Bastarditis

I was getting dressed for appointments this morning, and waiting for the cat-sitter (BratCat is very sick, or I would just hire the dog to keep an eye on the cats as usual), when I got a phone call I absolutely hated. A neighbor died yesterday.
I was passing along word when I was asked, "What was it, cancer?"
In a way.
She died from Acute Selfish Bastarditis of the Husband. Oh, she had a lot wrong physically, major gastro-intestinal issues, bad heart, lungs, but nothing that in itself would have killed her. But her system was weak, and she needed long term loving care. She was married, so she should have had that, right? Not with her husband.
He was in the top 3 most selfish, inconsiderate, least nurturing men of all time. The #1 spot being up for debate, because I say it is my nearly ex, and others say Hitler. Her husband was #3. Seeing her wasting away in slow motion in front of him, all the man cared about what what he wanted to do - partying with his friends, his new truck, getting high, getting drunk, anything but what she needed. And we aren't talking newlyweds or 20/30/40 ages, he 60's, old enough to know better but selfish enough to not give a damn.
This hits me really hard.
It was very nearly me, and if not for a really wonderful friend, it would have been. Less than 2 hours from it.
"Aw, a little fun ain't never killed nobody!"
Yes, it did. And it happens far too often but I'll be damned if I'll ever even almost let it be me again.
Rest in peace, finally, peace.

Zaphod in the White House?

I am absolutely horrified at the notion of Donald Trump as president.  I, who cannot vote, seem to be the only one who recognizes Trump as POTUS to be the equivalent of Beeblebrox as Galactic president - I just know he is going to steal the White House and fly it off on some personal errand.
And exactly what the hell qualifies him to even run? His spiel has always been, "I'm rich because I'm ruthless and incredibly lucky, so pay attention to me!" Not a word in there about intelligence, strength of character, nor compassion, all of which are absolute requirements to be in a position of such power as President. This man has never eaten ramen noodles for 2 months and been grateful to have that. He has never even pretended to understand what the struggling poor go through every single day, and we are the majority. You cannot bestow power if not tempered with compassion and empathy, and he has neither.
And nobody has really thought this through. The name alone should disqualify him. We can't be saying, "My president Trumps your queen," because it would be too absurd. And he would probably want to build condos on the mall, guild Congress, add slot machines to the Lincoln Memorial, and have a line of Secret Service cheerleaders with pompoms precede him everywhere.
Yep, the Trumpettes, who form a kickline and dance to a custom all-Trumpet version of Hail To The Chief as he enters and exits buildings. I don't want to live in a world where pom poms are symbols of politicians.
Remember that great Adams idea, "Absolutely no one who seeks the job must ever be allowed to have it."
Here's the personification of that. Let The Donald go back to shilling real estate, and trying to convince himself he isn't a waste of space as a human being by having a reality tv series that more than 6 people watch, but stay the hell out of politics. We have enough to do trying to run a nation of broken people without adding massaging your tacky ego into it.
And I'm not that big a fan of pom poms.

Just... bullshit.

Yes, I call it.
Nobody should ever say:
You are strong enough; you can do this by yourself!
That is the worst thing you can say to anybody, ever.
And we all say it - especially to women friends who are suddenly going it alone.
You're all wrong. Well-meaning, but wrong.
I've been married, divorced, widowed, and just plain old don't want anybody, and I'm here to tell you, nobody makes it alone. Friends. The ones we call family, not mere relatives. Total strangers. They are vital.
Have them.
But never tell anyone they are strong enough to "go it alone," because nobody does, and that's just a shitty thing to say.
This post?
Was supposed to be about something else - why I'm not a writer - but stuff happened, and... yeah. Tomorrow. Or not.
Have friends. Be one.
Accept "The kindness of strangers," because sometimes, that is all you can get.
And by the way?
It's okay to need help, sometimes. It's okay to accept help. It's okay to ask for help. And when you can? Give it. Freely. Without expectation of return, in any way. You've probably been a jerk at some point in your life, so if you can't accept paying forward, then for fucks sake, pay it back.
And why I'm not a writer? Actually not worthy of a whole blog post. Turns out by the time I have the story (or blog post) clearly enough in my mind to put something into words, I know the story so I'm not interested in it anymore. I do better sitting down like this and just spewing out some things and hoping they make some sort of sense later. Very few writers manage to turn out anything worth reading this way. I don't kid myself I could do it for an entire coherent novel. So while I am not gifted with the ability, nor the self-discipline, needed to write for others, I am blessed with the ability to recognize great writing from others, and help coax it from them.
It's enough.

