Enough With the Size 2 Models, and Persistence Is Not Always a Virtue

September 17, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I think “she’s” a chick. Maybe.

Just a thought to share with the purveyors of apparel and fashion designers out there:

The average woman who buys your wares is NOT completely flat chested, is NOT 6’2″, is NOT 100# or less, and does NOT wear a size 2. Many thirteen year old BOYS fall into those categories (of being flat-chested, tall, and super thin), and I understand that many men called to the fashion industry aren’t exactly straight, but please, remember who your customers are.

Just because that dress might look good on a thirteen year old boy, (or on my 24 year old who’s about 6’1″ and maybe 140..but don’t get any ideas, because he doesn’t swing that way) that doesn’t translate into looking good on the average 40-something cougar with a body ravaged by time and stress and childbirth.

Here’s what real women look like. Heads up, boys. Meaning “boys,” as in “Boy” George, I presume.

The average woman who buys your wares DOES have these things springing from her chest area called breasts, otherwise known as tits, fun jugs, bazongas, hooters, and/or boobs. Those of us with rather large things springing from our chests need to wear an item of clothing known as a BRA, not as a decoration, but as a functional support device, preferably one with suitably wide straps so as not to leave divots in our shoulders, to keep those things from hitting our knees as we perform our daily functions.

This being said, sleeveless garments of any type are generally not acceptable for the meaty-armed set unless they look good worn with a t-shirt underneath. Please try to bear this in mind when designing and marketing clothing for and to us.

Notice how pencil-thin her arms are? This woman has never unloaded trucks, manhandled unruly toddlers, or even picked up something as light as say… a fork!

Also, dresses should come in lengths other than “just below the butt-crack” and “3” past the feet.” Either I buy a dress that is so short I have to wear leggings or tights with it or give the general public a free show that they really don’t want, or I end up chopping and hemming just to keep from stepping all over the son of a bitch. I’m 5’4″, dammit. Neither extreme is a good one, boys. How about a dress that hits me just below the knee? No butt-crack exposure, and no tripping over it. That would be nice.

Now, how about something like this in a size 12- that doesn’t drag the floor?

My grandmother made a lot of her own clothes. She was a far more accomplished seamstress than I am, although I can do the basics. I have two of the dresses she made for herself back in the 1950’s, which fit me relatively well, even though she had a bit more ample chest than me and I’m a bit taller than she was. I don’t have time to make my own clothes, and I don’t have a sewing machine (that was one of Grandma’s things that my oldest sister- who has never sewn- made off with before Dad could hide it.) Otherwise I would. At least I could have dresses made to the proper length, with sleeves, and with enough shoulder and boob room. In a perfect world… all the clothes would have been made in the 1940s.

Not just dresses, HATS! I love hats- and I’m not afraid to wear them!

Steve-o has always displayed the propensity for wisdom beyond his years.

Yesterday he pointed out to me that persistence isn’t always a virtue. Sometimes persistence is the manifestation of obstinate and perverse stupidity. Of course, his perspective on persistence and vexation is colored by being the father of a three year old. Sometimes it takes her (my three year old granddaughter) awhile to realize that throwing fits and screaming will fail to achieve the results she wants. In the three year old’s defense, she’s not stupid. She is beginning to understand when “no” means “no” and when it is unwise to push the issue. That’s a skill that a few more adults need to get- before I throttle them.

Oh, yes, it does.

If I tell you that I can’t get you something, it’s because I can’t get it for you. It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s not because I haven’t tried. It’s because what you want isn’t available for me to get. Get it through your skull. If you feel it necessary to keep ordering the same thing I’ve already told you myriad times is not available, discontinued or otherwise non-existent on Planet Earth, your persistence in requesting the impossible has become a form of stupidity.

So what is the definition of stupidity, friends? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

At least my offspring has a clue.

Ignorant and Blithely Oblivious, Part 1

August 8, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

It’s going to drop. Murphy’s Law says so.

It has been said, “ignorance is bliss.” Perhaps in the short term that’s true. It’s sort of hard to have fun when one can see the Sword of Damocles hanging over one’s head.

