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Big meaty man hands, but what can I do?

I am not a typical female, but I never claimed to be typical.  I generally get along better with men than I do with women, because I tend not to be weepy and emotional like most women.  I also get into “manly” things like cars and heavy metal/hard rock music.   I’m more like one of the guys in a lot of ways- but I’m far from butch.  (Yes, I am very much a biological and a straight female, should anyone even think to wonder.)

In spite of my mostly logical and practical self, I do have a weakness that is well known among women.  I love shoes.  I have over 100 pairs of shoes  (that probably shouldn’t be considered a bragging point) and I have some pretty funky ones.  Sunday I was out with Steve-o as he had pretty much trashed his one regular pair of shoes, a rather distressed pair of DCs.  He had decided he just had to have a pair of the new Nike Airmax shoes but he wanted them in sort of a (ha-ha) conservative color.  He does not like bright colors and bold patterns the way that I do.

So dragging me into a shoe store is generally not a good idea, because I will find the one over-the-top shoe style, and they will inevitably have it in a size 7.  Even if they don’t, I will find a way to order it in a size 7 if I want it bad enough.

While Steve-o is mulling over the various black shoes in his size (and really having a hard time finding an Airmax shoe in his size that wasn’t neon green and/or pink or rainbow colored) I spied the ultimate pair of Nike Shox.

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Wanna get ‘em.  Gotta have ‘em.  They are on the way.

As Steve-o decided he wanted the shoes he tried on at the other store, I thought I would behave myself and not buy anything.  I didn’t- then.  I ordered them yesterday online.

He ended up with black and orange Airmax shoes.

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Similar to these- fairly dude friendly.

I saw a protest on Facebook (and when isn’t there a protest on Facebook) against some health club called Planet Fitness.  Apparently men are allowed in the women’s locker room if they “identify” as women- even if they have a sausage and two meatballs. Okay… and if I “identify” as Marilyn Monroe- or Marilyn Manson should I want to be catty- does that make it so?  If my black cat Jezebel “identifies” as a dog, does that make her one?

Planet Fitness is committed to creating a non-intimidating, welcoming environment for our members. Our gender identity non-discrimination policy states that members and guests may use all gym facilities based on their sincere self-reported gender identity.

WTF- piece of politically correct drivel?!

As a woman who is really not into strange people getting off on staring at me in varying states of undress, and I am certainly not into unauthorized people touching me- male or female, this joint sounds like a place for women to avoid.

Unless of course, I want to pretend I “identify as a man,” so I can go on in the men’s locker room and enjoy the sausage show.

I bet the boys would really enjoy my old cougar ass checking out the buff young studs.  I bet that policy would change with the quickness.

As far as locker rooms go I am all about the modesty factor.  I don’t want anyone gazing at my train wreck of a body- especially women because to me that’s ultra mega creepy- so I get dressed in the cubby behind the curtain.  That way it really doesn’t matter who “identifies” as what. They can “identify” as a 1993 Ford Escort for all I care as long as I’m left out of it.  I “identify” as a woman who doesn’t want strange people -male or female- looking at my nakedness, and is against strange people-male or female- touching me.  See how easy that is?

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Here’s my latest cross stitch work in progress.  Yes, it is relevant!

flash me bored

Shame on me for what was running through my mind last night when Pastor was talking about how being an automotive technician must really be a calling from God.  I was giggling to myself.  Yes, it is, when you stop and really think about it, but my mind is a bit jaded from being around these guys for so many years.

I guess I never really thought of technicians as having a calling, or a sacred trust, even though I have read some of what Martin Luther wrote on vocation.  I grew up in and around automotive shops, and let’s just say the experience didn’t feel exceptionally holy.  When the name of God was mentioned, it was usually followed by the word “damn.”   Dad isn’t a particularly salty dog with language- he did try to clean it up around women, anyway, but all of his friends were.  One of them (and yes, being the geeky little creature I was, I counted) managed to use a certain four letter word that starts with the letter “f” an amazing thirteen times in one sentence.

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Dad had a good friend who was into really primo vintage VW restorations. The man’s body work was absolutely pristine- but his private shop where he did the restoration work was completely wallpapered on the inside with nudie pictures.  They weren’t tasteful nudies, either. These were porn-star nudies in filthy poses. Worse yet, at least for me, all the nudies were women, and therefore not particularly aesthetically pleasing to me.  But it was his shop, and boys will be boys.  I’ve supervised technicians before, so I get it.  It’s like running a day care, only not nearly as cute.  Many of these “boys,” in spite of their knowledge, training, and areas of technical prowess, have an emotional maturity age of right around 12.

