assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

A Road Trip for Miz Izz, The Gene Pool Needs Chlorine, and Entropy Can Be Entertaining

Isabelnotamused

15 is ancient, if you’re a cat.

I had to take poor Miz Izz to the vet on Saturday.  I did so with a bit of trepidation, because when a cat’s 15, anything can be the prelude to the dirt nap.  She has a funky condition on the pads of her front paws called plasma cell pododermatitis or what is commonly called “pillow foot.”  The paw pads swell up and sometimes even crack and bleed (this was the reason I took her to the vet.) Weirdly enough, it’s not a particularly dangerous condition, but given Miz Izz’s age, it can’t be surgically corrected.  The risk of surgery on a 5#, elderly cat is not worth the potential benefit, because it’s neither painful nor life threatening according to the vet.  It can be managed with occasional steroid/antibiotic injections and scuttlebutt has it that essential oils and Vitamin E can be helpful as well.  So she’s back on the fish oil and Vitamin E supplement which I probably should not have stopped giving her.  It does make her coat nice and shiny, and she doesn’t object to the taste, so if anything I don’t see where it would do any harm.

Most cats go ballistic in the car and have meltdowns in the vet’s office.  Not Miz Izz.  She will sit on the exam table quietly and let the vet do her thing.  Isabel was cooperative even when she was very young.  I can just zip her up in my hoodie and carry her around with no problem.  Jezebel also lets me just put her in my hoodie, and is just as laid back about the vet and riding in the car as Isabel is.  Fanny freaks out.  She is well near impossible to transport and has to be in a carrier.  I’ve not had to attempt transport with F.B.   F.B. is usually quite sanguine, but she does put up a wicked struggle over getting her flea treatment.

 Redneck-chick

Some people are very easily entertained.

The photo above is further evidence of the devolution of mankind.  Fifty years ago these people’s grandparents would have been engaging in the fine pastime of ballroom dancing:

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All I can think of is how bad those skirts have got to ITCH!

Every time I go to WalMart, I am reminded of how badly the gene pool needs chlorine.  Either that, or it might help to provide more full-length mirrors in public places so people can see how bloody ridiculous they look.  When your ass is the size of a Toyota Corolla, Spandex pants and a halter top are not sensible wardrobe choices.

It also doesn’t help to try to put camo pants over rhinoceros size butt cheeks.  The camo effect is lost when you’re working with that much surface area.

I ended up having to go home this afternoon with a nasty sore throat.  Yes, I went and had a strep test because it came on rather suddenly (the preliminary test was negative) so I am in bed swilling tea and wishing Jerry would shut up about not being able to find anything in the kitchen.  I’m not fetching anything for him.  I’m trying to get this shit to go away because I really don’t want to call off work tomorrow.  I have the vacation time, and the thought of a whole day of drinking tea and watching History Channel could be interesting, but I really hate taking days off (especially unplanned) because I end up having to fix nine kinds of disasters when I get back.

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I have, but dammit, I’m sick!

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assorted rants, cougardom, dogs, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy, political commentary

Observations of a Cynical Old Bitty, Sports Commentary, and Keeping it Simple

I don’t drink beer.  I don’t like beer.  But to Jerry, this swill is the elixir of the Gods.  Go figure.

Tomorrow I begin a brief vacation.   Not because I’m sick, a family member’s sick or I have some stupid errand(s,) which is usually the only reason I take time off.  Granted, I did tell Jerry I would list a bunch of his crap on E-Bay tonight (joy and rapture) and I did put the rack of ribs in the slow cooker.  But he’s on his own for a couple of days which means the drive-thru better have some cold Natty Packs, and I better make sure he has Katie’s (the local good pizza joint) on speed dial.  Tomorrow morning I head for the hills- literally- where Sprint access is a crap shoot (so no internet and probably no phone either) and things should be somewhat bull-shit free as long as Jerry doesn’t show up and ruin the quiet.