Curses! Foiled again!

I haven't posted in a bit, not from lack of anything to talk about, but from too much, and most of it was health stuff and since I talk about all that everywhere else, no need for it here. This started with my health and ended up with me still sneezing my fool head off, via Colorado.

Hippy Neighbor, or HN, got a credit card. I don't know how, but I suspect someone will lose their job over it eventually. It has a 25% interest rate. I know loan sharks who would cringe at 25%. HN didn't care.
"I'm going to Colorado!!!"
And she did. She didn't pack, didn't plan a route, just got in her car and left. She did call me from the road and ask me to take care of her dogs while she was gone, though.
She was gone for 5 days. She came back happy, and as stocked as they allow.
Included in this bounty was 2 of an item alledging to be chocolate taffy chew. 10% THC.
"I smoke weed all day everyday, and I've never felt like that in my whole life! I couldn't walk! It was wonderful. I know you can't smoke anymore, but you can have these..."
I thought about it a few days, I admit. Finally, not wanting to risk having it in my system in all the bloodwork lately, I decided against it. Then I happened to mention it to my doctor.
"You know, as long as you aren't smoking it so there's no damage to your lungs, I don't see the harm in trying it. It will be legal here next year anyway, and if there is something that can give you a little relief without affecting the medicine roulette we're working on, go ahead. If it comes up in a test, I'll tell them I okayed it. But just once for now; we don't need to mask any new symptoms or effects."
GASP
I had permission to get high

I waited a day. I planned around it, making sure I didn't need to go anywhere, had appropriate munchies, drinks, movies. Finally, it was tim. Nothing could stop me no, I was going to get high!
After struggling for 6 minutes, I gave up. I couldn't get the damned thing open. Sure, I could have gotten scissors or a knife to open it, but I realized - these things are made for people who have numbed or killed most of their brain cells and they can open them. I better not risk mine. They are in bad enough shape as it is.
So, I tossed it in a drawer, and maybe in a few months when it's legal, and we've gotten my brain back to whatever passes for normal in there, I'll revisit the cheeba chew. For now, I've still got all the munchies...

Glass Houses & Pie

I love love love love ~big pink heart~ love when people try to tell me how to live my life. It gives me the warm fuzzies all over that so many people care so deeply that they feel they must instruct me on everything from my sleeping schedule to my choice of coffee brands.
Not really.
I appreciate that you pay enough attention to my life to notice the choices I make, but as for telling me how to live? Not so much. If I ask for your advice or input, great, and remember I may not take it, but I have the information and what I do with it from there is on me.
But.

You can't...
Reality begs to differ
Hide and watch
Yet, I did
Oh? 1 of us must be dreaming or hallucinating again

You have to...
No I don't
There are only 2 things we have to do - be born and die, and everything else is an option

You need to...
Oh, suddenly it's about my needs
Or else what?
You have no idea what I need

Srsly, telling me not to do something is a doublecat dare ya, it's the green light, waving me in the the pits, it's saying YOU MUST DO THIS NOW. And telling me I won't do something? Please allow me a few moments to call my bookie and place a largish wager, post a status on facebook about doing it, sell tickets to the show, make a note in my diary, take out insurance on the event, and have a crew of journalists ready for live coverage.
All this in because in the past few hours I've had a slew (ok buttload. Better? Yeah, no, I like slew) of people telling me what to eat, drink, feel, do, think, be... yeah.
I don't care that you don't approve of my food choices. Today, I have eaten:
Shrimp for breakfast. It's what I wanted when I wanted it. Midmorning I had a few cheese and crackers (with a glass of wine! Yep, because I knew I wasn't driving and I wanted it. I don't care where the sun is, what time it is, any anachronistic misogynist system's opinion, or any imaginary standards or when it is okay to drink may be). Lunch? fruit bowl and steak. Midafternoon was baked potato. And dinner? A slice of homemade apple pie with vanilla gelato and a glass of milk. I may eat cereal in the middle of the night, too. And so what? I'm getting all the nutrition I need, in a tasty way, when I want, and in a form that is acceptable to me. And it doesn't have a damned thing to do with anybody else. It doesn't change who you are as a person, shake the foundations of the institution of marriage, affect the dow-jones, cause tidal waves, incite riots, lower the water level, or in any way whatsoever affect anybody but me, and that is my choice. If it does, that is your choice.

