Deliver Me from the Kia of Death, Making Sarcasm Out of Pretty Much Everything…

May 17, 2019Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

2003 Kia Optima I could only wish that the unfortunate 2003 Kia across the street were in this good of condition. Someone recently decided to use its roof as a trampoline, and in the process broke out the back glass – which can’t be replaced because the roof rail is bent- so the back glass consists of that plastic people use in the winter if they don’t have storm windows, and duct tape. Lots of duct tape. I feel sorry for her for having to drive it. The only cure for this thing is C4. Then again, when I see the volume of Natty cans in the yard and around their fire pit on Saturday and Sunday mornings, I understand. All. Too. Well. She’s living la vida drunksitter. Both her husband and her father-in-law make Jerry look like an amateur at drunk-n-stupid random destruction. Jerry destroyed stuff, yes, but even in his drunken stupidity, deep in that primal, reptilian part of his brain, he knew that trashing my car was a Really Bad Idea. Apparently this tipsy redneck has discovered, the hard way, that if you want to go car surfing, you need something with a sturdier roof than an aged Kia Optima. I hope she kicked his ass. She is twice his size.

put_up_the_pool_january This is the same guy who put up the pool on January 5. FYI: Central Ohio’s average January high temperature is 23°. Yes. Fahrenheit. Then again this is the same rocket scientist, in the same pool, who passed out on a floatie in the middle of the pool , surrounded by empty Natty cans, in the heat of the day, on a 90° (also Fahrenheit) day in the middle of July for a few hours. When all was said and done, he was just about this RED.

I know when the Kia of death starts up. It does actually start and run consistently which must be considered a plus if it’s the only thing one has to drive. It gets fired up at 5:55 AM every morning, just as I am about to get the Corolla out of the garage and get on my way. It has a cracked exhaust manifold (and yes, I have been around things automotive long enough to know that sound) and makes about as much noise as something with a four cylinder engine possibly can. It could wake the dead. It’s even louder than the old man’s Harley, and that’s saying a lot considering he can usually be spotted sporting t-shirts that have such pithy sayings as, “Loud Pipes Save Lives,” or “Gas, Grass or Ass, No One Rides for Free.”

I really don’t mind my redneck neighbors too much as long as they leave me alone and don’t repeat the shower of bottle rockets on my roof when the 4th of July rolls around. I don’t care if you burn down your house- after all, arson is sort of a tradition on the west side- but don’t burn mine down. I do have homeowner’s insurance (and it’s not cheap, because of all you firebugs out there) but I don’t want to have to use it. I hate moving and I have sworn not to do it again, Lord willing.

I don’t find much humor in the drunk and stupid episodes even though I am not the one living that nightmare anymore. I might have a twinge of schadenfreude when I see the poor woman across the street dragging her man in off the front lawn when he’s passed out, but it’s more like a thankfulness that this time it’s not me cleaning up the mess and doing the dragging.

We are fast approaching Sun’s Out Guns Out season. This means large, pasty white people are going to be wandering about outside in scandalous states of un- and ill- dress.

walmart She has some nice tats. I have tats too, so I shouldn’t talk. Just no names, and no poorly drawn Pitbulls…

The Reality of Canine Longevity, Denial, and a Catahoula Cur

March 3, 2016Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Brutus

Brutus, my 1 year old male Catahoula Cur

I might as well begin with the Catahoula Cur. I had been half-heartedly looking for a dog for Miss Clara to mentor for awhile before her time with me is through. We got Clara as a two year old- when our Kayla was 14. It was a great arrangement in that Kayla had some time to work with Clara, who was a rescue with a laundry list of issues. Now she is well-adjusted, a fine protection dog, and has had many good years of happiness and health.

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Clara (left- 2 years old) Kayla (right- 14 years old)

I admit I am still in denial that now Clara is 14 years old, and she is slowly fading. I know, and lament, the limited lifespan of dogs, especially when I consider Clara, who is very precious to me. Lilo is 13. She is also dear to my heart, and a good protection dog as well. Lilo has been Clara’s shadow since she came to us, and will probably not outlive Clara by long. They are only eight months apart in age.

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Lilo (left- 2 years old) Clara (right- 3 years old)

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Lilo- 3 years old

Even though my mind understands the limitations of canine longevity, in my denial I wasn’t looking very hard to find Clara a protégé. I was thinking either I would save up some money and try to get either a GSD pup from someone reputable, or that the Hand of Fate would somehow place another Malinois in my path.

