sadistic

Happy Birthday Great-Grandma, Fighting Over Used Shoes, and Other Pointless Endeavors

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Great-Grandma couldn’t stand Ted Kennedy, or any of the Kennedy family for that matter.

Happy birthday to my great-grandma, who would have been 114 today, if she hadn’t died in 1992 at the age of 94.  I miss Grandma.  She was cool.  I would give almost anything for just one more afternoon of coffee and conversation with her, but you get what you get.  I’m just glad that she lived close and I was able to spend as much time with her as I did. Besides having a taste for insanely strong coffee and for discussing conservative politics, she had a collection of tabloids that would boggle the mind.  She always claimed to read them for the entertainment value.  I read them for the entertainment value too, especially the Weekly World News.

The John Deere hat is a nice touch.

Grandma also had a framed, signed picture of President Reagan which I am sure one of the twins (my grandmother’s evil identical twin sisters) ended up with.  I can’t believe the twins (who were in their early 70s at the time) had an out and out knock-’em-down, yank each other’s  hair out, fist fight over her stuff. Besides some clothes and a few nice pairs of size 8 shoes, the Reagan picture was probably the only thing she owned that had any monetary value.  If I know my twin great-aunts (and one of them is still alive-though the one who had the stroke died about five years ago) they were fighting over the shoes.  They wore size 8s too.

I have a strong shoe fetish myself- but even should they be size 7s, I’m not fighting anyone for used shoes.

My twin great-aunts’ altercation over a few pairs of used shoes and a whole lot of worthless kitsch convinced me once and for all: I don’t need dead people’s stuff.  My sisters can have it all.  I am just curious when I die (they are slightly older than me, but they are much better preserved, and will most certainly outlive me) if they will brawl over my used underwear (the bras won’t fit either one of them- unless they add a little extra stuffins,) and not a few pairs of size 7 shoes that only one of them can wear.   The oldest, who was my sadistic childhood nemesis, does well to fit her behemoth meaty feet into an 8EEE.  The other sister also wears a 7B, and therefore, my shoes fit her.

I’ll cut out the middleman and just put my old skivvies on E-Bay now.

Or, better yet, I could E-Bay Jerry’s nasty old whitey-tighties, after he’s worn them for a night of gambling, drinking and the Hershey Squirts:

Of course, there’s a dude who’s already thought of using what appears to be a soiled set of whitey-tighties as a safe.  I can sort of understand the mentality, though I would struggle with the temptation to pick out the cash and then toss the skivvies.

The replacement fridge is up and running quite nicely as of this morning.  The ice is frozen and Jerry’s Natties are cold.  Spuds is in the G&R, and all is right with the world.

The G&R still has the most awesome fried bologna sandwiches.  And cream pies.  And an original late ’80’s Spuds McKenzie.

Pragmatic and Loving It, More Things I Need to Do, and Aging (Crankily)

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I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve been on the theme lately of history and real life (thanks, WildBill for pointing that out.)  I think most of us have a really good idea what our own personal utopia would and would not contain, (I know I would not pre-empt World’s Dumbest on TruTV in order to televise basketball games and the endless commentary on them, for starters)  but the practical application is that we have to live in the dystopia we find ourselves in. 

I wish I knew where to buy the Darth Vader condoms.  I would have an econo-box shipped to Steve-o, anonymously of course, as if he wouldn’t be able to figure out who was behind such a practical gift. 

I don’t condone pre-marital fornication, and in my ideal world Steve-o would save himself for marriage.  Reality is not my ideal world.  I try to maintain an open dialogue with my offspring, even when I don’t agree with him or condone what he does.  I have to love him regardless of what he does or how he screws up.  I would rather know the truth, and I would rather for him to feel safe to be honest with me. The worst thing I can do is to go into an apoplectic fit whenever he does something I don’t agree with so he feels motivated to hide things from me.  My mother still does that, (she is very Catholic, after all) and I’ve never felt comfortable sharing anything in regard to my love life with her for that reason- even back in the day when I did have juicy tidbits to share.  I still remember Mom’s epic tantrum when she found my evil sadistic sister’s birth control pills.  I was glad that firestorm was not pointed at me.  I knew to hide mine better than that- and to keep my escapades to myself.   Although I’m not a huge fan of situational ethics, I don’t want Steve-o fathering offspring he can’t afford to support.  If that means strongly recommending he use prophylactics when he fornicates, that’s what it means. Of course, if he were to slip up and surprise me with an unplanned grandchild, I would hope that he would trust me enough to know that I would help him do the right things to support that girl and that child in any way I could.