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Until the mid 1990s or so it was common practice for parts stores and automotive suppliers to sponsor and give out promotional calendars with either completely naked women or very scantily clad ones.  Those sort of things don’t really offend me as such- what else would Dad’s buddy use to wallpaper his shop walls-but the promotional nudie calendar fell out of favor probably as a casualty to political correctness.  Sometimes women do venture back into the nether regions of an automotive shop, and we wouldn’t want to offend their virgin eyeballs, I guess.

I don’t believe in political correctness. I’m more of the type to say, “If you don’t like it, don’t look at it,” even when it applies to tasteless nudie calendars.

If you don’t like my Ronald Reagan calendar (and yes, I really do have a calendar from the Reagan Ranch) nobody said you had to look at it.   I am more tolerant than maybe I should be in some ways, but there are some battles worth fighting, and some battles that I’ll gladly concede to avoid the conflict.

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Protect your chili dog.

I knew of one techie who would grab a big bag of chow (or two) from Burger King every day. He was a tiny, wiry red-headed dude (somewhat reminiscent of a 5’1″, 90# version of the Burger King, interestingly enough) who would pack down about 5,000 calories or so worth of Whoppers, fries and other delectables every lunch hour.  The pisser was that he was the transmission guy (a very busy guy, back in the days of the 700R4s and their constant meltdowns) and he never bothered to wash the ATF and/or CV grease and/or U joint lube off his hands before stuffing those Whoppers down his throat.

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Greasy burger with a side of Dexron III.  Yum.  Maybe it was the Dexron III that kept him from gaining weight.  Or maybe he’s just one of those enviable individuals who can eat like it’s the end of the world and never gain an ounce.  Bastard.

I wonder if he’s still alive.  That was back in 1993.

I have to wonder if his wife’s still alive too.  She was every bit of 6’5″ and 450#.   She wore the Suburban she drove on those days when she brought her man his Whoppers.   They would sit together and snarf Whoppers.  It would have been romantic if…nah…you can’t read anything remotely amorous in to that.

In all seriousness though, the message is that life and work are supposed to mean something and to have a purpose in this world.  Even if I don’t get what that something is.

dead kid on horse

I’m not sure which one(s) is (are) dead in the pic, but I’m pretty sure they all are by now.

It’s Ash Wednesday again- a day to reflect on personal mortality and the myriad imperfections of humanity, so here I am trotting out the postmortem pics collection.  As macabre as it is, I know I’m not the only one who is fascinated with Victorian era postmortem photography.  As for the kid in the above pic, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.  Mom and Dad look pretty much comatose, which is why I can’t tell for sure who’s dead and who’s not.  I’m pretty sure I would have the same expression on my face as the kid if I were required to sit that close to dead people, so that’s another reason why I wonder if the kid, the parents, just one or the other parent, or all three were dead when this pic was taken.   The reality is, now anyway, that they are all dead, unless the kid is 120 or something. Physical death is a 100% probability- it’s going to happen- and it’s just a question of when. 

I could even get into a little Southern Baptist soteriology (even though it’s a bit odd because SB’s don’t observe Ash Wednesday) right about now too.  Turn or burn, baby.  You are gonna be worm food, so now’s your time to Get Right with the Lawd-uh!

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Somehow seeking salvation from a dog and pony show like this seems about as effective as taking driving lessons from Ted Kennedy.

I do like her wig though.  If only it were black.

I have had a rather cynical relationship with organized religion through the years.  When I decided to read the Catechism of the Catholic Church (which many self-proclaimed Catholics have not) I learned that if I am to be intellectually honest with myself and with God there is no way I can claim to be Roman Catholic.   There is some Weird Stuff in there.  I almost joined an SB church because their theology tends to be very black and white.  Saved/not saved, sin/not sin, and so on.  You can know if you’re IN or OUT.  I love the Baptist emphasis on Bible study too- but- for me the big problem with Baptists in general is that they tend to put too much on human free will- such as we “choose” to believe.  I’m here to say that I firmly believe it’s God doing the choosing, and I don’t claim to understand that.

I discovered confessional Lutheranism when I was in college, and of all the interpretations and expressions of Christianity, to me it makes the most sense.  Lutheranism- in its classic sense, is not perfect, but it allows for the grey areas, and allows for intellectual honesty and questions.  There is space for the mystery that is God.  There is understanding for my lack of ability to comprehend.