The glass house? People who live in glass houses shouldn't get stoned with nudists.

Booze Rules

I've posted this, in some format, on furbook, but this is an expanded version.
What qualifies me? A lifetime of experience. I have performed, without a net, for decades in the Professional Level, to the point where I am no longer qualified for the drunklympics.
Cuervo wants me to lend my name to ads, now that they have determined I am not wholesaling.
Since '89 the Bud distributer has sent me clothing saying my boobs & rep behind the name is good for business.
So here we go!

• Don't drink sugary booze. The sugars lend to hangovers, when metabolizing. If the only booze you can stand is sweet? Don't drink. Same with mixers, if they aren't pure juice. Don't like the taste? Don't drink.
• Hydrate. 1 bottle of water for every 4 oz. of alchohol. I once had a waitress at the now defunct (moment of silence) Fitzgerald's in Reno mention, "I notice you never seem drunk but you drink an assload (legitimate measurement term) of stingers (always a serious proposition for non-pros, and my fallback drink for cold weather), is it the water?" Yes. Yes it is.
• Food does not "sober you up." It allows a slower window for the booze to affect you. Same for coffee, except it also gives you greater awareness of the consequences of your drunkeness.
• No matter what, save 2, and exactly 2, of whatever you were drinking the night before. Choke them down immediately the next morning. Keep them down and you will be able to function the next day, pre 1st lunch beverages.
• Do not drink craft beers. Except Big Wave, Red Stripe, Old Peculiar if you must drink beer, stick with the basics, and no, cheaper has no bearing, it only means more for the money but usually passes through without time to have as much effect. Translation - if you piss it out before it buzzes you it does no good 
• Take 3 aspirin with water before passing out. This is not a myth. Hangovers are caused by dehydration which causes swelling of the brain and neurological system. Inflammation is caused by dehydration.
• If you misjudge your intake v capacity, and must yark, for fucks sake, make it interesting. Yarking off a balcony onto a parade during Mardi Gras thus inciting a riot - twice - is acceptable; ruining your cute date's Cole Hahn's are not.
• Wine is an entire other subject.

Let him eat steak!

I recently mentioned on facebook I was going to throw a couple of steaks on the grill - 1 for my dog and 1 for me. I immediately received a message admonishing me against this, and lecturing me on animal nutrition, etc.
My initial polite reaction was, "Fuck you, you don't feed me or my dog, or pay my bills." I didn't send that.
My secondary response was, "Thank you for your concern."
What I really want to say is this:
I know. Okay? I know a dog's nutrition isn't covered by a steak. I didn't also list the steamed veggies and potatoes that would also be part of his (and my) meal, because that doesn't make for a pithy fb status.
I also know my dog. You don't.
I adopted Geo (yes, he was named for a gravity bong but no, I didn't name him) when his alleged human father had to go to jail for a few months and it was bitter cold, but he had nowhere for Geo to go.
He has been my baby ever since.
Geo was chased with a vaccuum, slung against walls, starved for both food and love when I got him. He would eat any and every food, because that was what he lived - scrabbling to survive and I can empathize - eating anything to stay alive except dog food because he was never given it. Why spend money on dog food when that could buy beer? That was how he was raised until I found him.
I used to get up at 7 am and cook for Geo, real food - sometimes eggycheesygoodness, and once I even made beef wellington for him but that was a long story/rare situation/bar bet.
But Geo won't eat dog food. Except Blue Buffalo, and only that about twice a week. He will eat kitty food occasionally, which makes sense as he truly believes he is part cat. Brat and Rags do not discourage his puppycatness.
But Geo has never gotten past his cringing when even I reach to pet him if I reach overhand toward his head, running to hide under the bed or sofa when there is a loud noise, or refusing to eat dog food. I suspect something regarding dog food and abuse of which I am not aware happened in his pre-me past. Good thing, because I know where the son of a bitch who did all that to him is, and I don't want to go back to the joint.
But all this is in aid of saying, I'm about to take steaks off the grill for my dog and me, and screw you if you don't like it.
Did I mention I also put shrimp on there for my cats?