him down in her feeble attempts to cut through all the little-boy crusty filth with wet wipes and/or Kleenex.   He is in for a rude awakening.  Tee-hee.

I am wondering just how long it will take him to realize that his little girl is not made of porcelain, that baby puke and poop both stain and reek, and there is no known medical explanation as to why a two year old can extract an infinite length of thick green snot streamer from his/her nose.  

I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun, but I can’t wait until my grandchild showers him in a spray of snot, spit and half-eaten Cheerios.  Children are many things, but filthy is universal. You just haven’t lived until you have been showered, caked and drenched with the offal emanating from your offspring.

I must really be becoming my mother now that I am taking delight in the same phrase she liked to use: “Wait until you have kids.”  I have to remember to send Steve-o a copy of the news article above as a cautionary tale.  Never leave the kid in the car (especially with the car running) when you run to the shop-and-rob to get smokes.

Parenting taught me a few interesting lessons, above and beyond the average toddler’s infinite capacity to generate toxic waste of divers kinds.  I learned you can drown out a screaming kid pretty well by cranking up Led Zeppelin and/or Ozzy.   I also learned that until the kid’s about sixteen or so, while it’s rude, it’s often necessary to wheel the grocery cart down the middle of the aisle, and to inspect the contents often- unless you want to explain to the cashier why you don’t want  the 15 boxes of Pop-Tarts, the economy pack of extra-heavy duty disposable douche, the “For Her Pleasure” multi-colored condom assortment, and the six tubes of Prep-H that magically appeared in your cart.

I guess I really shouldn’t feel too sorry for myself.  It could be a whole lot worse.

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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, historical interest, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel

Activities for Introverts, Strange Phrases, Aging as it Relates to Discretion

There’s nothing like the Nintendo DS (I have the “lite” version, not the funky 3D one- and I’d love to get the Hello Kitty skin, but I do have the full HK case, so why do that?) for geeks.  You don’t have to be a geek to appreciate the DS, but I am a big fan of word games and various solitaires, and as far as hand-held games are, it’s probably the best one for that.  I bought a DS so I would have something to occupy myself with when I was recovering from my hysterectomy.  It was well worth it.  The 3D version, which just came out last month, would be cool for action games- but I generally don’t play action games.  The only action games I have are “Jackass” and “Sims”. I haven’t gotten past the first level on Jackass, and I haven’t played with the “Sims” game much yet.  Most of the time I’m either playing Scrabble or Freecell (or Tuxedo or Sea Towers, on the Solitaire Overload package) or Bookworm, or the Crosswords DS game. 

This is gaming excitement for this old cougar.  Gratuitous use of the DS also keeps me from throttling people when I am forced to wait.  It’s that whole Type A personality mentality that doesn’t like to waste time- unless of course I’m occupying my mind with something else.  Waiting in the Dr.’s office, or waiting for car repair, or anything else I have to wait on gets my nervous tizziness going on, and it doesn’t help that most public waiting areas subject you to either 1. bad pop music, 2. CNN or other depressing,  extreme left-wing biased “news” broadcasts that insist Obama is the greatest President since Lincoln (gag), or 3. Oprah/Jerry Springer/Montel/Judge Whoever, etc.,  which is enough to make me want to hurl.  If I’m playing a game I’m at least a bit distracted from being irritated and kept from excessive clock-watching.  I do have Scrabble on my phone, but the DS version is a lot easier to maneuver. 

If I do have to watch one of those made for TV hokey small-claims court programs, why not bring back the People’s Court with Judge Wapner?  Unless of course, Judge Wapner is dead.  As of today, or the latest info I can find, Judge Wapner is still alive, but he’s 91, so he’s probably not much for making a comeback into the courtroom.   I like to watch the exciting courtroom stuff like they show on TruTV, where the victim’s entire family beats the hell out of a murderer in the courtroom or something cool like that.  I just can’t get riled up about some jackoff leaving skid marks in someone’s grass, or someone wanting reimbursed for her pain and suffering over a crappy hair do, and other petty stuff like that.   If I’m going to be pissed off enough to take someone to court it better be worth my time and aggravation. 

I understand that 99% of the rest of the world is not wired like me at all, so I’m the one who has to adjust.  I can’t expect the rest of the world to cater to my preferences, unless of course I can pay for that privilege.  The ability to pay for solitude and to require others to come to me for necessary services could be a mixed blessing too.  Howard Hughes was able to pay for the amount of isolation and catering he wanted, and look how he ended up- emaciated, naked, hooked on drugs and over all a pathetic mess.  The reality is that many introverted people, if given enough money (and a bad enough case of OCD, which oddly, is one disorder common to introverted people that I have remained free of) could end up exactly like Howard Hughes.  Whether I like it or not, I have to interact with other humans face to face.  I am generally not paranoid about dirt or germs or weird stuff like that.  I’m just not terribly social unless it is on my terms, and with the very few people that I actually enjoy socializing with.   Most of the time I’d rather not talk to or interact with anyone, but there are things everyone has to do that they don’t always want to do. 