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I have a hard time understanding why you would take pics of a dead kid surrounded by paper angels, but it was a different time.

I wish I could believe spiritual things as black and white (and there are some things that are) but I find myself asking way too many questions- questions where I simply have to accept the mystery and be okay that the answer is either something I don’t know or can’t understand.

I’m glad that I’m not the one who makes the vast decisions of the cosmos.  I’m doing good to decide what to wear or what to eat, and grateful to have both clothes and food.

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I’m pretty sure no one is going to want to memorialize me in stained glass.

I have more questions than answers and more failures than successes, but I have to believe there is some reason why I am sucking up valuable oxygen for the time being, whether I get it or not.

(Jesus said:) “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal;  but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:19-21 (NRSV)

Today’s questions would be, “Where is my treasure?  Where is my heart?”

I really have to think about both of those questions today.

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What are the odds of encountering one’s best friend from high school (who I’ve not seen in at least 10 and more like 12 years) in a Certified station/ Subway on the way home?  Probably dismal, especially considering the only reasons I stopped there were a.) because I had to take a wicked crap, and b.) Jerry had wanted me to bring him a specific footlong from Subway, and I figured I’d combine errands.

I am really crappy at recognizing people, (even people I see all the time, I might remember the face but not place the name) and I am not at all surprised she had to call me out.  Then again, I see people who I think I recognize all the time- who in reality either I don’t know them from Adam’s housecat and/or they don’t know me from Adam’s housecat either.  So I make bloody sure I know who I’m talking with before I assume anything.  Most people who knew me in high school would probably not recognize me now since I did away with the Big 80’s hair, but yesterday I was probably even less distinguishable since I was wearing the big black rimmed cat eye glasses (the ones in my avatar pic) and a hat.

When I did finally affirm to myself who she was, I swore I had seen a ghost.  And I don’t believe in that stuff.

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But people who know you still know you.  Even when time has not been kind to either of us.  There are incidents in my past that I would rather leave there, and revisiting old friends also means reopening old wounds.  I’m not saying all my memories of back in the day were bad.  Some were funny. Some were difficult.  There was a lot of partying. I stopped binge drinking many, many years ago- 1993 to be more or less exact- so that sort of thing doesn’t really have any charm for me now.  I’ve moved into a different sphere than most of my old friends.  I doubt if we have much in common, but then again, I don’t have much in common with too many people.

I know that my friend has had problems with drinking and addiction on and off, as well as myriad health concerns, which makes keeping in touch even more difficult.  She has been used and abused by men.  She has spent most of her life painfully poor.  I don’t say that as a value judgment, because I could have gone down those paths just as easily.  The wear and tear just looks different.

I almost felt guilty.  I’m not a wealthy woman by any stretch, but here I am with my late model car and smart phone, and she’s asking me if I know anyone with a cheap, crappy used car because she’s been without a car for six months.  Her youngest son is in trouble and has been in and out of the joint for stealing her credit card and for other things.  She’s living in a redneck trailer park.   It could be worse, but it could be a lot better, too.

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I can’t think this could be even remotely aesthetically pleasing. Bubba pissin’ out the trailer door at 3 AM…

What can I do to help?  I wonder.  Would it be condescending to offer what scant help I might think I can give, because I know she is the type to be fiercely independent?

At least we did exchange phone numbers, and maybe I’ll have the courage to call.

Maybe I’m afraid that in getting back in touch with old friends I would be tempted to go back to my old ways- hot boxing cigarettes and getting butt drunk- but I highly doubt it.  Perhaps I just don’t like being reminded of my own mortality yet again, and I don’t like facing the reality that there is never really a way to get back home.  The spheres are forever changed.

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Why is it that some stupid dude getting nutted, especially in a stupid way, is ALWAYS funny?

There are a number of TV shows that seem to capitalize on traumatized testicles as entertainment.  I can’t say I know why it’s funny, but it always is.  Maybe it’s funnier to me because I don’t have nuts.

I think the biggest temptation for me when I meet up with old friends is to get embroiled in the details of their lives again and to make myself too available.  It’s one thing to shoot the shit and hang out with someone from time to time, but quite another to become so caught up in trying to help someone else that I get caught off balance and get my priorities screwed up.  When is it appropriate to be a friend and when does being a friend become being taken advantage of?  Back in the day I provided everything from transportation to cigarettes to even clothes and money at times for my friends, (and they kept me from getting my ass kicked) but I’m not in a place where I can readily do that now.

