A Timely Technology Tutorial

headphones

There are wireless, waterproof headphones available that can help you to honor both my serenity and your listening pleasure.  They are not expensive.

Please consider buying a set.

Ok.  I admit I have a huge problem with having my personal space invaded.  That should come as no surprise to those who know me.  Even to the majority of the people I deal with everyday who have no idea that I am autistic (or who are even aware of what high-functioning autism is) it’s obvious I am not a warm and fuzzy grabby-kissy type.  I deal with people best sparingly, and at greater than arm’s length.  It’s not you.  It’s me.

When I go to the “Y” early in the morning (and by early morning, I mean 5:15 AM when the place opens) I have a few simple objectives- to swim laps, do strength training in the pool, shower, dress and get the hell on my way.  I like to do these things in as much peace and quiet as possible. I wear earplugs in the pool for two reasons- one, so I don’t get water in my ears, and two, because they play that odious pop radio station that is somehow considered “work appropriate” but has obnoxiously fake cheery DJs and is a constant reminder to me that yes, the 80’s had bad music too, and some people are still playing it.  Along with bad pop music from the 90’s and 2000’s as well.

Given that I am both autistic (which can make me sensitive to things other people don’t notice) and that I used to play music, I understand why I am a bit picky about what I choose to listen to. I don’t try to make it an issue, and I don’t impose my personal choices on others.  I am sure a solid majority of women would not like to be treated to Metallica’s Battery at full volume at 6:30AM in the shower, so please don’t subject me to The Chipmunks on Crack do Cindy Lauper’s Greatest Hits or whatever that horrible shit is- regardless of the time of day.

This being said, I think it is incredibly rude for people to randomly pollute the air with whatever dreck they find appealing, especially in public spaces- such as a public shower. That’s one place where playing Vomitrocious Hip Hop Dance Fiesta as rendered by Spanky Fartwhistle and the WTF Orchestra cranked up as high as your phone speakers will go is highly inappropriate.  I can’t account for your vapidity, tone deafness, or your bad taste, but I shouldn’t have to suffer for it either.

Yes, there are wireless waterproof headphones available for virtually any budget.  This piece of technology was developed precisely for you, oh, early morning connoisseurs of crappy music.  Please consider using them.

Evil Must Be Named, Rabid Dogs, and Insanity

terroristHey, you, Terrorist Joe- your freedom of religion ends when your “religion” tells you to kill me.

I’ve been watching the events of the world unfold for the past few weeks (actually I am a more avid observer of current events and of history’s unfolding than I appear to be) and I have a few observations I believe are worth sharing.

Obama Muslim Brotherhood

First of all, Barack Hussein Obama is a joke- a sad, sick and deadly joke, but still a joke.  I’ve known this since 2008 when I saw this ass-clown running for president, and I thought (erroneously, sadly enough) that the American people couldn’t possibly be that stupid.  However, a little creative fixing by the Chicago machine, a complete whitewash (pun intended) of a shady character’s nebulous past, and a lame, senile Republican candidate (remember John McCain?) to run against, and we have the first ever foreign traitor squatting in our White House.  Repeat in 2012 just to make it interesting- all made easier because now there are even more illegals and dead people voting Democrat than ever before. So we are still burdened with this effete, weak, and completely clueless wanna-be dictator squatting in our White House, blithely putting out the welcome mat for every radical Muslim terrorist nut job in the world.

temperance ladiesI bet these girls led some pretty lonely lives.

I freely admit that I am as white, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant as the day is long, so I can’t say that I’m an authority on Islam or that I can attest to what ALL Muslims believe.  I freely admit that when I was taking adult Confirmation classes (late 1980s) that our Pastor taught that Islam is a cult and a false religion.  He didn’t go in depth about Islam except to point out that it is a counterfeit, a poor substitute for the truth, and that Muslims deny the divinity of Christ. That being said, obviously they are not Christians.  I can deal with people not being Christian.  I have a good number of friends who claim to be atheist for what it’s worth.