So far, so good.  I should go ahead and send out those condoms though, even though at the current moment he’s living in a sausage farm.  I should pay him that surprise visit to his apartment in Lima too, just to satisfy my own curiosity at how nasty any domicile with three young men living in it can be.  I’m visualizing something along the lines of the Delta House.  (Remember, from the movie Animal House?) I am sure Martha Stewart would not approve.

I know enough to understand that reality is dystopia.  If I had any say in how the world works, I would be six feet tall, 120# , look like Demi Moore, and Jerry would be transformed into a non-drinking, non-smoking doting husband with the body (and libido) of a scrumptious young boy toy.   Obviously, there are a lot of things in this world I have no control over.  How I deal with the fact that reality doesn’t always follow my rules is going to determine my effectiveness and my happiness in life.  I think Clint Eastwood said it in the movie Heartbreak Ridge: Improvise, adapt and overcome.

I improvise and adapt quite a LOT.  Overcoming, well, sometimes that’s a crap shoot.

Tonight I need to Nair my face and dye my hair again.  Tomorrow night it’s time to re-do the claws.  I have to do what I can with what I have, which is sort of a scary thought.  Reminds me of the days when I held that old Subaru together with duct tape, pop rivets and bumper stickers.

I still have some of the pink glitter polish.  That’s always fun.

The main reason why I even bother with acrylic nails (other than my natural nails are flimsy and don’t grow well) and funky nail polish is that longer nails sort of offset my big, meaty man-hands.  I’m proportioned like some sort of bizarre troll.  I’m all upper body and torso with really short arms and legs.  My feet are normal sized (7B, which these days is actually considered small) but my hands are behemoth, which makes no sense.  I usually can’t wear womens’ gloves, which is a source of frustration because I like nice leather driving gloves in the winter.  I found a pair that fit well a couple of years ago, and miraculously, I haven’t lost either one of that pair.  I will play hell replacing those, although I have to say I do like the Isotoner gloves Mom got me, even though they are not leather.  They do fit well. 

From the waist up (except for the shortness of my arms) I look like I should be 6′ tall.  From the waist down, I have very short legs.  God has a sense of humor.  All I have to do to see that is to look in the mirror- or try to find pants that are the correct length.  Petites are high-waters, and “Average” length pants scrape the ground.

Jerry had his happy fun bi-annual Dr. appointment today.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.  He wanted me to make him a list of stuff to bring up to the Dr. so that he wouldn’t forget. I did, but it was a pretty tame list.   I should have sent my version of the list, but I would have to have written it in very small print and then hid his glasses.

Here’s my version of “Things to ask the Dr. Regarding Jerry’s Health”-

Which blood tests are you doing today and why? 

Please schedule a colonoscopy and prostate exam.  With Extreme Prejudice.

Is drinking a 12 pack of Natties 3-5 nights a week normal?

Does Jerry still have a liver? Or lungs?

Is there any medication that stops incessant bitching?  Dilaudid worked pretty good for this when he broke his ribs.  He slept good, and he was so quiet he didn’t bother me much at all.  That was Good Stuff.  I haven’t slept so good since.

Do you have any free samples of Viagra?  Can Jerry have a few of them?

I should have sent my list.  I did put “depression” on his list but I bet he won’t have the balls to be honest about it.  In all seriousness, Jerry is depressed, and he has been for so long he thinks being depressed is normal.  I used to think that too, but somehow I know better.  Again, it’s that difference between what my utopia would look like and the dystopia I live in.  Jerry hasn’t got the clue that he will never live in a perfect world and he is unwilling to adapt to the one he lives in.  Maybe Prozac would help.  I know it helps me. 

Then again, I have to admit I really enjoyed that week when he was on the Dilaudids.  It’s never been so quiet.

Woman to Woman Cruelty and Other Wedding Insanity

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Woof.  I don’t see any bridesmaids though, which means this chick either a. Didn’t have any female friends, or b. Was kind enough to her female friends to refrain from asking them to be bridesmaids.

The cruelest thing that one woman can do to another (and believe me, we bitches can be sadistic) is to ask a “friend” or unfortunate relative to be a bridesmaid at her wedding.  There are many reasons for this.

Traditionally the bridesmaids have to pay for their own dresses.  Now if I had the audacity to ask someone to be in my wedding, I really can’t justify requiring her to buy something that she probably can’t afford and probably will never wear again.   Considering what some bridezillas expect their “friends” or unfortunate female relatives to wear, just having to wear it one time is punishment enough without the pain of actually having to buy it.