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I think my first endeavor at subversive cross stitch went rather well.

I just have to mount it in the frame.

Speaking of cats, we are probably soon going to be back at four cats.  The cat rescue people managed to capture the three legged all white cat that has been living on the body shop lot.  I thought it was a male, but it’s a female and she’s recovering from being spayed.  Jerry calls her Tripod (not a terribly nice name) because she’s missing most of her right rear leg.  That cat has been missing most of her leg since she was a very small kitten.

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  I have had a few all black cats. I’ve never had an all white cat. I’ve also never had a cat missing a leg.

It’s going to be interesting.

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I go swimming at the “Y” in the mornings before work- partially for health reasons and partially for sanity reasons.  It’s a stress relief most days, and gets my joints moving.

Most of the time I have a quiet and uneventful morning.  I get there at 5:30 when they open so I can do my laps and strength training in the pool.  Then I shower, dress and get ready to go to work all right there in the locker room, which keeps me from having to deal with babysitting Jerry in the mornings instead of getting my own stuff done.  It’s a lot more efficient than trying to go home and shower and put makeup on while Jerry is doing his morning shitting, showering and shaving in the same bathroom.

Most of the time I am one of the first ones in the shower.  I try to be very conscious of those around me.  I try to take my shower quickly, efficiently and with the least amount of distraction.  All I want is to get clean, get dressed, and get out.  I do dress behind the curtain as I believe there are some things no one wants to see in the light of day, things which include my unclad ass hanging out of a towel.

We do have a few rude girls in the showers though, and there are things I observe that I consider to be very poor shower etiquette.

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The Moaner:

I know it feels good to take a nice hot shower.  The problem is when you choose to articulate your satisfaction with the hot shower by moaning like the girls’ gym teacher in that scene from Porky’s.  Did you bring your dildo to the shower?  It sure sounds like it.  Does being in a communal shower with others of the same gender turn you on?  That is creepy beyond words.  I have to wonder- but please- keep those kind of noises to yourself.

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The Doucher:

Some people do rinse out their hair with vinegar, which to me is sort of weird, but it’s even weirder if that vinegar smell from the next shower over is from someone doing the douche.  If your nether parts get that skank nasty just from a morning work out, there is probably something funky going on down there that Summer’s Eve is NOT going to fix.  I’m all about feminine hygiene, but that’s one of those kinds of things that should get done at home.  Better yet, if in spite of regular bathing, the old cooter keeps on smelling like last week’s catch was left out in the sun,

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you might want to seek medical attention of some sort.

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The Streakers:

I don’t want anyone in the locker room to see me naked.  It’s more courtesy than anything else.  I don’t want to see any female naked.  I would make an exception for hot, buff dudes.  I would assume that most women really don’t want to see other women naked either, and if you are one of those women who like to stare at other women naked, I don’t want to be the one giving you a thrill.   So the courteous thing to do is not to run around the locker room “clad in naught but air,” or with nothing on but a towel that leaves your ass hanging in the wind.  The little cubby in front of the shower with the curtain is there for a reason.  Get dressed behind it after you shower, so nobody has to see you naked.

Of course, bodily noises in the shower are always in bad taste.  I know sometimes farts slip out, but it is possible to take a shower without cutting a few big, lusty, long, juicy rippers all during it.  It also is possible to get through a shower without hawking up a lung, or blowing one’s nose (that is just a nasty thing to do in the shower.)

The last thing I want to worry about in the shower is sliding around on someone else’s snot.  I wear shower shoes, but still.

 

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Jezebel likes it. Whatever it is.

I love black cats, and I especially appreciate Jezebel.  I acquired Miss Jezebel in October of 2012- she was live trapped on the body shop lot when the owner of the shop requested we trap some feral cats for him to transport up to his horse barn.  I told Jerry that the shop owner could have any cats we trapped, but if one happened to be a young, black female kitten that I wanted it.  We trapped several cats- some grey kittens, a couple of adult calicos and so forth, but one night we ended up with the Perfect Cat.  Young (about 7 weeks,)  all black, and female.  The only problem with Jezebel at that time was that she was feral, and fiercely so.

I warned Jerry to handle her with welding gloves…at least until we could get her through a socialization process.  He learned the hard way that kitten baby teeth can still penetrate (and latch on to) the webbing between one’s forefinger and thumb, and that something that weighs less than a pound can inflict a shit ton of damage under the right circumstance.