SAMSUNG

Lucy – 1 year old, being good, but only because she was sleeping.

For me the thought of living without at least one protection dog is not a pleasant one. Lucy (the Bulldog X Beagle) is only three years old, but at only 40# and with dim wits (love the dog, she’s very sweet, but she’s as thick as a post) she’s not a protection dog. So I faced the prospect of not having a protection dog at all, and then trying to educate a green dog without the help of a seasoned dog. Lucy is not a role model. If anything, as far as canine behavior goes, she serves as a primer on how not to act.

clarawindow1 Clara used to get up in the window to watch the world go ’round, but not much any more.

Oddly enough, Providence doesn’t necessarily share my aesthetic, my timing, or my professed desires. Let’s just say that instead of a young female Malinois or GSD… I ended up with a young male Catahoula Cur.

One of my son’s friends had come back to Ohio from Texas (don’t know all the background info, don’t really need to) and couldn’t keep his dog. My son- and only male children have a surprising amount of sway on their old decrepit mothers- implored me to come meet this dog before he was consigned to the dog pound, which, given his looks, could lead to a probable nasty fate at the hands of local dog fighters. So, even though he is not a GSD or Malinois, I agreed to meet the dog. And I fell in love. Let’s just say I’ve gotten Mr. Brutus his rabies tag and dog license, and he’s loving having a three-girl-dog harem.

Brutus Lucy Brutus and Lucy

I’d never even heard of a Catahoula Cur (or more properly, Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog) before last week, and I am pretty aware of dog breeds. I thought he was a very large (1 year old and 65#) and strangely marked Pit Bull. But Catahoulas are not Pit Bulls. Their bodies are longer and a bit leaner, their feet are larger, and the webbing on their feet goes all the way out to the ends of the toes. They are larger (males are 65-95#) than Pit Bulls, and are known for the leopard patterns in their coats. Many, like Brutus, have blue eyes.

Catahoulas are used to hunt wild boar in Louisiana and Texas, and they likely have Pit Bull in their lineage, along with Mastiff, and various sight hounds. Even though Brutus and Clara look nothing alike, they have eerily similar mentalities. Both dogs are infinitely aware of their surroundings, and both are intuitive. He will learn well, and it is good to have a young protection dog again.

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Clara, age 14

I know that I will grieve down to my very soul when Clara and Lilo pass. They have been most excellent dogs, but that is the condition of loving a dog- that their life spans are quite finite and all we can do is love them well in the time we have.

I could talk about and dote upon my dogs forever, and that’s a great thing because they are positive. Not everything in life is so good. Jerry is failing at an even faster rate than Miss Clara, and that is not a good thing. He has gotten the oxygen concentrators he needs to help him breathe. Life is finite. Do what you can with what you have.

I Think I Saw a Ghost, Some Enchanting Suppositions (Not to Be Confused with Suppositories)

February 16, 2015Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

What are the odds of encountering one’s best friend from high school (who I’ve not seen in at least 10 and more like 12 years) in a Certified station/ Subway on the way home? Probably dismal, especially considering the only reasons I stopped there were a.) because I had to take a wicked crap, and b.) Jerry had wanted me to bring him a specific footlong from Subway, and I figured I’d combine errands.

I am really crappy at recognizing people, (even people I see all the time, I might remember the face but not place the name) and I am not at all surprised she had to call me out. Then again, I see people who I think I recognize all the time- who in reality either I don’t know them from Adam’s housecat and/or they don’t know me from Adam’s housecat either. So I make bloody sure I know who I’m talking with before I assume anything. Most people who knew me in high school would probably not recognize me now since I did away with the Big 80’s hair, but yesterday I was probably even less distinguishable since I was wearing the big black rimmed cat eye glasses (the ones in my avatar pic) and a hat.

When I did finally affirm to myself who she was, I swore I had seen a ghost. And I don’t believe in that stuff.

But people who know you still know you. Even when time has not been kind to either of us. There are incidents in my past that I would rather leave there, and revisiting old friends also means reopening old wounds. I’m not saying all my memories of back in the day were bad. Some were funny. Some were difficult. There was a lot of partying. I stopped binge drinking many, many years ago- 1993 to be more or less exact- so that sort of thing doesn’t really have any charm for me now. I’ve moved into a different sphere than most of my old friends. I doubt if we have much in common, but then again, I don’t have much in common with too many people.

