sarcasm

Wisdom of an Ancient, If I Could Revise the Past, and Hyperlexic Hazards

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parenthood--z

This can’t be real. She has lipstick on. And mascara. I was in maternity clothes for the following 4 months after my son was born because of my poorly done C-section incision….and looked like a complete train wreck for months after that!

Sometimes I read the garbage on various newsfeeds when I’m bored. I shouldn’t do that for many reasons. Hyperlexic people like me speed read, and are compelled to read anything and everything that’s in print (even though I have become more discerning in later years) which means I still take in a lot more unsavory stuff than most people.

I’m pretty good most of the time at scrolling past fake news and garden variety bullshit that I find offensive, or assorted drivel that just pushes the wrong buttons.

Media consumption is much like food consumption. Some stuff is good for you, but difficult to wade through. Some stuff just plain tastes nasty and will make you sick. Other stuff is ok in moderation. Then there is just plain poison.

Normally I don’t read mushy tales of devoted spouses (mostly because I am pissed at myself for tolerating 20+ years of drunk-n-stupid abusive bullshit from mine) or stories involving joyful motherhood. The birth of my only child was many things, none of them pleasant, with the exception of the fact that somehow by some miracle he came out of it healthy, in one piece and blissfully unscathed. Otherwise my “birth experience” was an exemplary display of Murphy’s law in childbirth, a harrowingly narrow avoidance of maternal mortality due to medical ineptitude, and being brought to the realization that my then husband and male genetic contributor of said offspring is a worthless, contemptuous ass.

Being reminded of that experience is painful.  I should have been able to enjoy my son when he was first born, but instead I was sick, browbeaten and powerless.  It was a horrible feeling. Especially wondering why I survived all the medical errors when technically I should have died- and I survived for what?

For many years I wondered why I didn’t die- my parents would have gotten the son they wanted but never got. One can question God and wonder about His decisions and ponder the moral question of why expendable and broken people with deep scars and missing pieces who still linger about suffering and dying a little more every day, suffering slowly while children and young people with lives worth living just die.  I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen for what it’s worth. I really wonder why.

These things disturb me.

Hindsight is 20/20, and with this in mind, I realize that after all these years it shouldn’t bother me. But it does.

I will freely admit I am jealous of women who have men who support them, men who actually love them and their children.

It pisses me off that when I had the one child I could have that his entire birth and infancy was made a nightmare first by my own health complications and the poor medical care I received, then by my worthless ex and his selfishness and hostility.

I’m sorry but I can’t forget being completely at the end of my strength, barely able to stand, being held together with way too many stitches, crying endlessly, holding my newborn while my ex rages, “How dare you bring that thing in MY house…what the hell are you going to do with it…” and so on.

All I could do was sob uncontrollably, helpless and mired in the deepest despair I’ve ever known. It’s hard to find words to describe this even now after a lifetime of space and time in between. Forgiveness, yes, but healing from such a vicious wound, probably not this side of eternity.

And it still took me two years after that to leave the son of a bitch. He would put up a good front in front of my family. He played the game when people were looking, but behind closed doors I was afraid. And he was downright hostile.

There’s something about being hit when you’re down that sticks with you. There’s also something about reading about perfect husbands who love their wives and kids and actually help with the nightmare during and after childbirth that fans the flames of that resentment, sharpens the sting of that pain, and even stirs up my jealousy toward the “perfect people,” even after almost 30 years.

I have a thick skin and am not easily rattled over most things at my age, but I still should not read those kinds of sickeningly sweet stories. Maybe there are guys like that, and more power to the women who find such gems. I just never personally experienced such bliss.

I should have held out for one of those even had that meant I would have lived alone as a “mother” of only dogs and cats. Then again, the axiom: “hindsight is 20/20” applies.

cat lady.jpg

Cats don’t drink beer, smoke cigarettes, or yank me out of bed by the hair at 11PM so I can prepare food for an ungrateful sot who will pass out before he can eat it, just sayin.

I don’t regret my son’s existence or my granddaughter’s for that matter, but if I had things to do over I would have followed my gut on that hot, hot, stinkingly humid hot day in August of 1990 and said hell no, a million times NO to my ex.  Something in the back of my head was telling me I was insane to marry such a self-absorbed basket case mommy’s boy, and Something was right.

Should have said the same thing to Jerry five years later too, but that is another story.

The wisdom I have to pass along on this front is that it’s probably better to hold out for the highly improbable than to settle for the unacceptable.