I remember the most miserable vacation I’d ever had. When I was in seventh grade I had a rather difficult time with math, and I didn’t particularly like the math teacher to boot. She was one of the teachers that assumed that since I had aptitude for and achieved in every other subject that I should excel in math as well. Yeah. Right.

In those days you got a report card every six weeks, that your parent/guardian/resident adult had to sign and return to the teacher. In my family it was worse than that- DAD had to sign it, as his signature is rather ornate and hard to copy. He always perused my report cards with particular scrutiny before signing them. Anything less than straight A’s usually got me grounded, and usually the only subject that was difficult for me to get an A in was, of course, math.

That six weeks before Thanksgiving break I’d barely ended up with a C- in math class, as well as the teacher had included a nasty note on the report card that implied that I was a horrible slacker because I didn’t do well in her class.

The signed report cards were due back the Monday after Thanksgiving. Joy.

Dad wasn’t particularly worried about report cards that Thanksgiving break as he was preoccupied with a long-planned trip to my grandmother’s in St. Louis. Normally I would be thrilled about getting to see my grandmother (Mom’s Mom) who I only got to see once or twice a year and, if I was lucky, for a week or two in summer, but this was a miserable trip.

I’d rather have been stranded with the Griswalds.

I kept wondering when Dad was going to ask about report cards, and/or when my oldest sister would remind him. She was normally quite anxious to get hers signed. She usually got mostly A’s and a B now and then. Dad didn’t usually give her any trouble unless she got below a B in anything. But even my sadistic oldest sister wasn’t in any real hurry to show off her report card this go-round. I would discover later that she had gotten 3 B’s and a bad conduct comment from the gym teacher, which wasn’t quite normal for her either. Her conduct usually was bad- no surprise there- but she was generally very good at hiding her sadism from adults. It was unusual for her to get caught.

My other sister always got crappy grades (Dad usually didn’t get on her if she at least got C’s)- but she had mostly C’s and one D- so she wasn’t in any hurry to have Dad sign her report card either. None of us had the courage to hit Dad up for signatures until the last minute- mostly because nobody wanted to spend an eight hour road trip (one way) listening to Dad seethe and fume on about how bad our grades were. I know I didn’t want to be around Dad in close proximity for four days when he’s pissed. Let him be pissed on Monday when he’s at work and I don’t have to deal with it.

Even so, all I could think about the entire trip was a.) the inevitable browbeating I would get over Mrs. Vitriol’s (not her real name) catty comments, and Dad’s predictable volatility and malaise for the next six weeks. I wouldn’t be going anywhere besides school and the library for a long time.

Mrs. Vitriol’s note was NOT this nice.

I actually tried to find an example of a “nasty note from school” online, and uncovered nothing more than vapid entreaties to parents that they should encourage Suzie or Jimmy to be his or her “best self” tomorrow or similar tripe. My note was to the effect of, “Your daughter is lazy and doesn’t care if she achieves in my class or not.” A little something to make Dad go medieval on my sorry ass. Which he did- with extreme prejudice. Nothing got Dad hot faster than having any teacher accuse me of slacking in school, warranted or not.

The sad irony is that math was the only class I ever really did study for. It just didn’t make sense to me, and still doesn’t once I get beyond what I call “accounting math-” the basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division one needs to navigate in daily life. I can balance a checkbook, I can figure out what kind of mileage I get, and so forth, but that’s about the extent of my mathematical ability. It was a real struggle for me to get to the point of having that much understanding. I have about as much aptitude for things mathematical as I do for sports.

I would have had a lot more fun on that trip to my grandmother’s if I hadn’t gotten that report card until after vacation. In that instance maybe ignorance would have afforded a little bit of bliss.

Perhaps, but intellect has its advantages.

The Grateful Dead said, “I may be goin’ to hell in a bucket, baby, but at least I’m enjoyin’ the ride.” Apparently that’s how the ignorant go through life.

Biker Wisdom 101

One thing I can say for that philosophy is it probably cuts down on stress. After all, most stress comes from worrying about things that never happen anyway. Unfortunately I find myself taking the Murphy’s Law approach most of the time. I figure everything’s going to go wrong anyway.