I know that my friend has had problems with drinking and addiction on and off, as well as myriad health concerns, which makes keeping in touch even more difficult. She has been used and abused by men. She has spent most of her life painfully poor. I don’t say that as a value judgment, because I could have gone down those paths just as easily. The wear and tear just looks different.

I almost felt guilty. I’m not a wealthy woman by any stretch, but here I am with my late model car and smart phone, and she’s asking me if I know anyone with a cheap, crappy used car because she’s been without a car for six months. Her youngest son is in trouble and has been in and out of the joint for stealing her credit card and for other things. She’s living in a redneck trailer park. It could be worse, but it could be a lot better, too.

I can’t think this could be even remotely aesthetically pleasing. Bubba pissin’ out the trailer door at 3 AM…

What can I do to help? I wonder. Would it be condescending to offer what scant help I might think I can give, because I know she is the type to be fiercely independent?

At least we did exchange phone numbers, and maybe I’ll have the courage to call.

Maybe I’m afraid that in getting back in touch with old friends I would be tempted to go back to my old ways- hot boxing cigarettes and getting butt drunk- but I highly doubt it. Perhaps I just don’t like being reminded of my own mortality yet again, and I don’t like facing the reality that there is never really a way to get back home. The spheres are forever changed.

Why is it that some stupid dude getting nutted, especially in a stupid way, is ALWAYS funny?

There are a number of TV shows that seem to capitalize on traumatized testicles as entertainment. I can’t say I know why it’s funny, but it always is. Maybe it’s funnier to me because I don’t have nuts.

I think the biggest temptation for me when I meet up with old friends is to get embroiled in the details of their lives again and to make myself too available. It’s one thing to shoot the shit and hang out with someone from time to time, but quite another to become so caught up in trying to help someone else that I get caught off balance and get my priorities screwed up. When is it appropriate to be a friend and when does being a friend become being taken advantage of? Back in the day I provided everything from transportation to cigarettes to even clothes and money at times for my friends, (and they kept me from getting my ass kicked) but I’m not in a place where I can readily do that now.

I think my first endeavor at subversive cross stitch went rather well.

I just have to mount it in the frame.

Speaking of cats, we are probably soon going to be back at four cats. The cat rescue people managed to capture the three legged all white cat that has been living on the body shop lot. I thought it was a male, but it’s a female and she’s recovering from being spayed. Jerry calls her Tripod (not a terribly nice name) because she’s missing most of her right rear leg. That cat has been missing most of her leg since she was a very small kitten.

I have had a few all black cats. I’ve never had an all white cat. I’ve also never had a cat missing a leg.

It’s going to be interesting.

The Most Redneck Phrases Ever Uttered, and Workout Etiquette for the Courtesy Impaired

July 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Ah, a repurposed ’84 Ford Escort. It beats replacing that pesky head gasket again.

“I broke my leg falling out of a deer stand.”

How many PBRs preceded your unfortunate tipsy tumble, and isn’t it rather unsporting to take the high ground when you’re hunting a large terrestrial creature such as a deer? I could understand taking the high ground to hunt for squirrels who live in the trees (and therefore would be easier to shoot from the heights,) but deer?

“Bubba, cain’t nobody understand ya without yer teeth in.”

Ironically (which I shouldn’t point out, being largely of Anglo descent myself) most rednecks have genetic ties not only to each other, but also to our friends in the UK, who are known world wide to be the most dentally challenged people on earth. The UK, Kentucky and West Virginia, that is.

I love the Brits, but like many of our Appalachian friends, they aren’t known for straight teeth and dazzling white smiles.

Clean up after your damned self in the locker room!

I’ve actually come to enjoy morning workouts, but I’ve also found that Jerry isn’t the only person out there who was raised by wolves. Civilized people should know enough to “leave it as you found it.” Especially in a locker room. I don’t want to see your dirty towels, used snot rags and heaven only knows what else strewn all over the benches and the vanity and the floor. That’s just nasty.

I also take care not to indulge potential “taco watchers.” Just as there are “meat gazers” in the men’s locker room, there are “taco watchers” in the women’s. I am not one of those women who simply wanders about with naughty bits all out in the open. I keep everything covered at least with a towel, even as I’m changing clothes or getting ready to shower. Nobody wants to see that. And if the watchers are women, I really don’t want them to see that.