There is a process for taming feral kittens which is generally effective (this site outlines it well under “Taming Feral Kittens” ) and it took about 2 weeks with Jezebel.  Now it would be hard to tell that she was ever feral as well as she gets along with people, other cats, and dogs.  This is probably only because we got to her very young.   She’s probably the most laid back cat I’ve had with the exception of Miz Izz, may she rest in peace.  Isabel was also a tamed feral, but Isabel was even younger than Jezebel was when we got her.    Older cats usually don’t do too well.

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Jezebel is 2 years old and all of 5#.  Almost exactly the same size Isabel was.

Miss Jezebel is not my only cat.  I also have Fanny, who is 17# of big, fat cat.  Fanny was bigger than Jezebel is now by the time Fanny was four months old. It’s strange how the variations work, but Fanny was of what I would call rural barn cat stock, while Isabel and Jezebel were city ferals.  Even the male city ferals around us are nowhere near as large as Fanny.  Perhaps small size has its advantages in the city.

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Fanny only looks small in the first pic.  In the second, the freezer gives one a sense of scale.

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This is F.B. (Fluffy-Butt) who generally won’t allow pictures.  She’s a sweet cat, but very reclusive.

F.B. is our only normal sized cat.  We inherited her several years ago when we got Heidi, but we really don’t know much about her other than she was spayed and that she was a few years younger than Heidi.  If I had to guess her current age she’s somewhere between 11 and 13.  The first six months or so that we had her she pretty much lived under the basement stairs, but now she is social with the other cats and the dogs.

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It’s baaa-ck!

My awesome ride has finally been returned to me, thankfully with a flawless paint match and with everything lined up as it should be.  There was a smattering of body dust on the inside of the decklid from where it had been repaired, but other than that no real reason to split hairs.  I’d almost forgotten how much better the stereo is in the Corolla vs. the truck.  Now I just have to get used to the shift pattern again (traditional Toyota 5 speed vs. the sort-of-screwy VW shift pattern that Toyota uses on the 6 speeds)  and the brakes.  I almost put myself through the windshield a couple of times this morning.  The brakes are a lot more touchy.

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Steel Panther- yeah!

Speaking of reasons to crank up the stereo.  I know they’re vulgar, sophomoric, puerile and vile, but I recently discovered an ’80’s hair band knockoff called Steel Panther.  This stuff is positively hilarious.  The video for  “Community Property” . is pretty good as well as is the one  for “Pussywhipped” although I would caution not to watch that one if you are offended by depictions of ball sacks.   I also enjoy the inspirational, “Just Like Tiger Woods.”

It’s a pretty good day.  Especially for being in February.

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The Right to Bear Arms Shall Not be Infringed…

Hello Kitty supports the 2nd Amendment.  Do you?

I need to stay away from my granddaughter’s coloring books.

I have to say I got the idea from a lovely website called Coloring Book Corruptions  and it is funny.  Hello Kitty with grenades and mortars and an M-16.  Shame on me.  I probably shouldn’t show her getting a contact buzz from a field mouse either.

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Terrible, I know.

I remember how much fun I used to have with old magazines scribbling on the faces and making people look like they drooled or had snot all over them.  Puerile and sophomoric, yes, I get that, but I need some kind of harmless artistic outlet.  It’s cool that I’ve discovered one can do a similar thing with cross-stitch patterns, where you stitch samplers of skulls and knives and gory images with off color and pithy sayings.  There are books out there with the patterns ready made, but before I buy those I’d like to experiment with a few of my own.

It’s been a long time since I really sat down and enjoyed some cross-stitch.  That’s a shame because it can be relaxing.

kitties will puke

Oh, yes they will.

I may have some time for such relaxing pursuits this weekend, as we are supposed to get a big old dose of the White Death here in beautiful Central Ohio on Sunday.  Joy and rapture.  I am not going anywhere in it even if I am driving a 4X4. What people don’t realize is that 4 wheel drive does not make you invincible.  It gives you a bit more traction on snow, but it is not worth a tinker’s damn on freezing rain or ice.  The last thing I need is to have something happen to Jerry’s truck.  He’s rather cavalier when it’s my car involved, but if it’s his truck, that’s a whole different situation.  I’m sure he wouldn’t be sitting around for a month waiting on it to get fixed.