Some young women- me included, long ago- fall for a man just because he’s vertical and breathing. That’s not enough. It’s not worth it if he has nothing to bring to the table.

Indifferent_Ren

Granted, I have my sensory, emotional and relational issues, and I am not physically beautiful by any standard, but I still deserve better than moochers, drunks and narcissistic ne’er-do-wells.

And I am better off to hold my standards high, even though it’s too late for me to have a positive experience becoming a mother and raising a child.  Said child is 28 years old with a child of his own.

I have no tolerance for drunk-n-stupid, or of being berated, devalued and used. It took me over 25 years to figure that out, or more accurately, to decide they were wrong and I deserved better.

If anything mine is a cautionary tale. I can’t change the past but I can move forward.

And I can stop reading cheesy clickbait pieces especially when someone is gushing about their perfect man, children, family, etc.

Humor and sarcasm are more appropriate domains for me when I have a hankering for the trite or mundane.

I should try to keep my reading confined to higher pursuits such as Scripture (always timeless,) scientific and historical non-fiction, and selected classics. I gave up the bodice rippers and various other sleazy tomes that would be porn if they were illustrated in high school.

bodice ripper

Sadly, I had quite a collection of said bawdy literature during my freshman year of high school.

The occupational hazards of the hyperlexic…

Maybe I should go and read some Stephen King.  His politics may be dreadful, but his stories are great this time of year.

Tuna, Tab and a Twinkie

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Tuna-Sandwichestabtwinkie

 

Navin Johnson’s (Steve Martin’s character in the iconic film, The Jerk ) meal that his adopted mother served him on his birthday was a tuna sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a Tab and a Twinkie.  Most of my favorite things are like that- simple, cheap and uncomplicated.  I  share Navin’s enthusiasm for Tab, and I like a good tuna melt from time to time, although I’ve not had a Twinkie in at least ten years.

classy

I’d like to admit to complicated tastes, as in: oh, yeah, I sit around drinking vintage Cabernets and imported cheese while conversing about world history and literature with influential and erudite people.   I study some rather obscure and esoteric subjects (have you seen my collection of 19th century postmortem pics, for instance) from time to time, but in social circles, I’m not that good of a performer. I’m not that pretentious. Since I am pathetically socially inept, and not at all well connected, my evenings are usually spent watching Jerry empty out the Natties, go from just a little drunk, to full-on fall-over shitfaced drunk, as he attempts to argue philosophy with the dogs.  Jerry is not an eloquent conversationalist even when he’s stone cold sober.  Alcohol does not enhance his verbal communication skills.

Natty

FYI: Natty does NOT make you an enchanting conversationalist.  Ever.

Jerry isn’t the greatest company, but he is predictable at least.  He tolerates my eccentricities, which is saying a lot. It’s easier that way, and I don’t have to worry about what to wear or whether or not I am avoiding eye contact again.   To him, I’m just the tepid body that pays the cable bill and medical bills, buys food, and wanders around cleaning up the beer cans.  He’s doing good to refrain from calling me Mildred and asking me about my diarrhea, but that’s OK.  I’ve been married to him for 19 years and neither one of us has succeeded in killing each other or making good on threats made in the heat of anger to leave,  so it must be all good.

I don’t know what to make of current events.  Robin Williams committing suicide was just plain bizarre, although I can certainly attest to the truth that comedy is the flipside of tragedy.  We shouldn’t really be surprised that comedians invariably suffer with depression and all the psychological baggage that goes along with it.  Humor is a defense mechanism. Usually the funnier a person comes across, the more tragedy that person has endured. Most of the time I try to laugh to keep from crying- or to fill that awkward void when I just don’t have the words or when that proper, polished façade just doesn’t materialize when I need it to.

man in pink tank

This dude must have had some pretty serious childhood trauma to try to rock the Daisy Dukes AND the crop top.

Perhaps it is better to elevate sarcasm to an art form than to take out one’s pain and hurt and anger in more destructive ways.  I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially in the ways that I have been.  It might be a bit mean-spirited to show pics of people who have made unfortunate fashion/life choices, but hey, you set yourself up for those.  If I appeared in public looking like a crack ho, or morbidly obese and/or otherwise badly dressed, then someone posting my sorry ass pic online should be a wake up call, a sort of, “Get your shit together, bi-atch!” statement.  I would be asking for it.