Civilized people should also have the courtesy to wear swim caps in the pool so I don’t end up back stroking and ending up with human hair sticking between my fingers. Chlorine does not dissolve hair. It can, however, strip the color out of it, which is why I am always careful to have my swim cap on.

My ultimate dream is to have my own indoor pool (complete with pool boy) but at least I have access to an indoor pool so I am very grateful for that. I just wish that other people would be considerate of their surroundings and of other people by observing some simple courtesies.

Then again, I’m old, and I wasn’t raised by wolves.

“

Simply Enchanting, Of Rainy Days and Melancholy

March 18, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

There’s something about days like today- cold, heavily overcast, with torrential rain, that makes me wish I could stay home in bed. When I was working out this morning and had done my laps in the pool, I didn’t want to leave the hot tub. For a fleeting moment I thought about how nice it would be to say screw it all and just plain not do anything today- or do what I want to on my own time. Until I remembered all the crap I absolutely have to do today that can’t just be blown off, that is.

This picture reminds me of the times I spent wandering the railroad tracks that went past my grandparents’ house. Technically we kids were not supposed to go anywhere near the railroad tracks, as they were live and in use until they were pulled up some time in 1983 or so, but there were two irresistable lures that made the tracks worth the possibility of encountering an oncoming train, and/or being eaten alive by the local insect life. As far as oncoming trains, one could generally hear and see them in more than sufficient time to get clear. The bugs were another story. The ground around the tracks was swampy and there were plenty of sources of stagnant water for mosquitos to breed in. The open sewage creek that ran a few yards south down in the ditch alongside the tracks could be a source of foul odor in high summer, and it was positively rancid when the water levels in the creek got low and the wind blew in the wrong direction. There was a reason why Dad freaked out when he found us floating paper boats in the creek. We had already figured out we were floating our boats in an open air toilet when we saw the dookie floating in in the creek. Sometimes there was toilet paper and feminine hygiene items too. He didn’t have to warn us “not to touch the water.” Sometimes the dookie made it downstream faster than the boats.

Railroad spikes were worth fifty cents apiece to the right buyer, (if you could find one who didn’t ask questions as to how you got railroad spikes to begin with) which was a small fortune for a kid back then. There were bushels and bushels of black raspberries to be had (in season) and they were well within reach. Even so, while picking berries, one still had to be wary of both poison ivy and bugs.

These were actually worth some money in 1974- don’t know if they’re worth anything today.

Probably the one time I can remember getting a good thrashing from Dad instead of just having to deal with Mom breaking wooden paddles on my ill-fated fanny, was when my sister and I (not the sadistic one) decided to take a big gym bag down to the tracks and fill it up with spikes. Never mind she was six, I was five, and we were both small for our respective ages. We loaded this gym bag down until we could barely carry it with all the spikes in it. It was a good eighth of a mile from the tracks to our house, and in order to get to the house from the tracks we had to wander by the whole neighborhood lugging this thing.

Dad’s friends had spotted us, and he had gotten numerous phone calls before we were even close to getting home. Back then a kid couldn’t cut a popcorn fart without the whole neighborhood knowing about it. He was waiting to tan our hides the minute we dragged the spikes in the door.

Back in the day no one would hesitate to narc on other people’s kids, and there was no mollycoddling – or mercy- when it came time for the punishment. When punishment was administered, the neighbors didn’t hear a thing. If nothing was broken or bleeding and they couldn’t discern any flaming injuries when your parents were done with you, they figured justice had been served and that was the end of it.

We generally got away with the raspberries, though.

The raspberries went when the railroad pulled up the tracks. It seems as if all the weeds and garbage have come back to over grow the track bed, but the last time I went wandering where the tracks used to be it was rather frightening even in broad daylight. I spotted plenty of trash, used syringes (not the ones used for insulin, either,) used condoms, had a near-death encounter with some redneck’s pit bull, and all sorts of nastiness, but no berry bushes.

I don’t like going to where my grandparents used to live. It’s creepy knowing there are strange people living in their house. It’s never been a particularly nice neighborhood (although when the tracks were pulled up, the city tiled over the sewage creek, which was a bit of an improvement) but it went from ‘po folks to dangerous folks.