I’m still waiting on my car to be finished.  The last I saw it, they were repairing the decklid and the finish panel under the decklid that is beneath the rear fascia.  The new rear fascia hasn’t been painted yet and neither has the decklid or finish panel.  I am satisfied, however, that the small dent in the finish panel has been duly repaired, treated and primed so the back of my car doesn’t rust out from the inside.

My freaking out about whether or not my car is repaired correctly is worse than when medical people have to be patients in a hospital or doctor’s office.  I’ve been around automotive repair my entire life and I am all too aware of what can and does go wrong.  I see it every flipping day.

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Nasty.

And yes, I have seen cars fall off of racks.  This is not pretty, and in both instances that I witnessed, it was only the Hand of God that kept the unfortunate techie from being splattered.

off the rack

Surprisingly, the vehicles usually aren’t that horribly damaged when they fall.

Unless they fall into something else…

I want my car back.  I also want the White Death to go away, so I can not be as paranoid about my car once I do get it back.  Only the White Death won’t go away for awhile yet.  It has yet to fade to the snowbooger grey sticky muck.   Here begins the February Funk, and it sucks ass.

sad tears

I don’t generally admit to emotional weakness…but-

There are days in which the melancholy threatens to take over and I’m afraid that if I start crying I might never stop.  It’s not necessarily a bad thing.  I think it’s really a sort of mental catharsis that happens when I’ve repressed too much stuff or there’s just a back log of unresolved emotional detritus that I need to try to address and resolve- or at least name.   Even though I navigate fairly well in the “world of normal,” I’ve got to love the Asperger’s/HFA/autistic disconnect between the feeling and thinking parts of my brain.  If I can’t name it, I can’t deal with it- but the rational side of my head doesn’t communicate well with the nameless, wordless emotional side.  Not at all.   Don’t ask me to be rational when emotional has control.  I lose whatever eloquence and reason I thought I had, as well as any words I thought I could use to express what I don’t think words can express.

In other words, I simply have to accept the disappointment and regret and that old favorite, guilt, that I live with, or somehow learn to get past all of that.  It’s easier said than done.

There’s always the fact that I have absolutely no courage.  It’s hard to say that but it’s absolutely true.  I loathe conflict.  That’s probably why I get taken advantage of so easily. Despite all the knowledge that feeding alligators only makes them bolder and hungrier, that’s exactly what I do.   I know I’m being exploited in many ways by just about every person I have dealings with, but I don’t speak out against it because I don’t know how to do it without the emotional side of my head butting in and making me forget the perfectly rational arguments I’ve prepared in self-defense.

I’m reduced to whatever it takes for you (meaning anyone who’s not me) to shut up and stop making demands of me…except that it’s never enough.

never_good_enough

I’ll talk for hours about things automotive, things I find funny, the weather, politics, whatever- but don’t ask me how I feel.  Most of the time I really don’t know how I feel, and I don’t usually take the time to analyze my emotional state.  I enjoy good intellectual, rational conversation, but, I try not to feel- much less talk about the whole vexing realm of feelings.  It’s less painful that way.  The really bad thing about that is that I really need to do exactly that- some old fashioned venting- but I don’t really have anyone available to me that I can trust with that kind of stuff.  I don’t want to admit to such a depth of vulnerability.

There is a saying that denial is not just an old river in Egypt, but for me I think repression is a better term than denial.  I know I have tons of emotional garbage that have accumulated for decades, but I have absolutely no clue how to deal with it.  I know binge drinking and chronic overwork aren’t healthy ways to deal with it (gave up binge drinking years ago, the chronic overwork…eh, I still have issues with that at times…)

garbage

It just keeps piling up…

There are a lot of things I wish I weren’t too afraid to do.  It’s not so much about seeking revenge or retribution.  I have no desire to inflict the same aggravation I’ve endured on anyone else.  As angry as I can get, (and my primary emotions are fear and anger) even if I have the rare opportunity to get retribution, it’s usually hollowly unsatisfying.

I know I can wish in one hand and shit in the other and we all know which one will fill up first.

I don’t want to disappoint anyone or reject anyone.  I really just want to fade into the wall and leave as little of an imprint as I can- not offending anyone or intruding on anyone’s space.

Mercy-1

Kyrie elaison – God have mercy. God knows I need it.