Now, going as a Twinkie for Halloween might actually be funny, but I don’t think that was this chick’s intent.

twinkie

Sort of like a Twinkie, anyway.

Life is a Gift (a Gag Gift?) and Other Greeting Card Sentiments

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Just a little perspective- for that poor sucker I saw jogging down Morse Rd. in the freezing rain the other day.

I am not in any way, shape or form an optimist by nature.  At best I am pragmatic and can adjust, adapt and overcome, but I hate to admit I am not generally one of those “carpe diem” (seize the day) types.  If one is shaped by early life experience, i.e. having the hell beat out of you just about every day, then, at least in my experience, you tend toward a wee bit of trepidation in simply facing the day.

I know that Christian faith is necessarily optimistic, which is one of the reasons I really struggle with faith.  I admit that there have been many times in my life when the only thing keeping me from the option of self-annihilation has been the Catholic teaching about mortal sin.  I was raised old-school Catholic, even though I can’t in conscience call myself Catholic.  My particular way of understanding Christianity is best described as confessional Lutheran, which is fairly close. I don’t want to end up spending eternity being tortured forever and ever being chewed up in Beezelbub’s flaming maw because I died with a mortal sin on my soul.  According to Catholic tradition, suicide is a mortal sin because if you kill yourself you don’t have the opportunity to confess your sin and be forgiven for it, so you burn in hell.  As miserable and painful as life can be at times- and my life has had plenty of misery and pain- I still believe that no matter how bad it gets (even though Obama was “re-elected” by sole virtue of voter fraud and I’m still pissed about that) automatic and eternal consignment to the fires of hell is definitely a downgrade.

Obama’s bad, and dangerous on many levels, but even he’s not the end of the world.

I need to believe that there will be a day when things are made right- not just in this country, not just on a few small levels, but made completely right.  Yeah, perhaps in this, color me optimistic, or perhaps just a perfectionist.  I want to be around to see it.  No, I can’t explain faith in rational terms, other than to accept Pascal’s Wager.  I would rather live with the knowledge that God IS, than to pretend He is not, and have to face the consequences of conscience-less living at some point.  I know my agnostic friends have trouble with the notion that God is in charge.  I’m weaker than that.  I have to acknowledge that God is in charge, which is (paradoxically) liberating.  I have problems when I start thinking I’m in charge.

Even knowing that God is in charge doesn’t guarantee me a sunny outlook.  It’s a challenge for me to wake up in the morning and see life as a gift.  Sometimes I do view life that way, but more often than not I see it as a burden or even a sick joke.  Sometimes sarcasm is the only way I can get through the day, and that’s not a very good thing either.  I wish I could take the Lord’s advice in Matthew 6:25 and not worry about stuff- but I do.   Worse than that I let stupidity and ineptitude piss me off which (while pointing those things out can be funny) doesn’t do much for my mental state either.  Anger and worry are not a very good combo.

There may be some hope for me yet:

Jerry’s Plate (Not a Guide for Healthy Eating) and Snarkiness Made Simple

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I didn’t add cigarettes, since technically one does not consume them.  But maybe I should have.

I think sixteen beers ought to do it- on a weeknight, anyway.

Granted, the FDA food recommendations have come a long way from the “four food groups” that we grew up with.  That “Food Pyramid” thing was just about impossible to fathom.  Now they’re telling people to visualize their plate.  Perhaps just telling people to save half of what’s on their plate for tomorrow would be much more effective.

For a minute I mistook Janet Napolitano for Henry Kissinger, until I remembered Henry’s a Republican, and he wears glasses.

I have to say I happened upon the Sad Hill site and I am finding it most entertaining, though in a sort of sad way.  I know lampooning the government is as old as the Republic itself (and remember, kids, as my 8th grade history teacher drilled into our heads: “Our country is NOT a democracy, it is a representative republic.”)  I admit my distinct right wing bias, and I also admit that I lampoon the loony left whenever I get a chance.

At least the hand dryer at Target isn’t blowing hot air AND lying.

Wherever Miss (never “Ms.”) Barker is, (I hope she is still in the realm of the living, though I know she has long since retired from teaching) I would love to thank her for her contribution to my love of history and for encouraging people to engage in critical thinking.  She is the one who told us the Soviet Union would fall before 1990…in 1981.  She also let us know the Soviets were not the real Nemesis of the World, as they could not sustain themselves economically and they would implode from within.  The distinction of being the real world villains would belong to the Middle East and radical Islam- back when all we saw of radical Islam was a few nut jobs in Iran.  The sad thing is- unless something starts going right for a change- I would be afraid to hear her predictions for ten years from today.