I’ll have Miss Clara with me, to screen any potential “visitors.”

Clara enjoys being at the campground.  I do have to make sure she’s on a leash any time she’s not in the cabin, but I give her a long lead and let her explore.  Clara is obedient and usually a good listener, but my only fear is that with the prey drive she has that she would lunge off after a critter and get lost.  Prey drive is an instinctual thing with dogs, and when she’s locked on to something she may or may not respond to verbal commands.  This is why a lot of people who work with protection breeds use shock collars (no I am not going there) so they can get a dog’s attention should they get locked on a prey item.  I don’t want to take that chance in an area where she can get lost and/or mistaken for a deer.  Admittedly, I’ve been paranoid with Clara ever since she was hit by a truck three years ago.  She has never attempted to get beyond the fence since then, even when Sheena has found – or fabricated for herself- ways out.   Sheena has about ten pounds on Clara, so any hole big enough for Sheena is more than big enough for Clara.  Before she got hit Clara thought it was a fun game to try to find holes in the fence and such, but she has not strayed even once since.  Still, I’m not taking any undue chances with her.

I’m not trying to get my hopes up about the upcoming election, though I was most encouraged by Romney’s debate performance last Wednesday.  I’d never really thought Romney was much of a public speaker but this debate was a most pleasant surprise.  The man knows what he’s talking about, and more importantly, he believes in what he says.   The absence of the teleprompter was rather telling for Obama.  Apparently Eastwood was right.  Now if only the rest of the world will get a clue and see what I’ve known all along.  The self-proclaimed “emperor” is naked as a jay bird.

Bluejays may not wear clothes, but at least they do have feathers.

Bluejays are interesting birds in that they eat almost anything, and they’re rather aggressive.  A few years ago there was a huge scare in Franklin County regarding West Nile virus and people were asked to report any dead crows or jays (crows and jays are actually related types of birds) so the health department could test them.  Of course I’m the lucky one to find a dead jay out in the front yard that wasn’t visibly mauled by cats or hit by anything, just stiff and dead as a post, so kept my distance and called the health department to come and get it for testing.  I’m not a big fan of communicable disease, so I figure better safe than sorry.  If there’s crap like that lurking about in my yard I want to know about it.

In response to my call, some guy from the health department showed up, with his hazmat garb and everything, to pick up the dead jay (with thickly gloved hands of course.)  The health department guy observed that the jay’s mouth was open and that it had another bird (likely a baby starling) jammed in its throat in such a manner that it likely choked to death.  He still took the dead jay for testing, but assured me that the cause of death was most likely asphxyiation rather than West Nile.  Apparently this is a somewhat common manner of death for jays.

Thankfully no one needs to tell me this twice.

Most sports are pretty stupid when you think about it.  Football for instance, involves chasing a funky shaped ball up and down a field.  It also involves having very big guys jump all over your sorry carcass.  I spent the first thirteen years of my life trying to avoid having my ass kicked.  Even if I were coordinated and could play a sport for money, I don’t think the scratch would be worth daily ass kickings all over again. NFL players are coming out and saying that they are getting brain damage from all the concussions they get playing football.  Granted most athletes aren’t rocket scientists to begin with (and I say this from deep within the highly uncoordinated geek camp) but shouldn’t brain damage be your sign that playing certain sports might not be worth it?

Today you’re throwing a football on national TV.  Tomorrow you’re sucking up pureed bananas in a straw whilst shitting your drawers.

Hockey is another sport I don’t get.  It’s only fun if they fight.

Which brings us to NASCAR fans and WalMart shoppers….

Perhaps that’s mean of me,  and a bit ironic, because occasionally I go to WalMart, if I have to get something I can’t find at Target, or I’m in Marion where there is no Target.  But NASCAR, I can’t bring myself to watch that shit.  Ever.

Must have taken this pic in Newark (OH)- the Lardy Lady Capitol of the Midwest!

Freddy Mercury would have loved Newark.  Big fat Fannys everywhere!