Maybe the reason for my recent fascination with the life and times of General George S. Patton is that he represents the exact opposite of someone like me.  I think he had the ability to work through the emotional discord that has to result from the love of battle versus the love of life (or in at least some consideration for the self preservation instinct.)  I don’t have that courage or that love of conflict, but in some ways I wish I did.  I almost wish I could be more ruthless and staid instead of just putting forth a bland and unfeeling façade.  I wish I had passion, but any passion I might have had withered away and blew off years ago.  I’m not kidding when I say that living in the garden of memory is not only safer for me, but sometimes it’s the only place where I can really feel alive.

god have mercy on my enemies Patton

I wish I could be that ruthless, but in honesty, I can’t.

hot coffee

Hell yes, it’s hot!

Ever since that deal with some ass pilot suing McDonald’s over hot coffee, manufacturers have been going nuts with the warning labels.  Now I’m all about household safety, but the things you’re most likely to get injured with usually don’t have warning labels.

The first warning I would hand out is that: Alcohol Complicates Everything. 

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I can say this not only as a former binge drinker, but as a frequent drunk watcher.  I get to witness the consequences of drunken stupidity far more often than anyone should. I see how one could put the cat in the fridge (thankfully Isabel, when she was living, had a loud voice- and was none the worse for her few minutes of Arctic exploration, as she lived almost 16 years) or run outside doing the St. Vitus Dance in one’s whitey-tighties because one is out of beer.  I’ve witnessed a grown man take a piss in a cat box, in a closet, and on more than one highway berm.  I’ve witnessed a grown man do a lot of things that no one over the age of toddlerdom should do.

drunkenmowing

Need I say, “Don’t Drink and Mow, Shithead”?

(hint: yes I do!)

I am not completely absent from the annals of drunk and stupid behavior either, as I probably will never know if I was clothed or not when I answered the door to that hotel room to pay the pizza dude.  I just know I woke up about 3 AM stark naked in a bathtub full of freezing water and a half-eaten Domino’s pizza on the ledge.  To my credit, this incident occurred in 1993, and this was the last time I was ever really shitfaced, as in forget-it-all-drunk.

Even today, I like a very occasional glass of a decent Merlot every now and then, so I’m not on a mission to encourage people to be tee-totalers.  There is a huge difference, though, between a small before-bed nip of wine and quaffing down a fifth of Wild Turkey in the middle of the afternoon.

sharpthings

Sharp things are pointy. Pointy things can draw blood.

I have to say I’ve been party to sharp things/pointy things misadventures.  I’ve put knives through my fingertips and palms (not intentionally of course) and have had more than one losing encounter with a box cutter.  I am not generally a “bleeder.”  I don’t bruise easily.  Some days I have to poke my fingertip several times before I get enough blood to feed the meter (diabetics know what I’m talking about here) for my sugar checks.  So if I’m dealing with cutlery or other things with points or blades, and I see blood, I’ve probably inflicted a pretty decent wound.  It will leave a scar, and it will take awhile to heal.

bob

Normally I wouldn’t think twice about my own dogs.  I respect the fact that they are the same species as the grey wolf, although dogs somewhere along the line figured out that the humans with their opposable thumbs and ability to cultivate crops and livestock could offer them a far more cushy existence than scavenging around in the cold tundra for rodents and carrion.

bitebutt

Dogs have 42 teeth.  Clara’s (even at age 12) got a formidable set.

The only thing that would give me pause regarding my own dogs is their reaction to strange or unauthorized human activity in their space, and even then, the fear in that situation would not be for my own person but for the blood stains and gory mess left behind on my property.  I do have some concern  that should I drop dead in the house alone that they may decide to consume the 145 or so pounds of rotting carrion that my carcass would provide.  However, if I’m dead, will I really care if I become doggie dinner?  I doubt it.

southern security

Now I don’t have pit bulls- my girls are primarily herding breeds (GSD X Malinois and GSD X Chow) and Lucy is not a herder at all but a harmless bulldog/beagle mix who just wants attention and doesn’t care who it comes from.  But I will agree with guns and dogs as home defense.  I hope to never have to utilize either for self defense, but it’s one of those situations where when you need something and it’s not there it could be the difference between life and death.

Now I know why the local Buick dealerships have defibrillators in the service department waiting room.

 defibrillator

‘Lizbeth, I’m comin’ to join ya!

fred sanford

 

 

joan

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m having a currently shitty run so far this year.  Never mind I’ve been bloody sick with the screaming snots since New Year’s Day and sleeping every moment that I possibly can manage to- when I’m either not at work or hawking up snot.  The past two weekends I’ve not bothered to move much beyond my bed.

There is no way I’m calling off for spewing snots, because everyone else (conveniently) already has.   I think the guys around here call off for hangnails, zits and even excessive vaginal sand, as wussy as they are.