It’s too bad that students of history like Miss Barker aren’t the ones deciding foreign policy.   Unfortunately we have a president who instead of standing up to terror and injustice abroad, he hides behind Hillary Clinton’s pantsuit and refuses to take the blame for a criminal lapse in security even in our own embassy!  Unlike Reagan, who stood up to the failure of communism, pleading, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!,” Obama hangs out with Letterman, Beyoncé and Jay-Z, smiling for the cameras and schmoozing with the “stars” instead of making time to speak with the prime minister of Israel.  I understand Netanyahu is probably not nearly as “fun” as the Hollywood nut crowd, and he’s not as likely to contribute to B.O.’s campaign as is the Muslim Brotherhood or Hamas, but Israel is our only real friend in the Middle East.  Obama seems to like screwing that up.

I hope it’s not too late.

On a more pleasant, non political note (for those who might like it when I write funny stuff, but wonder why I am so into conservative politics) I came across some artwork that reminded me of my childhood:

I’m glad I generally got along with my Dad.

Of course I found this assignment intriguing, so I had to answer these for myself:

As I said, Dad and I usually got along.  I deserved the air hammer- but luckily, he missed.

The only thing I can recall that Dad did that really was unfair/out of line with me was to force me to be in my oldest sister’s wedding.  First of all she doesn’t like me in the first place, and the feeling is quite mutual.  This was the sadistic harpie who beat the living hell out of me almost daily for years.  That didn’t completely stop until I sent her to the hospital to get stitches in her mouth because she took my car without permission.  Why she wanted me in her wedding was entirely beyond me.  I was also going through a divorce at the time and had next to no money.  I know she was the Bridezilla from hell and I think Dad got tired of her whining about me trying to graciously decline being in her wedding.  I don’t know why she cared, other to deliver one sadistic last laugh at me. She has scads of more attractive and far wealthier friends who would have been glad to take my place.  At least I have the hollow glee of being the fugliest thing in her pictures.

It’s pretty heartless to expect someone to be in your wedding who a.) doesn’t like you to begin with, b.) is going through a divorce, and c.) can’t afford to waste money on a road trip she doesn’t have time to take and on a fugly dress she’ll only wear once.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again- the cruelest thing a woman can do to her unfortunate friends, or even more unfortunate relatives, is to ask her to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.  Trust me.   I wish Dad would have defended me on that one, but otherwise I can’t complain.  I got pretty lucky in that particular lottery.

Black and Blue (Not Fun to Do) and My Crappy Attitude

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Some days this is a lot easier said than done because I’m feeling a bit– ok- a lot- battered today.

I’ll say it now- I’m going to have a bit of a rant today.  Lord have mercy.  I need it.

No, I am not enduring any sort of domestic violence.  Jerry is pretty much confined to getting drunk and stupid.  He will say stupid things and do stupid things, but even Jerry has that little glimmer of self preservation instinct deep with in the reptilian part of his brain that restrains him from being stupid enough to get physically violent with me. I’m not inclined toward physical contact- especially fighting- and I generally avoid him when he’s drunk.  So we have a sort of détenté.  When he’s wasted, I’m in my own room, usually with the dogs.

Yesterday I went to the matinee showing of 2016 with Steve-o.  I’ve always appreciated Dinesh D’Souza’s commentary, and there were a number of facts brought up in the movie that I had not been aware of.  It was sort of preaching to the choir as far as I’m concerned, though.  The people who really need to see this movie are the people who are ill-informed or deceived enough to seriously entertain the thought of voting for Obama.   I already know better than to do that.  I knew better in 2008.  The only bad thing about going to the movie was my abysmal coordination.  Steve-o wanted to sit up toward the back, and as I was climbing the steps (which are uneven in a movie theatre) I bashed my foot on the step, and of course went down.

Thankfully I’d decided against the $7.00 Diet Coke.  I detest watered-down fountain drinks anyway, but I’d been really pissed if I’d nearly face planted (I came close to it) and then ended up wearing an over priced watered down fountain drink to add insult to my injury.  So now my left foot looks like someone bashed it with a hammer.  I’d be surprised if my big toe isn’t broken.  Even if it is, the ER can’t do anything for it other then to tell me to take Naproxen and put ice on it which I’ve already been doing.  Now I’m just waiting to see how far the bruise will spread and how many colors it will turn.  I’m rather easily amused.