In all seriousness, though, worrying about things that a.) will happen anyway, and b.) I can’t change, really is a waste of time.

Moving in Stereo, Noblesse Oblige and the Double Standard

April 24, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

It’s so easy to blow up your problems
It’s so easy to play up your breakdown
It’s so easy to fly through a window
It’s so easy to fool with the sound

It’s so tough to get up
It’s so tough
It’s so tough to live up
It’s so tough on you-

“Moving in Stereo”- The Cars

If I had to guess, I’m not the lone ranger as far as anxiety issues go. In the middle of the shit storm there is nowhere so alone, especially when I’m surrounded by people and I have to maintain a professional, cool façade no matter what. I am one of those people who is never more alone than when I’m in a crowd. Dealing with people is twice as difficult when all I want to do is run and get away from them.

I think that was a good part of the reason why my health went south so quickly about 10 years ago. I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, and the façade couldn’t hold.

Thankfully I don’t get the panic attacks and what I call extreme anxiety spells terribly often anymore, but here in the past few weeks I have discovered that I am just as vulnerable to them as I ever have been. Part of the solution, or at least a way to cope with anxiety in a healthier manner, seems counterintuitive: I have to admit to my vulnerability. I have to realize when I’m trying to move too fast, do too much, or when I’m shouldering blame that doesn’t belong to me, and I’m not good at it. My idea of boundaries is to be completely open or completely shut down, which I know isn’t healthy. I’m one of those people who always feels as if I owe other people something, even when I don’t.

When I was growing up I had the concept of noblesse oblige drilled into my head. Because I was sickly and my medical costs were outrageous, I was made to feel guilty about that. I was also made to feel as if my medical issues were my fault and that I had no right to complain if I didn’t have clothing that fit right, or if I didn’t have glasses when I needed them. Because my medical issues were expensive, and I was painfully aware of it, I was the one who helped Dad out at his shop, and I was the one who did all the household chores when Mom had her back injury and was bedridden- while my sisters played sports (which I couldn’t do because of my health issues) and had actual social lives (which I didn’t have anyway.)

Because I had certain abilities, my parents and even (some) teachers held me to a higher standard than the rest of the kids. I was expected to do without, to tolerate more, to do more, to be more, to accomplish more, and not just in my areas of strength. I still remember my 9th grade algebra teacher almost throwing a fit at me because I truly struggled to get through that stuff. Higher math did not make a lick of sense to me then, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense to me now. I can get through basic math, and I can understand percentages and ratios, but that’s about it. He accused me of “slacking” in his class (as in why could I get straight As in every other subject but his.) The truth was that I spent a lot more time and effort trying to get a B or C in that class than I did getting straight As in everything else.

I got grounded for any grade lower than a B, regardless of the subject, while it was perfectly fine for either of my sisters to maintain a C average- across the board- without inviting scrutiny. To her credit (even though she was a ruthless and sadistic bitch) my oldest sister, in spite of her average IQ, did manage to be an honor student (didn’t take much then, and takes even less now) and wormed her way into Miami University (one of the most expensive colleges in Ohio.) Eventually she did graduate and get a degree, and a submissive husband from a wealthy family, but Dad pretty much ended up paying for a 7 year long bacchanalia. Few women have ever had the tolerance for alcohol as Butterface. Even when she ended up in jail for DUI (which she got out of, thanks to her future husband’s family’s connections) Dad put up bail money for her so she wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail. He also made sure to point out to me that he would not do the same for me, as according to him, I “know better,” and she doesn’t.

Granted, I was very clandestine with my high school/ college drinking. Since I could only afford to go to a local technical college (all Dad’s money was going toward Butterface’s beer, and anything else she couldn’t get financial aid or her boyfriends to pay for) if I wanted to enjoy a fifth of MD20/20, I’d simply to go to a friend’s house, get blitzed, and crash where I partied. Oh, and I did. Frequently.

I don’t know why so many years later I get bitter about my past. A lot of the things that happened to me weren’t fair, and I was held to a number of double standards, but it could have been a lot worse.