I am not one of those obnoxious individuals who insists that everyone who believes differently than me is going to fry in the eternal fires of hell.  I believe in hell, and that there will be people who end up there, but I generally don’t try to shove my interpretation of Christianity on anyone.  As a confessional Lutheran (as well as someone who pretty much also subscribes to Molinism,) I believe humans are powerless to bring themselves to saving faith.  It’s God Who does the saving.  Now the Holy Spirit can and does work through people, and as a Christian I am supposed to let that happen, but as far as winning hearts… that’s not something I can do- apart from God Himself.

Proverbs

While as a Christian I would be thrilled to see everyone come to saving faith in Christ, in this country one has the right under the First Amendment to worship whoever, or whatever, or nothing at all.  It’s none of my business if you want to bark at the moon, hail Satan, or worship a 1993 Ford Escort- as long as none of that involves pushing your religion off on me, or worse, killing me if I don’t dance around your particular tree.

Isis Crescent Moon

From what I have discerned, Islam was founded upon the visions of a deranged individual (Mohammed) who devised a bastard theology that mixed together the worship of an Arabic moon-god with some elements of Judaism and Christianity, with a little bit of child molestation and bestiality thrown in there for fun. Oh, and let’s not forget how Islam regards and treats women.

burqa-ban

While the burqa would save time on hair styling and makeup, it would make driving a bit awkward.  Walking too.

I don’t care if you really want to believe in the false religion of Islam- or if you want to bark at the moon or pee on trees- that’s your business- until you take it to the point where you believe that you have express permission to kill everyone who doesn’t subscribe to the same ideology.

donald trump

I agree with Donald Trump that people who buy in to the belief system of radical Islam should not be permitted to immigrate to the United States.  As long as there are Islamic terror groups who chant “Death to America” and who think it’s OK to annihilate the “infidels”- and who are doing so with impunity around the world- then they can keep themselves and their belief system back in the third world holes from which they came.

hitler.jpg

I don’t understand why people can’t see the parallels between Islamic terror groups and Nazism.  Some will be quick to say that Nazism was a political ideology rather than a religion.  I would be even quicker to say that radical Islam is even more evil as a political ideology because it uses a (false) religion as a smoke screen for its true nihilistic purpose.  All Hitler had to fly on was junk science and fabricated Nordic myths.

Winston Churchill once said that “Islam in a man is like rabies in a dog.”  The sad thing about both rabies and radical Islam is there is no cure for either apart from killing the host organism.

rabies photo.jpg

Radical Islam is an evil, nihilistic force in this world that is fatal (like rabies) and much like Nazism, seeks to spread and kill and destroy anything that contradicts it.  Allowing more of this nihilistic ideology into the United States or any other civilized part of the world is pure idiocy and ignorance.

Where is common sense? Why can’t we call evil what it is?

 

 

 

 

Gruß vom Krampus (Greetings from the Krampus)

Gruss_vom_Krampus

Krampus knows who is naughty.  Oh, yes he does.

When it comes to holiday mythology, Krampus is a blast from the Bavarian past.  Those pagans had some pretty weird myths that persist even to this day.

Today the common wisdom is we don’t want to scare little Jimmy or Janie around the holidays, and heaven forbid we use anything involving Christmas gifts (or the absence thereof) to bribe children into good behavior.  We wouldn’t want to give the little critters nightmares or saddle them with performance anxiety, now would we?  We just want everyone to get his or her 12th place trophy, so nobody has to endure any of the humiliation that is rightfully deserved when one’s performance completely sucks.  That goes right along with that old standby,”Stay behind with the rest of the class,” and all of that happy PC horseshit that has put most of the American educational system squarely in the shitter.

homeschool-domination

Because a parent with the motivation to home school won’t take your shit, or your excuses, kids.  If I had to do it over again…I would not have subjected my son to public schools (even though they weren’t quite as bad then.)

Heaven forbid we do any damage to his or her precious little self-esteem- even if by sheltering children we consign them to a life of mediocrity and allow them to become habitual freeloaders and whiners and just plain people who suck.