Sort of an angry dark purple today, but it’s not too bad, if I refrain from bending it or bumping into anything.  Yeah.  I’m that coordinated. Had I been coordinated I’d not done this in the first place.

In spite of my rather unfortunate genetic grab bag, there are times I wish I’d been able to have more kids.  Then I remember I’m still paying for the POMC, and then I’m thankful that the Hand of Providence only allowed me one.

I don’t see how anyone can afford more than one rug rat- my condolences on anyone paying for one child especially today.  I don’t know how people do it with multiple mouths.  Of course I will be paying back all the $$$ I had to borrow to get the POMC through school, for the next ten years, so I’m just a skoche miffed about that.  If a person is considered an adult at age 18, then why the flying eff  is he considered my “dependent” for the purposes of the student loan machine- even though I can’t claim him as a tax deduction- because he has been living independently and working since he was 18?  Why do I get stuck with him on my insurance ’till he’s 26- (thanks Obama, for that shitty little provision) even though he works and has his own kid to support- and I end up with half of his student loans?????

I guess it’s my fault he’s white (minorities can get grants, but never whitey) and since the govt. has taken over student loans and financial aid, the kids get no help at all if their parents earn a (barely…) subsistence wage, even if the kid doesn’t live with his/her parents, which is majorly effed up.

Of course if I were on welfare and/or he belonged to ______ minority group, his education would have been free.  If he had any kind of athletic prowess (though I’m glad he actually got a brain instead) he’d be playing some sport and get a free ride which baffles my mind.  How many football players have an IQ higher than pond scum?  I have said it many, many times.  The football teams make schools like OSU and others a LOT of money.  Hire guys to play football, understand the football jocks are NOT scholars, and if you’re going to give scholarships, give them to people with the intellect to do something with the education they’re offered.  Of course that will never happen.

It is also a fact that if you’re female, AND white, you might as well understand there’s no scholarships and precious few grants for you to go to school no matter how poor you are.  It also doesn’t matter high your IQ and/or your GPA is.  A white female might as well just understand that if she wants an education, she’s going to have to pay for it (as well as for all the freeloaders) herself.

The lesson in this?  Apparently white people shouldn’t breed.  We just get stuck doing all the work- and then paying for everyone else who belongs to some “special group” anyway!

If you want an education, girls, better be prepared to learn on your own.

To put the turd on the icing of that little cake not only am I paying for my own kid (that, I don’t like, but I do understand) but I also get to pay for all the “special” ones who don’t have to pay too, probably even including the jocks who can’t spell their own names, but because they can run with a football, they get free rides.  These are guys whose academic pursuits include such edifying courses as, “Connecting With Your Inner Child Through Sports” and “The Joys of Basket Weaving.”  Maybe that’s why paying for my kid costs so damned much- because I’m not just paying for him but I’m also paying for the “freebie” kids.  Is this why health insurance is so outrageous too- because everyone who has insurance is paying for everyone who doesn’t for whatever reason?  I think it’s the same mentality going on, and it pisses me off.

Jerry might.  The dogs do.  I still use the toilet.

I Am the Anti-Tan, Screwy Things in the Name of “Beauty,” and the Joy of Being Inciteful

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I’m no beauty queen, but this is SCARY.

All this hoo-hah about some very deranged woman who is accused of dragging her five year old into a tanning bed is really disturbing.  Tanning was trendy back in the ’80’s too, and back then the bulbs used in the beds would literally fry the hide off a person.  I don’t think today’s tanning beds use such intense bulbs, but it certainly can’t be healthy to voluntarily expose oneself to all that direct heat and radiation. Oh, and anyone who would drag a five year old into a tanning bed to be toasted like an English muffin should not be allowed to have custody of a kid.  Ever.  Then again, in a perfect world only certain people would be capable of breeding.  The fact that the fittest aren’t always the ones spawning sort of casts some doubts on Darwin’s theory.  The gene pool doesn’t really seem to be chlorinating itself.