Speaking of big fat Fanny- but she’s a cat- and she’s cute.

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

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

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.

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

Too Much Effing Basketball, Reflections on “That Special Time,” and Misandry Revisited

Why, oh, why are they putting that damned basketball tournament on TruTV again? It pissed me off enough last year.  That’s why there are channels like TruTV on cable, so that those of us who don’t care for sports have interesting shit to watch.  Why not take over the Oprah Channel for all the people who are regular TruTV watchers who don’t give a rat’s ass who’s playing who and sure as shit don’t want to watch the games?   Almost $200 a month for premium cable and I’m still buried in farking sports. It pisses me off royally.  I think Time Warner should have to refund me for the entire month of March.  I am having withdrawal from Smoking Gun:World’s Dumbest.  I actually ended up watching a documentary on bugs on NatGeo because most of the channels were either sports or pecker pump infomercials, or the Bigfoot special, so the bug show was the most interesting thing on TV the other night.   Either bugs or the endless speculation over the existence of Bigfoot.  I don’t believe in Bigfoot- someone would have found a body or at the very least, scat, by now- but I have evidence for the existence of bugs, so I went with the bugs.  Might as well learn about the various nasty little arthropods that inhabit the planet.   The bug shows made for some rather interesting dreams.  Now I know why as a kid I used to fry ants with a magnifying glass.  Pesky little bastards.  Must…not…let…the…queen….live—

Now I would be interested in both Bigfoot and basketball if they could find Bigfoot and get him to play basketball.  That might be interesting, given that Bigfoot is (theoretically) over 7′ tall.  If I were to make up a mythical man-beast I’d like him to be tall too, but I could do without the massive hair.  I’m not a fan of excessive body hair.  If I were to make up a mythical man-beast he would look a lot like Antonio Banderas.  He would also have a lot of money, and an insatiable fetish for older women with troll-like proportions.

The bad thing is, the really hot ones are either gay, married (to a good looking woman) or hopelessly stupid.

The various History Channels seem to be caught up in the doomsday stuff that I’ve already watched, and for the most part discounted.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: What makes people think that an ancient culture who practiced blood sacrifice and cannibalism is some kind of authority on doomsday?  Granted, the Mayans were really, really good at astronomy and math.   So was Ted Kaczynski, at least the math part.  What did that get him?  Harold Camping could probably recite the entire KJV Bible from memory, but all of his doomsday predictions (supposedly based on Scripture) were wrong.  Here we still are. 

I’ve said it before, but I really don’t want to know the exact date and time when the world will end.  It’s sort of irrelevant anyway because everyone is going to die.  If the world doesn’t end you still die.  The rest of the world goes on, but you don’t care because you’re dead.  If the world ends, you and everyone else die at the same time.  What’s the diff?  The scenario I don’t want to experience is one of those cataclysmic disaster type events that doesn’t annihilate everything outright but causes mass extinctions and lots of slow, lingering death.  I know people build shelters and stock up on everything from canned peas to condoms, but is that any way to live?  The survival mentality is nothing new- back in the 1950’s everyone thought the USSR was going to nuke us so people built bomb shelters and stocked up on food and supplies and so forth.  The bad thing about the doomsday shelter is,” How long can you last? ”  Would it be better to just be in the line of fire and be suddenly disintegrated- instant death- or to linger about underground in a shelter counting the days and rationing stale decades-old food?  I don’t think it would be terribly enjoyable.

100% vegetarian.  No meat.  How lovely.  About as appetizing as pool chemicals, which come in the same type barrels.  On the plus side, it does have the shelf life of a Twinkie, which means it will be fresh long after I’m dead.