I can’t fault anyone for having dogs, but when I bring Clara with me (partially because she likes to explore, and partially for protection) I don’t need someone’s pit bull coming at her as if it were going to tear out her throat. Clara is formidable (she’s half Malinois, after all) but if a pit bull really wanted to get aggressive with Clara it would be ugly, and it would break my heart to see either her or another dog injured unnecessarily. One of the most important tasks of a dog owner is to teach good socialization skills and appropriate behavior with other dogs. Protection breeds are more prone to dog-aggression than most, so I try to keep all my dogs’ encounters with other dogs as positive ones. Clara is particularly well mannered with other dogs and I want to keep her that way. Should she have a bad encounter with another dog, it would be harmful to her physical well-being as well as her mindset toward other dogs.

I have mulled over the possibility of getting a pittie- though I am more familiar with the herding breed mentality.

I don’t have a problem with pit bulls- or any other dog breed- when the dog is handled responsibly. A well trained and properly socialized pittie can be a fantastic, gentle, intelligent dog, but even an ankle biter can be dangerous if it’s ill-treated and improperly trained. A pit bull can be deadly in the wrong hands, just as a GSD, Malinois, Doberman, Rottie, and just about any other breed, etc. can be as well. No dog is born aggressive or dangerous. He / she has to be made that way.

Today I’m just trying to keep my mind off the rain and the funk and the dreariness.

Then I remember the damned basketball tournament is going to be all over TruTV, and I hope and pray I DVRd a whole lot of episodes of Top Gear and the bizarre 90’s cartoons I love so well. Mmm, three middle aged Brits playing with cars, Cow and Chicken and 2 Stupid Dogs. I guess that will have to be intellectual enough for me.

My Little Top Gear Obsession, Other Things Brit, and Jezebel

March 7, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I’m an American. Unlike the current squatter in our White House, not only do I understand the purpose of the Second Amendment, I can prove that I was born in this country, and I can even prove my parents and grandparents were too.

Even though I’m American, I enjoy British humor. I also enjoy European cars, even though I can’t afford them, and even though I drive a Toyota for the low cost and reliability.

So when Steve-o turned me on to Top Gear on BBC America, I was fascinated. The premise of the show is simple: three middle-aged, irreverent Brits (Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May) driving and critiquing cars that I never knew existed. They combined British humor with European cars, and now I’m finding myself DVRing it for later when I can’t stay up all night to watch it. For those who have never viewed the Brit Top Gear, the best way to describe it is, Benny Hill meets the automotive fancy!

I have to love a guy who thinks Piers Morgan is a knob, AND digs the old VW GTIs as much as I do.

I do find it hard to believe that a guy who is 6’5″ can fit in an old GTI, much less drive one, but wonders never cease.

They have good taste in cars, even for guys who drive cars with the steering wheels on the wrong side. I would think it rather awkward to shift with my left hand, but I guess it would be normal if you’re used to it.

The BBC doesn’t let the Top Gear guys have sponsors, so they make up their own.

They aren’t politically correct, either.

I don’t think James May is gay. I think they are acting like adolescent boys who call each other “gay” in an attempt to slam the other guy’s masculinity. They may be middle-aged men, but like all men, they are pubescent boys at heart. I think the pranking is funny, but I’ve always gravitated toward puerile and sophomoric humor. I still find Benny Hill hilarious.

I don’t know why, but Benny Hill was even funnier in drag.

Now that Top Gear is on BBC almost every day, I have something fun to watch when World’s Dumbest isn’t on.

Jezebel (at 6 1/2 months) is still smaller than Isabel.

Jezebel came home last night, clawless and a bit disoriented, but OK. She’s more energetic and looked a lot better than I had anticipated, but I still have to keep her isolated and away from the dogs and the basement (where the regular cat boxes, plus various other basement funk is.) Apparently she is simply meant to be a very petite cat (she is about 3#, but she is well proportioned) which should not affect her overall health. I do wonder if she was born a runt- the other three kittens we trapped at the same time (may or may not have been siblings) also still had blue eyes and appeared to be about the same age, (under seven weeks) but they were markedly larger. Most of the ferals in our area are small cats, (even the toms) so I really didn’t expect Jezebel to be of Fanny-sized (aka:epic) proportions. Isabel has always been right around 5# all of her adult life and her small size doesn’t seem to faze her in the least.

RIP, Benny Hill.