I can’t balance out the inequities of life, but I do need to end the guilt trips. I’m tired of being made to feel guilty for taking up valuable oxygen, and I’m tired of believing that the only time I’m worth anything is when I’m overextended and burned out. I’m also tired of taking the blame for others’ ineptitude, and feeling as if I always have to take up their slack.

I’m only human, and the gifts that I’ve been given have always been balanced with gaping holes. I have some wiring that other people don’t have, but I’m missing a lot of wiring too.

What I gleaned from the double standards imposed on me was that it was perfectly OK for me to give and do to the end of my strength and ability, and not to expect anything in return. To a point that’s OK, but perhaps my recent forays into the wonderful world of anxiety are sending a message. I can only do so much, and beyond that, tough titty.

Artificial Intelligence, Planning a Solitary Get-Away, and Cat Logic

April 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron 5 Comments

Let’s face it. Most American women over the age of 35 use some form of hair color. I started going grey in my mid-20s, so I’ve been using hair dye for a very long time. I like the concept of gainful employment, otherwise I would try a variety of hair colors- electric blue, hot pink, deep purple, etc., but that sort of body décor is frowned upon in the very conservative automotive community. Tats (which I don’t have) are OK as long as they aren’t on your face or hands, and piercings are generally only for women’s earlobes, (I do have pierced ears) but hair color is something that should at least remotely look natural.

Most of my contemporaries go the blonde or blonde highlights route to disguise their grey, but for me there’s a problem with that. Since my skin tone could best be described as a half shade darker than albino, (tanning is out of the question) and I have a very round, moony looking face to begin with, blonde hair does not become me. The platinum blonde that my sister, and many of my contemporaries prefer, would make me look like a giant moon-faced, troll-proportioned mutant. I still have the troll-like mostly torso type body (short arms and legs, etc) but at least I look sort of normal- from the neck up.

For awhile I tried to match my hair’s original mousy brown, but I never really liked mousy brown much either, and the problem with attempting to match mousy brown is you end up with funky looking dark ends. So I took the advice of a hairdresser from a trendy (read: expensive) hair salon: cut it short, and dye it black. It seems to be the least offensive color/style, and dark ends aren’t an issue when they’re already black.

1987 vs. 2007- at least I didn’t do the California raisin thing…like my sister…

The illustrious Steve-o says every time I dye my hair I am “putting on artificial intelligence.” Whatever, dude.

Someplace like this- accessible only by boat would be nice- would be ideal!

Last year I tried to schedule three entire days for myself, in the camper we already have down in Lancaster. That worked for about three hours- until Jerry showed up with his loud, whiny self- and the other two dogs. What was supposed to be three whole days of quiet, reading and rest, with just Clara, became two and a half days of dog-herding, Jerry-whining, NO quiet, and a wicked sinus infection from hell. I ended up leaving early, after I’d begged and pleaded with the Dr’s office to call me in a script in an attempt to assuage the overthrow of my entire upper respiratory tract by the Endless Green Snots. Of course, Jerry wasn’t to blame for the sinus infection, but he did his best to make it even more intolerable. Some “vacation.” I’d been better off, as far as stress, if I’d just stayed at work.

This year I am going to have to employ a different strategy, should I want a real vacation, and find a remote place to stay (but that has electricity, running water and flush toilets) that Jerry can’t find. I’m thinking a little different area in the Hocking Hills, or a bit further south. Maybe my sister will have her summer house in Kentucky habitable this year and I can beg a few days alone down there. The only problem with my sister’s place is that the drive down there is rather lengthy and can be harrowing. There is no Sprint access within at least 15 miles, either, so I’d have no e-mail, internet or even people pestering me on the phone. Then again, those things aren’t technically “problems”- it just means that Jerry would be less motivated to try to find it and follow me, and it would be a forced hiatus from technology and pretty much everything else, which might be exactly what I need.

Fanny is a BIG cat.

Jezebel doesn’t care.

It’s actually funny to see them banter about. How Jezebel rolls Fanny over and smacks her in the chops, I’ll never know, as Fanny is about five of Jezebel, but I’m glad that when all is said and done they eat out of the same food bowl and they have no problem with crashing together on my bed. All four of our cats get along relatively well.