Yesterday I mentioned that I was thankful for the benefits of menopause.  Believe me, camping out in the frozen food section of Kroger’s to get cooled off is infinitely better than the alternative.  I can deal with hot flashes. I can also wear white pants any day I want.   It’s creepy that the manufacturers of certain feminine items try to make “that special time” of the month sound like a freaking vacation in Jamaica.  There should be some truth in advertising when you’re talking about that particular bodily process.  I can’t speak for every other woman out there, but I had specific anatomical anomalies and surgical scars, etc. that made Aunt Flo’s visit a huge nightmare every month.  I went through years of torment with it. 

Rather than visions of flowers and butterflies and kittens, why not skulls and crossbones?  Bloody daggers would be another extremely appropriate theme.  If I were to develop feminine hygiene items, I’d go with a pirate theme. 

Imagine a box of extra-absorbent adult diapers (because “overnight” is  a lot longer than fifteen minutes, and that’s about how long the “overnight” maxis lasted me) with a colorful skull and crossbones motif.  That would at least reflect some truth in advertising. 

I’ve always been a bit of a misanthrope, but contrary to my postings of late I do find men attractive.  Vexing, yes- complicated, always, but oddly endearing, sort of like Sheena when she flops over and lands on my feet.  Sheena’s a hopeless clutzy ditz.  Jerry is worse, at least as far as the beer drinking and stupid behavior that accompanies that-(instant asshole, just add alcohol) but he has his charm.  I’ll have to remember that when I’m scraping man-face-fur shavings out of the sink again.  I need to remember to get the drain cleaner tonight.

 

 

 

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assorted rants, creative writing, dogs, misanthropy

Cultural Illiteracy, Road Tripping with Clara and Lilo, and Boxing?

I should have known that Jerry’s co-workers would have absolutely no idea who Vincent Van Gogh was.  He works in a body shop after all.  Since I failed to make any reference to any redneck cultural icons, they didn’t get the joke.  If I had mentioned anything involving NASCAR, other sports, especially football, or country music, then I probably would  have been OK.  One of the guys asked Jerry if I had attempted to do a Mike Tyson on him.  I should have caught that.   Mike Tyson- as a heavy weight boxer, and boxing is a sport- would be much more likely to be in these guys’ frames of reference than a 19th century Impressionist painter would be.  Shame on me for my cultural illiteracy.  If I’m going to attempt to make a joke, I have to remember who my audience is.

I don’t really know a whole lot about boxing, (or about any sport) but it is one of the more interesting sports to watch.  I would never want to engage in boxing, wrestling, hockey or football or any other contact sport, as I had my ass kicked enough times in the first ten years of my life to last anyone a lifetime.  I’ve had my ass kicked enough to know that I don’t want it kicked again unless I have a damned good reason to fight.  Since my fighting skills are pretty much non-existent, I would have to say the only things that would get me into a physical fight would be self-defense, or attempting to defend someone else who is wrongfully getting a pounding.  Then I would be morally and ethically compelled to at least make the best attempt I can.  I don’t want to get my ass kicked for anything trivial.

I don’t mind watching other people beat the hell out of each other though, especially when they’ve agreed to do it.  Boxing is kind of fun to watch because the action doesn’t stop very often.  The rules make sense.  You win when you knock the other guy out.  I don’t see how boxing could be considered a sport one takes on for one’s health benefit though.  The training for boxing might consist of healthy things to do, but then you take that buff bod and go run out and get your ass kicked?  Perhaps this is the effect of testosterone on the brain, but women box too, so that can’t be the whole answer.

I was the loser in enough catfights in my time- courtesy of my oldest sister, the most sadistic child ever dropped on planet Earth- that I really don’t like watching women fight.  Unless of course they are yanking out each other’s hair weaves.  For some reason I think that’s funny.  My hair, back in the day, was of course, attached to my scalp, making the whole hair-pulling bit a hell of a lot more painful.

This afternoon I have to take Clara and Lilo up to the Vet.  Lilo has been mistaking her butt for food lately and I am at a loss as to why she is chewing on it.  Clara also has one bad spot on her leg which I think is another granuloma, but that I want to have the Vet check out since I am making the road trip.  Sheena is (thankfully) doing OK so she doesn’t need to go, and I wouldn’t tempt fate by trying to handle more dogs than I have hands at one time.