I like shoes too much to resort to wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet.

I’ve noticed the older I get the more I get like my Grandma (Mom’s mother, who died back in 1990 at the somewhat untimely age of 74) and my Great-Grandma (her mother, who died in 1992 at the age of 94.)  They were at least in appearances, classy old ladies.  They both knew how to dress.  When Grandma died she had over 500 pairs of shoes, all size 8 1/2 AAA.  Mom wears the same bizarre size, so she inherited a nice collection.  These weren’t cheap shoes either.  They were all quality, good leather shoes- brands like Florsheim, Hush Puppies, Connie, Reebok, and her personal favorite, Naturalizer.   I try to buy my shoes on clearance, because I am cheap, but I can’t abide cheap shoes.  I will spend money on shoes, but I will go to the thrift store and the Target clearance rack to buy clothes.   I buy along the same lines as Grandma did- well made leather shoes, only I need a 7B.  I didn’t inherit Mom and Grandma’s narrow feet.  Steve-o did though.  Very few dudes wear a size 13A.  His feet remind me of giant bird claws.  Creepy.

Anyway, Grandma was the type of person who spoke her mind even if it was politically incorrect or just downright embarrassing.  I will never forget the time I took Grandma and Great-Grandma to K-Mart together.  Neither of them ever learned to drive which I thought was a bit odd, but I didn’t mind taking them places. 

Grandma had worked as a lingerie buyer for a large department store for many years.  When I was 13 (and already a 36C) Grandma warned me how important it was for me to wear a good quality support bra, otherwise I would be looking like the native women on National Geographic before I turned 30.  Gravity has taken its toll (I’m 42 after all,) but the puppies would likely be a lot further south today had I gone braless like a lot of my friends used to do.   Grandma knew all the ins and outs of lingerie and fitting foundation garments.  She also knew the good stuff from the cheap stuff.

When we walked into K-Mart there was an absolutely horrible hot pink, red and black nightie type thing on the display mannequin.  There were bright red hands stitched to the chest area of the nightie thing, as if some ethereal form were copping a feel of the mannequin’s puppies.  Grandma simply had to comment.

“You’d have to be a whore to wear something like that!”

Then Great-Grandma (not to be out done) spotted one of the Behemoth Women Wearing Spandex which are unfortunately (pun intended) wide spread in the entire Central Ohio vicinity.  There’s a reason why K-Mart sells size 20 women’s underwear, which could also double as a front end cover for Jerry’s Tacoma.   Great-Grandma  had to comment on her shocking sight of the day too.

“Look at the big ass on that!”

Both of them were laughing- loudly- all the way through the store, and I have to admit I was too, because their observations were spot-on. 

I think as people age the “traffic cop” function of the frontal lobe of the brain gets a bit tired out.  We stop censoring everything and just say it like it is.  In some ways I think that can be a good thing.  I even see Mom doing this to some degree, which is shocking, because she has always been so straight laced and prudy.   When we were kids she thought “fart” was a cuss word, and we weren’t allowed to say “fart.”  We had to say, “passed gas,” “let a stinker,” or “went toot.”  Now she is a hard-core road rager.  She flips people off and calls them stupid assholes out the window, and worse. 

Maybe that’s why Grandma and Great-Grandma never drove.  Mom’s a terrible driver.  She has also been known to cuss out cops, which is not a very wise thing to do.  If ever there were a time for the frontal lobe of one’s brain to engage, it’s when talking to a cop.  I find the phrase, “Yes, sir, Officer,” to be a very appropriate one.  “F*** off and die,” is not a cop-friendly phrase.  Neither is,  “Don’t you have better things to do than to torment old bitties?”    I agree that sometimes cops do lie in wait for the occasional speeder, but the little old bitty doing 95 in a 25 (in a Ford LTD- granted it did have a 351 Windsor, but still,) is a hazard to the public.  She’s lucky to have only gotten a speeding ticket and not a conviction for reckless op.  That’s why Dad won’t let her have another V8.   I’ve been in the car with Mom.  I know how she drives.  I side with the cop.

I should get Mom this t-shirt.  Maybe it will help if she’s wearing it the next time she gets busted.

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