I think that we could make an interesting Anglo-American exchange (even though both guys involved are Brits.) We’ll send Piers Morgan back to England, because there’s more of an audience for his politically correct whining in the UK, but only if we can have Jeremy Clarkson. Jeremy makes sense.

If all foreigners were like Jeremy, I would be a huge advocate for immigration!

I mean, really. He speaks English*, is gainfully employed, and has intelligent opinions- unlike the terrorists and non-English speaking third world refugee Obama-lovers who are bombarding our borders. Just a thought.

(*some people consider British English and American English to be two separate languages- which may be true if you consider some Southern dialects to be representative of American English- however, most of us can understand most of what they say and vice versa, so close enough!)

Don’t Wanna, Can’t Make Me, and Sweet Dreams are Made of These

February 6, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

So, for a brief sanity break, leave those who were raised by wolves to figure things out for themselves from time to time.

The zoo calls that “enrichment” time for the animals. Let the bears dig their dinner out of a bucket instead of just putting it in front of them. It makes their lives more fun. Or at least, it makes it more fun for the humans to watch.

I strive to have high standards for myself, but I don’t really expect much from rest of the world. I know that might sound arrogant, but should I expect anything from anyone, even if I spell it out clearly, odds are that they will disappoint. The old axiom, “if you want it done right, do it yourself,” certainly does apply in my life, although I should re-word it a bit for the 21st century.

“If I want it done at all, I better do it.”

If I keep my standards low, then when someone actually does perform adequately or appropriately, I am pleasantly surprised. It’s sort of a twisted way of looking at the glass as being half full.

Of course there are some things I could give a rat’s ass less whether they’re done or not, because they just don’t make an appearance on my priority list.

I’m not a sports fan. I struggle to commit to regular workouts for my health’s sake. I’m still trying to learn to enjoy exercise. I appreciate being able to go to the Y and use the machines and the pool there, but the only person I compete against as far as fitness or athletic (in)ability is myself.

I will make time to work out, but I still don’t care to watch sports. Especially next month when they will be clogging up TruTV with that March Madness basketball mess. I know some people want to watch basketball, but why on the same channel that “World’s Dumbest” is on? Why not cut a few of the late night pecker pump infomercials and have basketball on then?

I can’t say I am a huge fan of constantly dusting things either. I don’t dust as often as I should, but dusting is one of those exercises in futility that I positively loathe. Jerry is a constant smoker, which creates even more dust than what would be in a normal house. That nasty nicotine encrusted film covers everything in the house. If I get to it, I get to it, but it’s not one of my really compelling priorities. I can dust the whole frigging house from top to bottom and the filmy sludge will return in less than a day. To me that seems like an insane waste of time, which reminds me of poor Sisyphus. We the unwilling, doing the impossible for the ungrateful. Sometimes I think I have more in common with Sisyphus than I’d like to acknowledge.

I know I torqued Jerry off last night by not fixing him dinner, however, he has spent the last few days being particularly obnoxious. Last night I did make a special trip to get him chocolate milk. That favor was greeted with a tirade about how he had to get up and lock the door. I was gone for five minutes, in broad daylight, and the door leading into the kitchen was locked. The outside door was unlocked because it’s a little easier to only have to dig for one key- once you’re already in the foyer- when it’s cold and your hands are full. But since His Nibs doesn’t do anything that might involve carrying in groceries or anything like that, he wouldn’t know.

It’s my own fault for being too nice.

Here’s a lovely little slice of paradise. Or it would be, if there were a pool and a pool boy.

The bad thing about me and utopian scenes is that I’m always the one who cues in on the one nasty thing in the picture. For me the idyllic scene above becomes:

This would be the kind of dream I have. Everything is perfect for a minute, and then there’s flaming porto johns, Richard Simmons, and flatulence-provoking taco references.

Now here would be my definition of a nightmare:

It would be my luck that when I die I’ll end up in Detroit.

Dog Doo, Tea Bagging, Dingbats and Family Annoyances

January 29, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

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.

I 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.”

Yes, 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.

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.

“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.

Just 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.

My “Best” Self, Time Keeping in the Post-Apocalyptic World, and Other Questions No One Asks But Me

January 16, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I forgot my watch today. That is rather vexing, even though I can make the argument that the habit of wearing a timekeeper on one’s person is rather archaic and quaint. I very seldom forget to wear a watch. It became habit when I was in elementary school (way before the days of smart phones or computers) because it was necessary for me to know the time, 1.) when I went home for lunch and had to be back at school, so I didn’t screw around too long on the way back (I don’t know of any elementary schools today that let kids leave for lunch, but that was a different time) and 2.) if Grandma was going to pick me up after school, I would know she would be there at exactly 3:00, and that I had better be right out front next to the oak tree and not messing about on the playground.