Give me a break.  One would think you wouldn’t want your wedding pictures marred by Big Fat Bertha’s meaty arms and that overall overstuffed sausage casing look that large women lend to slinky no-sleeve dresses.  It’s no crime to be large, but if you want large girls in your wedding, please find dresses that will flatter ALL your bridesmaids’ figures.  Dresses with sleeves!!! Dresses that will restrain the “puppies” at least enough so that they don’t fly out the top of the dress every time the wearer bends over!

I like pink.  I really do, including hot pink.  However, this dress is only suitable if you are four years old and playing with Barbie dolls.  It will only fit properly on those with the proportions of a Barbie doll too, so please remember, Big Fat Bertha is going to look like a tarred and feathered giant pink whale in this monstrosity.

This is the absolute WORST dress on the planet for many reasons. I didn’t think in all my trolling that I could find a dress this bad, but I did.  I don’t think I’d like it even if the President pictured on it were to be the late, esteemed Ronald Reagan.  I particularly abhor sleeveless dresses of any kind because they are only flattering to the Calista Flockhart set.  Women like me who are all upper body and are proportioned like mutant trolls look really horrible in sleeveless dresses of any sort.   They bring attention to our meaty arms and ample chests.   However, the worst thing about this dress is the most obvious.  Anyone who would even think for one minute that I would wear, much less buy, a dress with Obama’s picture on it, can shove it where the sun don’t shine.  ACCK!

Thankfully I am old enough now that it is highly unlikely anyone would want me to be one of their bridesmaids (given that most of my female friends and acquaintances are either married or happily divorced already) and I would have to vehemently (though politely) refuse due to poverty anyway.  The last time I was strongarmed into doing the bridesmaid thing was when my oldest sister got married, and that was only because Dad wanted her to shut up.  That cost me $300 for a dress I never wore again, and $800 in car repairs from damage inflicted to my suspension on the road trips to and from the lovely Detroit area.  I don’t think there are shittier freeways than in the Detroit area anywhere. Never again.  My sister got her last sadistic laugh on that one.  I don’t understand why she just didn’t substitute a far prettier, more affluent and more photogenic friend.  That was pretty stupid on her part, but I think she got a certain satisfaction just in getting her way, and in the delicious knowledge that it was a major hardship for me to play her game.  When she got married I was in the process of arranging my divorce and needed every dime I could save to get away from my ex. 

There is, however, no arguing with a bridezilla.  My pleas of poverty and desperation fell upon deaf ears.  I expected my Dad to defend me, but even he couldn’t stand up to her incessant whining about it, so I got roped in and acquiesed to keep the peace with my Dad.  I will NEVER allow anyone to do something like that to me again.  It would have been different if I could have afforded it and/or my situation in life would have been different, but it’s pretty damned cruel to expect a woman in an abusive marriage who is trying to get out and get a divorce, to take her freedom fund and blow money to be in someone else’s wedding.  It may have been a happy occasion for her, but to me it was just another pointed reminder of what a dismal failure my life up to that point was.  I know I should forgive and forget, and I do try, but the sheer insensitivity and cruelty of  it made me feel like a bad puppy getting her nose rubbed in shit.  Having to pay for that fugly dress was hard enough, but having to deal with all the car repairs on top of it really added insult to injury.

Then again, asking someone who is on the brink of divorce to be in your wedding is pretty damned callous to begin with, and I don’t care who you think you are.

The things that bridezillas will do. 

I can’t see the logic in the big behemoth weddings anyway.  I see it as a huge waste of money and time.  I am grateful for one thing about Jerry and my wedding- we simply went to the courthouse, paid the county their $50 fee and got married by the justice of the peace du jour who was a Methodist pastor filling in for one of the judges.  No special clothes, no extensive travel, no fanfare, and it was just fine by me.  Of course we did not make any mention of it until after the deed was done so my mother couldn’t barge in and turn a wedding into an all-you-can-eat free for all for all her friends, most of whom I don’t know from Adam’s housecat.  Jerry does have his good points, and in this his frugality was a huge advantage.

Admittedly most women are not as minimalist as I am, and most women have more female friends than I do.  Even so, expecting one’s “friends” and female relatives to put up huge outlays of cash just so they can be there for you on your “big day” is a bit much.  It’s different if they are invited and can decline gracefully if circumstances don’t allow them to participate. 

I think people should remember that marriage isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  There’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor or a woman who is perpetually a celestial vision, even if you plow through thousands of dollars to maintain that illusion for one day.  I say you might as well jump into reality.  Prince Charming he ain’t, she’s no prize either, so you either want to deal with that or not.  Romance is dead, and there is no such thing as true love.  If you can get by from day to day without throttling the son of a bitch, you’re doing good.

Of course it is always possible to simply live alone with the dogs.