Heart Strings & Imminent Death

I went to the doctor the other day, and he told me that my blood pressure was "dangerously high".  This is not a phrase any human being wants to hear.  I tried to explain that the two previous days were not "normal" in the sense that many emotionally taxing had recently happened, so I was VERY wound up.  Angry, depressed, anxious, worried ... all of the above.  As it turns out, NOT a great time to get one's blood pressure taken.

In the spirit of releasing some of the toxins which make me an angry bitch, here comes of a list of things which make me happy:

• Triscuits and Cheese.  Perfection is an unbroken, perfectly square Triscuit with gouda, but the general idea of these two foods together essentially creates a food group for me.  This is the quintessential comfort food for me. 
• Playing the guitar.  I used to be really good - could play almost anything - and then I quit.  So I'm learning again, and my fingers are a blistered fucking mess.  BUT!!  It feels good to make music, even if it's not perfect.  (The down side is that I'm typing with those blisters right now, but eventually they will become callouses, so ... still positive.)
• A farmer who lives in the middle of nowhere who is teaching me much-needed patience, something at which I am infamously TERRIBLE.
• Cover songs.  Who knew that there are so many amazing cover songs out there which are sometimes even better than the original?!  Examples:  Ray Lamontagne's "Crazy", Ryan Adams' "Wonderwall", Bastille's "No Scrubs", Perfect Circle's "Imagine", Johnny Cash's "Hurt" ... the list goes on and on.
• Chuck Klosterman.  Yesterday I was reading "I Wear the Black Hat", and he said to me, "Once you realize you can't control how you feel, it's impossible to believe any of your own opinions."  Amen, sir.  (Plus, Chuck has no filter and he talks about music as if it's a religion.)
• Deadpool.  "Happy International Women's Day!"
• Mimosas.  (No explanation needed there.)
• Eddie Vedder's voice.  Listening to him is like taking a warm bath in words.  His voice is haunting and beautiful and makes my ovaries ache.  He has me in the palm of his hand as soon as he opens his mouth.
• Summer Hours.  I love walking up, lying in bed, making some coffee and breakfast, and then getting back INTO bed, just because I can.  Having no schedule is lazy and decadent.
• My garden ... BEFORE all the crabgrass moved in.  (Now I try to avoid eye contact with the backyard, because it makes me feel like I need to go pick weeds.)

That's enough happiness for now.  Perhaps more to come.  

On Older Men

In their teenage years, boys tend to be adventurous and fun and slightly oblivious.

In their twenties, the true personality of men comes to fruition.  They know a bit more about who they are and what they want.  They come in a variety of flavors, but that's the lovely thing about a person's twenties - people get to take chances and make mistakes and fall madly in love and just as easily fall out of love.  Twenty-somethings are in the prime era of PERSONHOOD, in the sense that they care about experiencing life, regardless of the consequences.

Men in their thirties start to change.  If they got married in their twenties, they probably had kids and are raising them (and often wondering if they missed out on something by getting married early).  If they get married in their thirties, they're more likely to just be complacent and happy - buying a home, fixing up their home, impregnating their wife, or whatever.

Men in their forties are a whole new breed.  These men are either happily married (the minority), or living vicariously through their children ( a HUGE percentage), or divorced and carrying more baggage than any airline would ever allow on board.  (There is also the stray 40-year-old man who has never been married, which introduces a whole new level of psychology.)

Trying to date someone in their forties is fucking exhausting.  (I understand that the same is true of both genders, but I'm biased, because I'm not a man.)

Men in their forties either want to fuck 20-year-olds or they have a defense mechanism so deeply entrenched that it's impossible to penetrate.  They just want to have sex, and they are generally incapable of making any commitment beyond a golf tee time.

So ... I give up.  I'm not a fucking supermodel, and I need to feel the "can't-eat, can't sleep, butterflies-in-my-stomach" that I used to feel when meeting someone and the pheromones are flying. Obviously, not everyone is compatible, but when you hit your forties, the pool of men who are available and haven't been completely broken by at least one woman is pretty shallow.  Every woman they date is construed as just another potential bitch who is going to eventually take them to court and try to take their kids and their house.

FYI, not every woman wants your shit.  Are there a whole gaggle of bitches out there who will marry men for their money?  Yes.  But the same is true of men.  It would be really nice to meet an older man who isn't so fucking afraid to open his heart to a woman that his heart gets systematically closed by stress and heart disease.

I guess we all have too much baggage, regardless of the number of birthdays we've had.

The Dog Days Are Over

As the title literally says, the dog days are over.  I have been talking about getting a dog for like two years now, even gone so far as to try to adopt a couple along the way.  All it took to totally eradicate that thought from my head was to dog-sit for a week.

Let me preface by saying that this dog is quite lovely (a beagle/dachshund mix, I think).  He's spirited and soft and fun-loving ... and CONSTANTLY up my ass.  When I move, he moves.  When I walk, he walks.  When I descend the stairs, he tries to murder me by getting directly underneath my feet on the stairs.  When I pee, for Christ's sake, he sits in the bathroom and watches me.

It's very unsettling.

He tears around my yard and gardens like a fucking tornado, trampling and shitting on everything in his path.  He tore out the back door the other day, and the next thing I saw was a bunny literally flying through the air.  (A rousing eight-legged foot chase ensued.)  I'm fairly sure that bunny is either dying or already dead somewhere under my deck or shed.  I'm not looking forward to the imminent smell of rotting rabbit.

To add insult to injury, I had to pick up two OTHER dogs today.  While I only have the two little white dogs for one day, I have to keep the three dogs separated, and the original dog keeps trying to launch himself off the living room chair and over the stair railing to get to the "smell" in the basement.

I'm too old for this shit.  Actually, I just don't have the patience for this shit.

I like my space.  I don't having that space filled with dog hair and violent barking freak-outs whenever someone comes to the house.  8 more hours to freedom.  Hallelujah - deliver me from this evil.