Back in the dark ages (rural Ohio in the 1970s…) it was more than OK to hang the fear of no Christmas gifts over children’s heads.  You could scare kids in any way imaginable  to make them behave, as long as it didn’t leave any marks, bruises or bleeding that would be visible in public.

He knows when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

He knows when you’ve been bad or good…and he’s here for your soul to take!

Enter-Sandman-metallica-33942182-1271-613

Ok, so I may have confused Krampus with Freddy Krueger (I did have quite a thing for 80’s slasher flicks back in the day) but it’s sort of the same concept.

I can agree that keeping a child in a constant state of terror has its disadvantages, especially when one factors in stress-induced illnesses, but as far as behavior control goes, you can’t beat fear.  I spent most of my childhood scared shitless of virtually everything, but the upside was, I was quiet and didn’t cause trouble.  I was mortally afraid to cause trouble, because in my world even cutting a popcorn fart would bring down the Wrath of God.   In my mother’s economy farting was considered a sin that you had to bring to Confession.  Really. Farting.

The bad thing was that I got in trouble even for doing things most parents would consider “right” – such as hiding in a corner reading and trying to remain invisible so I wouldn’t get the shit beat out of me by my sisters and the neighborhood kids.  Most parents would be delighted if their children were quiet and unobtrusive to the point of blending into the wall.

Blending-into-Backgrounds-600x578

I got really good at making myself scarce. It is a valuable skill even today.  Especially today.

Of course, as in all things, balance and moderation is the key.  It disturbs me that the message to kids today is that no matter what you do, we just luv, luv, you anyway, and we think you’re fantastic and excellent and perfect, even if your only skill is sucking up valuable oxygen.  Nobody ever dares to tell a child his or her performance sucks even when it clearly does. When parents and teachers purvey the 12th place awards and all that feel good nonsense, it sends a message loud and clear that ending up being 40+ wearing Hello Kitty jammies and playing video games in your parents’ basement is a perfectly viable path to pursue.

My parents took the opposite extreme.  They took the noblesse oblige narrative to a level unheard of today.  I got the constant covert message that, “You suck even when you excel, because you can do better.”  I got grounded and lost basic privileges for “B” grades, for instance.

obsessed

Most of the time this works out for me.  Unless someone wants me to do something I utterly hate, or anything late at night.

Sex, Death, Rock-n-Roll- and It’s Eternity In There

image

I never really made it a point to contemplate the paradox of sex and death.  Perhaps someone ten years (and more, sadly) removed from the enjoyment of carnal pleasure isn’t qualified to comment, but I still live, breathe and dream. I have desires whether I can act on them or not.

The French have a way of making things that can sound vulgar in English a little more mysterious and exotic. A ménage a trois doesn’t sound as bad as a threesome, even though it means exactly the same thing.  So while calling an orgasm la petite mort (the little death) can seem a bit melodramatic and bordering on morbid, it is certainly apropos.

image

These things usually hit me when I least expect it, if not in unbidden memories, then in dreams.

Old Dr. Freud would be having a heyday with my dreams.  The things I find myself embroiled in (in dreams, that is) that would leave me shocked and mortified in the waking world are beyond the pale.  Which may be why they are safely relegated to dreams. The things I imagine are just too impossible for reality, and I will not attempt to chronicle them here.

dream after dream

Yes, Dream. After Dream (the Journey album) is awesome.  My dreams are just bizarre.  And rated X.

Many years ago, Stephen King wrote a short story called The Jaunt. It was about a scientist who discovered a virtually cost-free way to teleport people through time and space.  The only problem is that living things would die shortly after being “jaunted”- unless they were put under anesthetic.  At the end of the story, the man telling the story to his children awakes in horror as his son went through the Jaunt awake- and the son had aged by decades and decades and gone quite mad, before he dropped dead.

Before the son dropped dead his last words were, “It’s eternity in there.”