There’s a show on Animal Planet called “My Cat from Hell.” It’s interesting to see some of the solutions Jackson Galaxy offers, but what he suggests usually works. That’s impressive in and of itself. I’ve seen some weird stuff on that show, but I’d chalk most of it up to neurotic/weird/paranoid owners. If you’re deranged, your cat probably will be too.

God Gave Us Neal Schon, Sanity is Relative, and We the Unwilling Doing the Impossible for the Ungrateful (Again)

December 22, 2010Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

No, I did not mean my commentary on Neal Schon being God’s gift in a blaspheming sort of way. The guy has an incredible gift, OK, and for some reason I mellow out pretty good when I’m listening to old Journey stuff. I needed a LOT of mellowing out this week- so I’ve been zoning out to old faves such as “Now You’re On Your Own,” “Of a Lifetime,” “Karma,” and so on. There is something way therapeutic about that grandiose funky fusion rock of the 70’s. It’s one of those clandestine pleasures that rates up right there with showering in the middle of the day when you can- for no logical reason, but just because you can.

I am trying not to succumb to the yearly holiday depression that coincides with Jerry’s bleak holiday despair. It hasn’t been easy this year, especially with money being so stinking tight. That is depressing even without drunk and stupid meanderings, but add that into the mix and even I get lonely and truly start wondering why I am still being permitted to suck up valuable oxygen. It’s been so long since I’ve had a meaningful conversation with another adult that it’s almost pitiful. To make things even worse, now that it’s winter, Jerry doesn’t go to the campground on the weekends, so he gets drunk and stupid at home and I have to deal with him. One would think that in my loneliness I would appreciate the company, but there are few things more dreary and lonely than catering to a drunk all weekend. The only conversation that comes from Jerry most of the time is his whining about what I’ve done wrong, what I haven’t done, or what I can’t afford to do. I don’t want to fix him breakfast and serve it to him in bed only to hear his dissatisfaction with normal breakfast fare and his lingering desire for Porterhouse steak. I might be able to get the Porterhouse from time to time if you cut back on the beer and smokes and quit blowing your money on bullshit, but I dare not bring that up. Logic does not generally compute with Jerry unless he can conform it to his point of view. In his mind I should (somehow??) make more money to pay for him.

Perhaps I have vestiges of normal female desires to feel cherished and wanted by a member of the opposite gender, even though I know that for me that doesn’t happen save in my own imagination. I don’t have any illusions regarding my awkwardness and plainness and just plain lack of any sort of carnal appeal. I’m thankful to have three hots and a cot as it were, and to expect anything more than bare necessity and survival is asking too much. I was taught from my earliest memory that I am only as loved as I am useful, and here lately I haven’t felt terribly useful. Even so there are times when I would so enjoy an evening with a friend, conversation that doesn’t focus on everything I’ve done wrong, or everything someone else expects me to do for him. When Jerry does speak coherently, I usually can’t wait for him to shut up and stop whining.

This morning he was whining about Sheena. Sheena knows when the girls are supposed to go out in the morning. She gets excited and starts woofing and whining to be let out. I’m grateful that she is good about letting us know when she needs out. So Jerry starts in with, “Spray that dog so she shuts her mouth,” and so on, but I have to admit I ignored him after that. I’m getting good at tuning out the whining. After I let the dogs out, I wandered back in with the spray bottle, pointed it at him, and replied, “I want to see. Maybe if I spray you, you’ll stop your whining.”

I can handle canine vocalizations, but Jerry’s incessant whining- mostly regarding things I have no ability to change or improve- has already gotten on my last nerve. Sheena is a headstrong dog, but she’s infinitely more trainable than Jerry. Sheena also whines a lot less. Sort of on the same subject are some old 70’s movies for “trainables.” This one is long, but from today’s point of view horribly politically incorrect, and therefore, hilarious. I almost forgot there were so many different slang terms for the male member.

We the unwilling, doing the impossible, for the ungrateful. This is my life in synopsis, the extreme Cliff’s Notes version. If I were to opt for traditional burial I would insist this be inscribed on my tombstone, but since I am going to be cremated I guess it doesn’t matter.