The watch I wore from the time I was 9 years old until I was in college was a wind-up Timex (good luck finding one of those, but I still have it, and it still works.) Today I generally wear a Timex digital watch (I have a few) or the really nice Fossil analog watch (talk about archaic, though this one does have a battery) I reserve for non-casual occasions. I don’t know why I hang on to that rather dated custom- there’s a freaking clock in the car for heaven’s sake, not to mention on the cell phone and on the computer screen. If I really need to know what time it is that bad, the current time is everywhere.

The impulse to always have a watch on reminds me of “Rainman’s” obsession to always buy underwear at K-Mart. Not everyone on the autistic spectrum is OCD, (and I’m not) but I do remember as a kid I did NOT like having my schedule or routine changed at all, unless I was the one changing things. I still don’t like other people screwing up my itinerary, but the older I get, I tend to be a lot more flexible.

It really doesn’t matter in the broad scheme of things, but people like me tend to get hung up on some really weird shit sometimes. Perhaps it is a lame attempt for me to maintain some sort of continuity in an increasingly unpredictable world.

This country may be going to hell in a handbasket as the new Louis and Marie strut about as if they are royalty, as they stomp on the Constitution, squander taxpayers’ money, take their Hawaiian vacations and pontificate from their ivory tower, but at least I’ll know what time it is. I can even set the chronometer, should I need to call 911 and want to know how long the cops take to get there.

I couldn’t help it. This reference to B.O. and Moochelle as the new Louis and Marie was too much NOT to share. Sad thing is, this is NOT France.

Since I am painfully aware of not having a watch on my wrist, the thought came to mind, when would it really be imperative to have a watch on to know what time it is? After the apocalypse- when there are no more computers or cell phones or cars?

At that point, when my immediate surrounding area resembles something out of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, who would give a rat’s ass about the time? It would always be half-past ass whupping time, right?

There is a politically correct phrase I’ve heard that teachers use to “encourage” the children they teach, and for the most part I loathe it: “Be your best self today.”

WTF?

Can I be my shitty self tomorrow?

This is about as far as the “best self” train is going to go today.

I’m sorry, but the way I grew up was that it was either tow the line or get a boot up your ass. I think that’s part of the problem with kids today, that parents and teachers are afraid to challenge them. I can think positive all day and blow sunshine out my poop chute, but unless I actually do something positive it really doesn’t matter, does it?

Kids today need less mollycoddling and more boot camp.

Now I do like some of the suggestions here, even though the author of the post uses that phrase. I think I will strike up a conversation with a complete stranger for shits and grins, or do something completely spontaneous just because I can. Some of her suggestions are a tad bit more challenging, such as telling someone you love how much you love them. I have emotions- I think- but I’m not very good at sharing them.

Is it just me, or am I the only one who thinks it to be bad manners to make a take home plate at a funeral wake? I went to a calling hours and wake last week for a friend of mine whose father had died. The departed was Irish, and there was plenty of liquor, so it really was a proper Irish wake. Since we belong to a group of Lutheran church ladies, we had all brought enough chow for three armies too.

Jerry actually had the cojones to ask me if I’d fixed him a plate when I got home.

Granted, there was more than enough food and nobody would have missed it if I would have made Jerry a plate, but if you don’t at least go to the wake and pay your respects to the departed, then what gives you the right to go munching on their chow?

This is the message that action sends: “Gee, sorry about your Dad, too bad I was too busy drinking beer and watching the Big 10 channel to show up for his wake, but can my wife set me up with a doggie bag?”

I know Jerry was raised by wolves, but methinks requesting a doggie bag from a wake is a bit much.

Geriatric Meltdown, BANNED! and the Silver Tacoma of Rude

January 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Perhaps I should have some sort of identification/ warning attached to Jerry when he makes his forays out in public.

It must be fortuitous for the greater community that I usually get stuck running Jerry’s errands for him. I am normally the one who ends up having to go to Speedway (gas station/convenience store) to get his smokes and to put gasoline in his truck. That is a bit more complicated than it sounds.