Of course The Jaunt’s version of eternity isn’t a positive one, so it’s probably not the best illustration of that moment where time stands still and the universe is simply two, but it’s a similar concept.  There is a dimension beyond time, for good or ill.

bennyhill cupid

When I was growing up I was given the impression that sex was The Ultimate Sin and the only thing worse than utilitarian procreational-only married sex is murder. It didn’t help that Mom is old-school Catholic (and I mean pre-Vatican II) and Dad is more or less a lapsed Regular Baptist. Both of their traditions will drill it in your head that you are better off dead than to have sex and enjoy it.

indulgences

Yes, Christians are hypocrites, just like everyone else.

Good “Christian soldiers” are allowed to have sex only if they are married to each other, the lights are out, the only position is man-on-top missionary style, they only do it because they’re trying to make a baby, and they aren’t allowed to enjoy it.

disappointed-parents

We did what?  For that? Why?

Since I never really had a desire to go out and kill people, (at least not a desire to kill anyone that overrides my fear of arrest and inevitable incarceration) then for me, sex was the only “mortal sin” that had any allure to it.  And it had a LOT of allure to it when I was younger.  I freely admit it. I just had a really hard time finding suitable, complicit males.  That was probably a blessing in disguise, and nature’s way of chlorinating the gene pool to some extent.

ride with hitler

I’m not into carpooling, because I’d rather “ride with Hitler” than with the friendly neighborhood serial killer. I like having my car all to myself.

My son doesn’t get the sex=mortal sin concept because I made a conscious effort not to represent it to him that way.  My mother may have given me the “dirty duty” speech, but I didn’t pass that along, except for comedic effect, when he was much, much older.

The more a parent makes a “forbidden fruit” sound absolutely vile and horrible, the more likely the offspring are to run right out and try it to see if it’s as horrible as Mom and Dad contend.  As much as possible, I tried to give him the rational approach to life, as in yes, sex is good, but with certain boundaries.  Such as “try not to bang ex-strippers,” “wrap that rascal,” and “avoid venereal diseases.”

syphilis

So where did they get it?  The dance hall?

There is good reason for caution in the pursuit of all things amorous. The 1980s taught us that the anti-sex crowd had a point: sex with the wrong partner can kill you.

aids

I guess once they give you AIDS, retribution is sort of pointless.

For centuries humanity has known the fear and shame of venereal diseases, and the possibility of a lifetime of pain or even an untimely death for a moment of pleasure are quite real.

Even given the potential risks involved with sexual congress, I don’t think I can agree with the lights-out missionary-position sex-for-procreation-only crowd.  I do believe in caution in guarding one’s body as well as one’s heart and spirit, but not in total denial.

There is a certain distasteful and soul-killing element in the “friends with benefits” mentality, just as there is a distasteful and soul-killing element in the outright rejection of something that is a gift and a blessing in the proper context.

When the person and the moment is right, surrender to that universe of two.  Savor, enjoy, revel, and live, and thank God for that rare opportunity.

It’s eternity in there.

“Normal?” – Not My Relatives! Wanna Pet My Kid’s Skunk?

steve-o and astro

Yes.  It’s a skunk. Yes. It is sleeping atop my offspring.

I am more of a dog person than anything.  I like cats too, and I have cats, but to me there is nothing like the relationship one can have with a dog.

I have no idea what got the POMC started in on skunks, other than he really doesn’t connect with cats, and he’s somewhat freaky about dogs. He was dog bit rather severely when he was nine.  His right hand might look normal now, but that dog chewed it up like burger meat and he has permanent nerve damage.  Dogs have pretty much given him the creeps ever since, which really sucks.

ferret

He had ferrets in high school, much to my mother’s disgust, because ferrets have a funk.  Even I can smell ferret funk, which means they must smell pretty nasty to most people.  Odor aside, they just never really thrilled me much.  I’ve heard them described as “cat snakes,” which is about right.  Dinky, sneaky little bastards as far as I’m concerned.

skunk

In the skunk’s defense, he is de-scented and the only thing about him that really smells is his shit.  Skunk shit is nasty, nasty, nasty.  The skunk himself, however, is very clean and doesn’t really have a smell to him.