Many of the girls I knew in high school went to those tanning beds like religion- and now they look like the California Raisins.  I am certainly no beauty and I am certainly not free of skin damage- most of mine is actually through burns, (especially one bad incident from taking a radiator cap off a bit too soon…) but I have more than enough stretch marks, and a plethora of assorted scars from everything from a horrid case of chicken pox to bug bites, to abrasions, to falling into the coffee table, and even one interesting scar from a claw mark given by a very frightened dog.  However, I don’t tan.  When my super white skin is exposed to the sun, the results are freckles, splotches and burns.   I have never even attempted tanning in a tanning bed in my life, and at 43 I don’t plan on starting it now.  I have seen the leathery, wrinkly visages of the tanned “beauties” of the ’80’s as they look today- and I don’t want to go there.  Ever.

In the summer I can barely leave the house without slathering on the Factor 50, and this is in Ohio, where there isn’t a whole lot of direct sunlight, and it is not exactly a tropical paradise.  Even so, I’ve been known to get sunburn in the car.  It does get hot in the summer here, but it seems hotter than it really is, because the humidity is usually somewhere around 100% most of the time.   I have been told that 88° in Columbus OH in high summer seems hotter than Phoenix AZ at 110°, but never having been to Phoenix, I really don’t know if this is true, at least not from my own experience. 

Throughout history women have done some pretty screwy things in the name of beauty.  Ancient Roman women used lead as face powder.  Chinese women bound their feet so they couldn’t walk.  Even today we color our hair, (I freely fess up to that one) pierce our ears (yeah I did that too) and pierce various other places (not really game for that) and get tattoos (I might consider getting eyeliner tattooed on, but that’s about it.)  I don’t know of any culture that regards excessive body hair on a woman to be attractive, so removing superfluous hair is a Big Deal too.  It’s one of my major battles- to avoid looking like Sasquatch at all costs.  As fast as the hair grows on my body in unauthorized places, remaining acceptably hairless requires constant vigilance.

I know I shouldn’t enjoy controversy as much as I do.  While part of me wants to hide out in the ivory tower, another part of me can be derisive and critical.  There is a fine line dividing healthy, rational debate and presenting the facts, versus rabid activism, and for my own sense of rationality and sanity I have to be careful not to cross it. 

As far as things political go, the easiest way for me to describe where I stand is, “just to the right of Reagan.”  I am more conservative (at least politically) than most, and I have my reasons, but my reasons should never keep me from listening (sometimes the “other side” is right) or from being so focused in my disagreement that I can’t see little bits of good in what I perceive to be an ocean of bad. 

Conservatism doesn’t mean closed-mindedness, (nor does it mean racism or bigotry) but it does mean keeping a bit of a skeptical eye- on both sides.  I may not like someone’s philosophy on certain things- and I am outspoken enough to say so- but at the end of the day my goal is to stay rational- and to remember that while some ideologies may be detrimental or even what I consider to be evil- other people have their reasons for holding them that may not be rooted in evil but because they came from different background and perspective than mine.

It’s going to be a long next few months for me, trying to remain somewhat civil, keeping from alienating dear friends who don’t have the same political outlook I do, and trying not to get caught up on rhetoric, even when I can base it on facts. There are few things that can ignite that tiny little emotional stub I have in place of a heart, but love of country is one of them.  I ran the streets at 11 years old- delighted that even at 11 years old I could volunteer- with campaign information for President Reagan.  So forgive me if I get caught up.  I need to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, it will be what it will be, and I can only do so much to bring about the world I would like to see.  Besides, beyond a bit of snarky satire here and there, what else am I good for?

Well, I can think of a few things.  I know more about things automotive than anyone other than a technician or an engineer would ever want to know.  I have a broad vocabulary. I can spell and define words such as catamite, hemorrhoidal inflammation, impunity, and gynecomastic.  Even better, I can use all these words and phrases in a sentence:

When Maurice, the gynecomastic catamite, came home from his boyfriend’s party, where he was taken advantage of by the others with impunity, he was suffering from severe hemorrhoidal inflammation.

Even if one doesn’t already know the definitions of these words, it’s possible to figure all but one of them out from the context clues.

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.

Masks of the Heart, Real Life, and Breakfast in Bed

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I can’t say that any of my facades are this lovely, but I do appreciate a good Venetian mask.  I can put up a heavy front when I feel it is required, which is most of the time, but there’s not much I can do to mask my poor coordination and bad proportions or exceptionally plain face.  It’s just not possible to polish a turd, unless of course you have watched the episode of Mythbusters where Adam and Jamie do exactly that to make a point.  It can technically be done, but why?