I am thankful for the Prozac, believe that.

A Nouveau Body Hair Removal Solution, Overalls Wardrobe Malfunction, and Snitty Wankers

December 8, 2010Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Well, well. I guess I shouldn’t combine my loathing of superfluous body hair, intimate knowledge of what flashpoint fires do to hair, and something I saw on an episode of Dirty Jobs. Maybe with a bit of modification to the cow torch pictured here I can burn it off. I’d have never believed that cow udders grew hair, let alone that dairy farmers remove said unwanted udder hair with a freaking propane torch until I saw that episode of Dirty Jobs. Why didn’t I think about the torching option earlier to remove my own superfluous and unattractive body hair? I know torching is effective not only from the carburetor adjusting incident (my eyebrows were completely gone for almost three days, which is a feat right there) but also from Jerry’s drunken fun adventure with Wild Turkey, gasoline and the fireplace. Anyway, I think the only thing keeping me from the torching option is a natural fear of open flame, but it does work on the cows. Maybe someone could modify the torch to a tiny butane flame (similar to a lighter) you could torch at least the unibrow and perhaps other unsightly hair on the facial area with. Just a thought.

Oh, and it’s probably not a good idea to flame clip around your cat either.

I am wondering about Jerry again this morning. Here in beautiful Central Ohio winter has descended upon us with a ferocity we seldom see this early in December. It was 13 degrees (yes, I’m American, so it’s Fahrenheit- I’m only good with metric measurements as they pertain to nuts and bolts and things that are installed on cars) this morning which is way too bloody cold even for me. My hands freeze and crack and bleed when it’s that cold even when I wear gloves outside. I have plenty of Aquaphor but I’m just not that anxious to get back to slathering it on and wearing my white cotton gloves all night. Anyway it is apparently not a good idea to try to put on your Carhartts you bought last July at a garage sale when you’re “Weekend at Bernie’s” shitfaced at 11PM. I think he just doesn’t have the dexterity in his hands and/or the ability to stay still long enough to fasten the straps that hold the bib up. I know he doesn’t have this ability when drunk. Perhaps if he tries to don the overalls while sober it might work better for him. I don’t think they are missing any pieces but I will double check them tonight. I am not going to dress a grown man. He will have to get by with long johns and a parka if he can’t figure the Carhartts out. I can’t seem to get the scene from “A Christmas Story” out of my mind. Every time I picture Jerry trying to get those Carhartts on I see Ralphie in the snow suit, unable to put his arms down. It’s cute when a seven or eight year old kid is trapped in a snow suit, but downright pathetic to envision a 53 year old man being held hostage by a snow suit. If it’s that damned cold, stay inside. Whatever you wanted to do outside can wait. Until it warms up. Sometime in May.

I am not his mother and I am NOT dressing him.

Today has brought its share of snitty wankers. I wonder if it’s the cold or just the overall depressing holiday season. You go into a store and of course everyone is in there and they are in no hurry. As Murphy’s Law would have it the one thing I need to purchase is behind the two old biddies yakking it up about their hemorrhoids and cold sores, I am already running behind, and when I finally retrieve the item I need and make my way to the line I get the “team member trainee.” Take it from experience, anyplace that calls their employees anything other than employees- “associates,” “team members,” “support staff,” etc. is a shitty place to work for. Avoid working for these places like the plague if you can. It’s the same logic behind calling a turd “fecal matter.” “Fecal matter” sounds more important and polite than “lump of shit,” but in the end it’s still going to be treated like a lump of shit. Anyway, by the time I get through the line I’m running late and by then I’m feeling like Target should be paying me for training their help. Usually I am very satisfied with Target, but it’s the holidays and all the stores suck right now. I’m just glad the “team member trainee” spoke English as a first language. Had she been foreign on top of being new and still learning (not her fault- and to her credit she did a good job for it being her first day) I’d probably blown my volatile, misanthropic, Type A personality, stack.

I don’t see me living to get old. But then again, pissy, impatient old people were my age once.

There. Now I feel better.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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