Even so, I’d rather deal with a dog or a cat.  Skunks have sensitive digestive systems and special nutritional needs. They have to have their food specially prepared (sort of like feeding a toddler) unlike a dog or cat who can eat prepackaged dog or cat food and be cool with it.  It’s also a real pain in the hiney to find a vet who will deal with skunks.  Their anatomy and physiology is nothing like dogs or cats, so the vets that will work with them generally cost up the wazoo.

exotic vet

Most vets don’t want to see anything that isn’t a cat or a dog.  I can’t say I blame them.

Skunks are a vector for rabies in the wild, which is enough to scare off most people from owning them.  However, the truth is that the only way for any mammal to get rabies is to be bitten by something with rabies.   Domestic, captive born skunks don’t have rabies, and won’t get rabies unless something with rabies bites them.  Captive born and kept indoors, skunks are just as safe to keep as a pet (and not a rabies risk!) as an indoor cat.

wpid-20150204_050005.jpg

Harmless as Jezebel? I don’t give my indoor cats rabies shots because there’s no way for them to get bitten by something that’s rabid.

Lucy

The dogs do get rabies shots because a.) they go outside and therefore in theory can be bitten by something rabid, and b.) state law requires it.

I am one of those weird people who can really go off on bizarre tangents at times.  I bought – and read with fascination-  this book some while back- Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus..  It’s a compelling read on a rather off the wall subject.  I will have to let the illustrious offspring borrow this one if he’s in the mood for some enlightening late night reading. Of course my tastes in literature are mostly non-fiction (science and history) and often tend to gravitate toward the macabre.

I don’t think I have one “normal” relative.  Not one.  My son passes for normal most of the time, but they are all certifiable.

Mom is probably the one that’s the closest to the cuckoo’s nest- she’s bi-polar with a heaping helping of anxiety, OCD, and extreme naïveté to go along with it.  Jerry is a laundry list of fun beginning with adult ADHD, Helpless Man syndrome, and ending with a rip roaring case of what I call “functional drunk.”

Dad’s gotten a lot more fun since he’s gotten old. It wouldn’t surprise me that like his own father he decides now that he’s 70 years old that, “I’m not old. I’m middle aged.” Nobody had the heart to tell Grandpa when he turned 70 that it was highly unlikely he’d see 140, but he did live to be 91.   I guess it’s all about your attitude.

There’s a phenomenon with some older people where their frontal lobe (the “traffic cop” of the brain) sort of wears out and doesn’t screen one’s conversation as thoroughly as it once did, or probably should.

So Dad, who used to be rather tight-lipped and taciturn, has gotten rather cheeky as he ages.  His oh-so scathing commentary is starting to remind me of my grandmother and great-grandmother (ironically my mother’s mother and grandmother, go figure) and it’s a hoot. It drives Mom nuts, on the rare occasion she actually gets the reference and/or the double entendre. I’m glad that most of the time it goes over her head, for her own sanity and well being.

Mom has her own special brand of near-senility which is even more creepy than my Dad flipping off traffic.  She has always gravitated to the mega-weird parts of Catholicism which is downright scary, but the older she gets the more she watches EWTN, goes to Mass and Confession, and is grabbing on that rosary.  Normally I would say religious disciplines would be a good thing, but she gets Really Weird with it.  She thought that if she left EWTN on all the time full blast that the POMC would see the Catholic light and become a priest.  Never mind that he’s pretty much agnostic and really creeped by “men in dresses.”

To top that off, she’s also blithely ignorant that it’s really, really gauche to ask someone who is a confessional Lutheran and who has done a lot of theological and spiritual soul searching to come on down to the Catholic cathedral to venerate some dead saint’s bones.  Apparently the Catholic school she went to didn’t teach too much about Martin Luther, the 95 Theses, and the Reformation.