I hide behind a lot of masks.  Sarcasm is one of my favorites.  So is assuming intellectual superiority where possible, which is more often than it probably should be.  I’ve never claimed to be some sort of great mind- the more I learn the more I discover I don’t know- but the ignorance and/or stupidity of the populace at large is frightening.  Just because stupidity is rampant doesn’t make me any smarter than I was before.  Rampant stupidity only means that most other people are more stupid than I am, which is scary on a number of levels.   Here’s how I see it.  I am no great intellect, but in comparison to the average Joe or Jane Blow on the street, I’m a flipping rocket scientist.  That should be frightening to anyone who has ever witnessed me in one of my absent-minded fits where I’ve misplaced and then had to try to find things like my car keys, my phone, my Bluetooth headset, or my MP3 player.  I should have Velcro embedded into my skin and likewise a patch of Velcro stuck to these essential objects so I can just stick those objects to my body.  That way, maybe, I can remember where they are.  It could make showering a challenge though.

In reality, I’m certainly not a rocket scientist.  I played hell getting through high school algebra.  I wonder to this day how I not only made it through three quarters of accounting in college, but managed to do it with high “B”s.  I may be one of those geeky analytical types, but for some reason higher math never clicked with me.  I’m doing good to balance my checkbook so I can freak out over all the money I don’t have.

Money and intelligence don’t always go together either.  Especially inherited or married-into money.  I never had any kind of advantage in that department- having been born not only with a plastic spoon in my mouth AND looks that could stop a thousand trucks.  So I never got any scratch from relatives, and I certainly didn’t have the bait to attract a rich sugar daddy.  I’m fortunate to have landed a man with Dad’s minimum criteria.  Dad would always ask three questions when my sisters would talk about getting serious with a guy:

1. Is it white? (Racist?  Probably, but Dad is not at all PC, and in his mind marrying a Catholic was as close to “mixed marriage” and moving past the traditional WASP couple paradigm as he ever chose to contemplate.  He just about lost it when one of my sisters went out on a date with a guy who was half Mexican.  For some reason, though, he didn’t object to Jerry, who is probably 9/10ths or more Cherokee.)

2. Is it male? (Homophobic?  Definitely- but Dad does come from a backwater town- and a very conservative, old school, Regular Baptist upbringing. I am most certainly a straight woman anyway, so I can forgive him that. I may have brought home some dismal trollings in my time, but they were always male.)

3. Is it employed? (Dad has no use for deadbeats, and I really don’t blame him for that either.)

To his three minimum qualifications (though #1 is a grey area as far as I’m concerned- I really don’t get hung up on race or ethnicity) I would add “hair” and “teeth.”  Jerry does have hair and teeth (the teeth are mostly implants, but not dentures at least) which at almost 54 is rather amazing.  I am a bit curious, though I hesitate to investigate the statistics.  I wonder how many men over the age of 50 are afflicted with ED?  I bet it’s more than half, and I bet very few of them either admit it or do anything about it, regardless of the popularity of  the Viagra and Cialis commercials.  Guys just don’t like to face it.  I can add an FYI: neither do women.  We just suffer in involuntarily celibate silence- unless we have the money (and the lack of scruples and absence of shame) to hire a boytoy.  I have neither the money nor the lack of conscience to find myself a boytoy, cougar jokes with Steve-o’s friends aside, so it is what it is.  Thankfully, I have hobbies, and early menopause has pretty much done away with any desire I had anyway.   My idea of a romantic evening is TruTV and an early bedtime.  It’s easier that way anyway.

Dad never said anything about ED.  He should have warned me, but I can’t imagine someone as modest and straight laced as Dad about such things making a statement like this:

“Just so you know, when your old man gets to be about 45 or so, his Johnson won’t work any more.  Sorry.”

There’s just some things you have to learn as you go, apparently.

I’ve got to stop putting myself through that kind of noise.  The whole weekend breakfast routine.  I don’t even like breakfast, and I usually only gag down some yogurt and oatmeal to keep my sugar in line in the mornings.  (Diabetes sucks, but it does make you pay attention to nutrition and exercise and all that health nut stuff.) Jerry enjoys the Behemoth Breakfast which means I have to get up early on a weekend morning to fix it for him, and serve it to his happy ass- in bed.  I don’t know how someone can drink that much alcohol and eat that much grease and still be above ground.  Maybe I’m the one who has it backwards.  Jerry might be like those Russian dudes who drink vodka all day and smoke cigars one right after the other and live to be 115.  That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.