At least I’m getting out for a bit.  They like riding in the car and they both really don’t mind seeing the Vet so it should be an interesting afternoon.

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assorted rants, creative writing, misanthropy

Snowbooger Grey and Oat Opera Torture

I can’t say that I enjoy near-zero temperatures.  I don’t mind the cold as much as many people do but should I have a temperature preference I’d like high 60’s-low 70’s, which occur naturally in Ohio about twice a year.  The only problem with the partial thaws between deep freeze episodes is that the snow doesn’t completely melt.  It simply turns to this horrid grey scuz consisting of partially melted snow, carbon from vehicle exhaust, and other assorted unidentifiable detritus that could be (and probably is) anything from dog shit to medical waste. 

Of course, a snowbooger is the sticky, nasty build up of partially melted snow, road filth and so forth that accumulates in the wheel wells and splash guards on cars.  It’s getting to that time of year when the whole world will take on that snowbooger pallor.  I think I understand the statistics behind February deaths.  I can understand someone who is terminally ill surrendering the will to live upon viewing the drudge of the landscape.  If I were suicidally minded (no, I’m not, but if  I were) the pervasive snowbooger grey of the entire month of February and most of March usually too, might just be the tipping point. 

I am trying to force myself to do things that I’m not always motivated to do up front, but that I’m glad to do when I’m doing them, or shortly thereafter.  Of course Jerry does not like me doing anything that does not directly involve kissing his ass, and nothing infuriates him more than me forgoing kissing his ass to do something that is actually good for me.  I was looking forward to going to my church group last night and I was sure to go, and was glad I did.  This did not make Jerry happy, so he decided since he was sitting at home alone with no one to run and fetch for him, that he would drink his Natties and crank up his vile collection of completely putrid country music.

When I say country music, Jerry likes  the really awful old-time twangy stuff like Hank Williams and Willie Nelson.   No Wynona Judd or Clint Black for him.  When you hear the stuff Jerry likes, you understand why David Alan Coe wrote his parody song, “You Never Even Call Me By My Name.”  The following excerpt from his lyrics says all I need to say about dreadful country songs:

“…I wrote him back a letter and I told him it was not the
perfect country and western song, because he hadn’t said
anything at all about momma, or trains, or trucks,
or prison or gettin’ drunk. Well, he sat down and
wrote another verse to this song and he sent it to me and
after reading it, I realized that my friend had written the

perfect country and western song. And I felt obliged to include
it on this album. The last verse goes like this here:

Well, I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison,
And I went to pick her up in the rain.
But before I could get to the station in the pick-up truck,
She got runned over by a damned old train.”

I think I will have to wash out my brain with Metallica after last night, just for good measure.  It did help that I had the noise-cancelling headphones and was able to drown out most of the oat opera torture with some old Journey songs.  God bless Neal Schon.

I am not going to let Jerry get away with his manipulative snit-fits.  I know why I got the oat opera torture last night- because I didn’t just stay home, and I didn’t cart him over to Bob’s so he could get drunk and act stupid and waste time rambling on about BS over there. 

Tonight I am going to another class at church (this one only lasts three weeks) on understanding the Bible (I need all the help I can get) and I know he won’t like that either, but this class is only an hour.  Hopefully he will be too hungover from last night to want beer and I should have enough money to bribe him with the promise of Chinese takeout when class is over.  He’s worse than a little kid who pouts when Mommy leaves him with the sitter- but he swears up and down he’s not high maintenance.  Yeah, right.  He’d be high maintenance on the separation anxiety factor alone.  One would think a grown man could occupy himself with ESPN or something for an hour or two and not get too bent out of shape.    Too bad there aren’t any NASCAR races on Tuesday nights.  He wouldn’t even realize I was gone if there were a race on or a football game.  He doesn’t like basketball.  If he were a basketball fan he would have had some games to watch last night.

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