I had to decline the bone-gazing and necromancy out of conscience, but as far as she knows I declined because I had to do laundry.  I’d rather tell a little white lie – though I really did do laundry- than go through a detailed theological dissertation on why I don’t venerate saints’ bones.  I don’t need to hurt her feelings.

Even the POMC is borderline OCD. His car and motorcycle both are testament to that.

Both of my sisters could be called “castrating bitches,” due to the fact that they both can run a man like a railroad.

And here I sit with my own frailties and funky wiring.

Time Passages, Necessary Evils, and Random Mental Excursions

 

birthday shit yourself

Or not.  Preferably not.

I don’t want to change any more shitty diapers in my life. I did enough of that when my illustrious EX mother-in-law decided to let my then-20 month old son go through an entire box of graham crackers in an afternoon.

Suffice to say that the graham crackers pretty much didn’t do much to prevent my son from partaking in the “evil” of self-abuse, (face it people, all boys masturbate whether they admit to it or not,) but they did much to make him shit like a horse for a week straight.

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Once you’ve had to power wash your kid, Clorox his jammies and the bed sheets every day for a week because he wakes up with the entire bed  coated in used graham crackers that have made their way down the good ol’ Hershey Highway, the whole hosing-shit-off-bloody-everything routine gets extremely old. I did have a number of choice pejoratives for my evil ex-mother-in-law, but in her defense, her head never was screwed on quite right. Suffice to say she was never left alone with the POMC again.  To this day he is scared shitless (oh, what a relevant metaphor!) of that harpie, even though he was only three the last time he ever even saw her.  If she’s still alive- and if only the good die young she’ll live to be 900- she’s well in her 80s.  As long as she stays away from me, I truly don’t care where she is, how old she is, or what she does with herself.

I can’t imagine changing diapers for any of my adult relatives.  Though it may sound callous, if you can’t make it to the crapper or wipe your own ass, the nursing home is calling your name.  I’m weird enough about people touching me, let alone having to touch other people in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.

I understand that the people at the nursing home will have to hose off your carcass from time to time, but 1.) they are getting paid to do it, and 2.) they have a ready supply of disposable gloves.

pink rubber gloves

I was probably the only child who was grateful for a teacher or parent’s admonition to a group of children to “keep your hands and feet to yourself.” Anything that will keep the little snot spewers from fingering me or violating my personal space is a good thing.  When I was growing up, people usually only made physical contact with me to slather nasty things on me, throw live stinging insects in my hair, or to kick my ass.  I am wary for a reason.

Pink_Fuzzy_Large_Pillow

I can’t tolerate itchy, inflexible or binding clothing against my skin.  Ever.  I still have bad memories of 70’s polyester and those God-awful pantsuits Grandma made for us out of that stuff.  Grandma was a fantastic seamstress, but if you create clothing out of fabric that is more like Teflon  than cashmere, it’s not going to be comfortable.  Mom would add itchy lace socks and turtlenecks to these pantsuits and I literally got welts all over from both the friction and the heat generated by those purgatorial ensembles.  70’s polyester was HOT as well as being inflexible and itchy.  It did NOT breathe.

1970s-fashion-designs

Lord, deliver us from these horrible garments!

I can’t move my LEG!!!

Even denim was problematic back in the day, as you pretty much had to drive over a pair of jeans, then wash them several times in flaming hot water with bleach, then dry them for a few hours with some marbles thrown in for fun. Otherwise the skin-tight (no spandex…) denim would be so crunchy and rigid that breathing was almost as impossible as bending at the knees, or sitting.

80s jeans

Just Don’t Bend Over.

Another drawback of 80’s clothes is that you had to iron just about everything, including the (usually) cotton oxford shirts.  Cotton breathes, which is a plus, but those oxford shirts are a bitch to iron.  Of course, not liking itchy or crunchy things, I was never a big fan of starch.

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

 

model

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.

average woman

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.

sleeveless

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.

mid calf

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.

1940's dresses

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.

stupid burns

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.

i-see-stupid-people

At least my offspring has a clue.