Speedway has a promotional program in which you earn points for buying gift cards (buy a $50 gift card, get 1000 points, then turn around and buy a $43 carton of smokes with it…) as well as for buying gasoline and the various convenience store crud they sell, such as Monster drinks and “Busted” papers. Sometimes it’s a tad bit complicated to instruct the young punk clerk du jour on how to 1.) scan your Speedy card, then 2.) take your cash in exchange for the gift card, then 3.) use the gift card to buy the carton of smokes. If the order gets screwed up in any way you don’t get your 1000 points for buying the gift card.

When you earn enough points, you can redeem them for various free crap, like a $50 gas card, or an Amazon gift card, or whatever’s on the list. Jerry’s whole aim in this is to get a $50 gas card.

If he gets 1000 points per $50 card he buys, and he doesn’t buy anything except $50 gift cards, he’s got to spend $2425 to get a “free” card.

Not the Golden Ticket, but close.

Anyway, Jerry does know to check the receipt to make sure he got his 1000 points. The last time he went to Speedway to get his own smokes (I don’t know what possessed him to take this brazen step of self-sufficiency, but something must have) he forgot to have the clerk scan the Speedy card first, so the points didn’t appear on the receipt.

Ordinarily, in most places the clerk or the manager on duty can back out the transaction and let it fly again, but this kid was either new or having a bad day or both, and basically told Jerry tough titty, better luck next time, the money was already on the gift card and since the Speedy card wasn’t scanned first, he wasn’t going to get any points.

Jerry is one of those people who refuses to take “no” for an answer.

I’m just glad I wasn’t there to witness this personally.

So the clerk (who is probably not terribly thrilled with Jerry’s condescending demeanor and/or gratuitous whining by now) tersely informs Jerry that the manager won’t be in until Monday (this was a Saturday night) and that he could come back then and take it up with the manager. Jerry refuses to take the $50 card and demands his money back so he can go to the other Speedway to buy the card and get his points.

The clerk refused again. So let the pissing contest begin.

Jerry doesn’t lose too many of those. He’s embarrassed me in enough restaurants that he’s almost guaranteed a home-cooked meal. I generally know how to fix his chow to avoid most of the bitching. He’s probably one of the fussiest, bitchiest customers the Waffle House and the Frisch’s Big Boy have ever seen.

If I had to wager, I would bet he has consumed his fair share of boogers, loogies, scabs and semen, considering how rude he can be with wait staff. “I want those fries flaming hot!” I can hear him now. Flaming hot with a sprinkling of scabs and a splash of bodily fluids… hawwkkkk…but I’m the passive-aggressive one. It’s easier to feed him at home so that others are not treated to his egregious lack of manners and proper etiquette.

No wonder they cringe at the Waffle House when they see his truck. The silver Tacoma of Rude!

Then I get a phone call from Jerry while he’s at the Speedway asking me for the non-emergency cop number. It’s a good thing he didn’t call the number I gave him, because he was in a different jurisdiction than the number he asked for. Around here, if you’re outside of the area covered by a particular law enforcement agency, that means the dispatcher will tell you that’s not their problem and to call the other jurisdiction, and no, she doesn’t know who to tell you to call if the address you give is not in her area.

In other words, if you’re in the city of Columbus and you call Gahanna’s dispatch, you are SOL, which is what he would have done because he didn’t realize which jurisdiction he was in. 911 doesn’t work like that- dialing 911 will (almost always) get you the correct dispatch, but you better know which jurisdiction you’re in if you call the non-emergency numbers.

Some things were never meant to be taken up with law enforcement. They have enough to do.

I’m thinking to myself, Are you really going to call the cops – even on the non-emergency number- for something kinda dumb like this? For a moment I thought of World’s Dumbest and the guy who got arrested for calling 911 because his sandwich sucked and the restaurant wouldn’t give him a refund. I am thankful Jerry didn’t get cops involved.

At that point, Jerry decides to stage a one man sit-in at the Speedway until the clerk got in contact with the manager, who told the clerk to give Jerry his $50 back, and instructed the clerk to tell Jerry to never set foot in that store again.

Banned from the Morse Rd. Speedway. While sober. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. To his credit, Jerry did go to the other Speedway and he remembered to have the clerk follow the correct procedure so he finally got his points, his gift card and his smokes.

Jerry and the Silver Tacoma of Rude- coming to a convenience store or one star dining establishment near you!

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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