As long as I can somewhat remain vertical and I’m not puking or having a hate/hate relationship with Montezuma, I will function, even if it is by being jacked up on cold medicine and Sinus Plumber spray.  It sucks.  At least I did finagle a 10 day antibiotic script, and the sinus infection part of it is starting to clear up.  The green snot is going away anyway.  The clear, and brown, and bloody snot is still stringing along though.

Sinus-Plumber--801x1024

This stuff burns like hell, but breathing is worth the burn!

Then to add a fantastic steaming hot turd to the top of this phlegmy mess is that I got rear-ended in the Target parking lot last Wednesday.  I’m sicker than hell, strung out from another stressful short-staffed day at work, it’s 3º below zero, and then some foreigner rear ends me.  I can only imagine the vision of the she-behemoth-bitch-beast that jumped out of the driver’s door on that fateful evening. The only good parts: a.) wasn’t my fault, and the other guy’s insurance (yes he had it) has to pay, and b.) the other vehicle was an SUV and has not even a mark on it.

The bad news?  I was in the Corolla and my rear bumper fascia is toast, and the left quarter panel and decklid are damaged.  It’s about $2500 worth of aggravation and God only knows how long to get it fixed.  I’m consigned to driving the truck (no, a 2010 Tacoma 4X4 is not a bad ride at all) which is not so bad except the interior smells like a dragon’s colon thanks to Jerry using it as a smoking lounge.

Jerry also has no sense of vehicle interior feng shui.  I found loser lottery tickets from 2011, various food wrappers from a variety of establishments, including Taco Bell and Waffle House, Pepsi Max cans, used Kleenex, a flannel shirt, an NRA ball cap, and assorted flotsam and detritus.  I’m sure he will love the fact that I douched the whole interior really good with lavender Febreze.

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I guess I’m just not supposed to have anything nice.

I’m sure this poor foreign guy and his wife probably thought I was some sort of snotting, rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth bitch when I got out of the car.  Even though his English skills weren’t the greatest, he was shoving that insurance card at me with the quickness.  It probably didn’t help that I refused to move the car until I at least called the police, (and apparently the word “police” is pretty high on the list of words taught in ESL classes… because the guy was really freaked when I said, “I’m calling the police,”) who conveniently won’t come out in inclement weather unless you have to call the squad.

I could have feigned injury, but then I would have been transported to the same hospital where the (hot, but clueless) male nurse in the exam room called me Mildred and asked about my diarrhea, and I would probably rather be dead than experience that particular medical facility ever again.  That, and I really don’t want to end up paying for a meaningless and aggravating trip to any ER unless I am near death or already dead, and not just suffering from the screaming snots and the fuming anger that accompanies having to deal with a trashed car.   Ironically, any other time in beautiful Central Ohio there would be cops and fire trucks and squads and sirens galore, unbidden, stopping traffic for miles for the least of fender benders, but apparently not when it’s 3º below.

ambulance-ford-E350

The moral of the story- only get rear ended if it’s a bright, sunny day!

I’m sure my family is sort of pissed at me too because for the past 2 weeks I’ve felt too shitty to make the trip up there.  I also don’t want to share my mucoid maladies with anyone up there, especially Dad, who gets sinus infections and pneumonia easily enough anyway. This weekend I probably won’t either, even if I am feeling better, because I’m sure Jerry might like to use his truck for something.  I know it sounds bad because I really do miss my granddaughter, but going up north every Sunday is a bit of a pain in the ass, and usually costs me money I’d rather not have to spend.  This weekend I might just lock myself in my room and troll for new reading material and enjoy my DVR’d episodes of Brickleberry. Isolation might be healthier for me and for anyone who might surround me for awhile anyway.

cheerup

I hope so.  Because I’m rather despondent at the moment.

Granted, Jerry works at the body shop that is going to be (someday?) fixing my car.  The bad part of this is that it’s winter and there’s been ice storms, so every body shop in a 50 mile radius is booked at least 6 weeks out, and this isn’t getting done anytime soon.  Technically I can drive my car the way it is even though it looks like shit, but that could make things more complicated to fix, and I really don’t want to screw with it until the other guy’s insurance adjuster approves all the (proper) repairs.  This car is a 2014 with less than 10 K on it, and they aren’t going to get away with a half ass job.  I didn’t ask for this shit and it wasn’t my fault.  I need my car back the way it was before Julio or whatever his name was saw fit to ruin the ass end of it.

 

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