Category Archives: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Is There ANY Logical Reason to Throw Away an Empty Firearm?

Well, I know I’ve hit a rough patch when I go on a binge of reading Zombie Apocalypse novels to cheer up. After the death of a loved one there’s not much in there to scare you, and just like grieving – it goes on and on …and on. Zombies, here, there and everywhere.

Over the past week I’ve read about 15  zombie books on my Kindle. They are actually pretty funny. If you want to read about all the creative and almost hilarious ways people can screw up and be branded “too stupid to live” immediately before their inevitable demise, it’s all that and so much more. Sorry if I’m referring to death as funny, but come on. Check out the Darwin awards if you have questions. (The stupid ways that people actually, in real life, removed themselves from the gene pool.)

But back to my original question, is there any logical reason to throw away a firearm just because you’re out of ammo? If I’m out of food I don’t throw away my stove and refrigerator. I’m assuming that if you are on the run in an ongoing survival situation; war, extended riots, zombie or other kind of hair-raising apocalyptic situation, you would probably hope against hope to acquire more ammo at some point.

A recurring theme in all the books I’ve read so far is this. The hero, heroes, heroine, etc. is/are in yet another fight for their life and run out of ammo, then they THROW AWAY THEIR WEAPON (???), and run away screaming, look for a blunt object, get in an argument with their companions, or lay down and die. What the hell is that all about? Excuse me, but if I run out of ammo for my revolver or rifle, I’m still holding a blunt object that I can brain someone or something with and hopefully am able to reload in the future. Maybe I’m just a practical gal, but I wouldn’t throw down my weapon like it was an empty juice box.

I guess if you are armed with some kind of weird antique revolver that only takes handmade ammo or something similar there would be a reason to lighten your load. OK, maybe if you’re running for your life, shooting it out has become a moot point, have an extremely heavy rifle and there is very little chance that you will be coming back to it with or without ammo I could see dropping it. However, in these zombie novels someone throws away their firearm every chapter or two without fail.

I think part of it is that in a zombie novel you pretty much invent everything that happens. It is total fiction and one has artistic license to come up with whatever whacked out unbelievable scenario that suits your fancy. In prepper, survivalist type novels the authors usually are a little more experienced in the weapons department or at least do their homework.

Another thing that the characters in these zombie novels do over and over that annoys me to no end is they drive right through the middle of a seemingly abandoned town at high noon, put their car in park, leave the vehicle unattended with the keys in it, running, cross their fingers, and plunge into a dark abandoned store. Chaos ensues, of course. Does anything go right at the end of the world?

Well, that’s a whole ‘nother rant so I’m going to stop here for now.

The Seven Stages of Pissed Off

The five stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance – are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost. They are tools to help us frame and identify what we may be feeling. But they are not stops on some linear timeline in grief.  Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

All the death gurus I’ve read or heard quoted claim there are stages of grief. I have to say that at the moment I’m in the white hot lava mountain of rage otherwise known as anger.

It’ kind of hard to deal with because at the moment I’m angry with my family and everyone else I’ve even known who puts themselves in harm’s way to the sorrow and fear of their loved ones and friends.

I’m angry with my grandson for choosing to live a sad and dangerous life; choices that left his 26 year old beaten, drugged up, frozen dead body on the ground in a train station in Boston. Those of us left behind to mourn him are left holding the bag. I’m pissed off because it seems like he got off easy. He doesn’t have to face each day knowing that he’s gone forever. He’s not left with a life time of “what ifs.”

I’m angry at those members of my family who still abuse drugs and alcohol and live on the razors edge of death in a myriad of ways because of their actions. Who will I have to bury next?

I’m angry at family and friends who suffer from an assortment of mental illness and refuse to seek or maintain treatment. I’ve been told by a number of them that well “I’m not hurting anyone but myself.” Excuse me but that is total unadulterated bullshit. Hello but you are torturing those who love you.

Having substance abusing, and or mentally ill friends and relatives is like having a stalker. The situation grinds on relentlessly for years and then decades. Your heart jumps into your throat every time the phone rings. “What  is it THIS time?” Are they in the hospital? Are they in jail? Are they missing…again. Are they dead?

It’s a slow kind of torture that never ends. You can’t do anything about it. Maybe having an actual stalker would be easier to deal with. You can report them to the police. You can take out a restraining order. You can go incognito. If all else fails, you can move to another city or country to get away from it.

But you can’t get away from substance abuse or untreated mental illness. You can hope, you can pray, you can go into denial and refuse to answer the phone, but you can never get away from it.

To anyone who thinks that their self destructive behavior is their business and not anyone else’s….I would like to brain you with an iron frying pan and then lock you in a closet for a year or three. You ARE hurting the people who love you.

I’m Thinking About Going Goth ~~

The reality is you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be, nor would you want to.  Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler.

Lady_AmaranthAs long I have to reinvent myself after a piece of my heart got cut out, I’m thinking about doing something I always wanted to do – go Goth. Don’t waste your time asking yourself if I’ve lost my mind. That ship has sailed.

Now I’m saying this a little tongue in cheek. But think about it. I can wear black all the time now because I have a perfectly good excuse. I can read Edgar Allen Poe in the middle of the night and then listen to Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy, the Cult, Rasputina and Siouxsie and the Banshees on my IPOD all day.

I can contemplate death without working up an effort because it’s always there, right at the front and center of my brain. Not my death necessarily. I of course know that I will die someday, but harbor no plans to bring about my own premature demise. Life is much too precious and brief to throw away.

I’m already rocking silver hair and the dark circles around my eyes. All I have to do is slap on some black eyeliner and dark lipstick and I’m half way there. I have tons of black clothes already, because well…I’ve always loved black clothes. I even own a black corset.

The loss is Christopher, my grandson, keeps sneaking up at me at the most inopportune moment. Last night Mr. Husband and I were watching the Patriots vs Ravens football game. I suddenly burst into tears because the thought that Christopher is a Patriots fan flitted across my mind. I thought only men cried when watching football? My poor husband tried to comfort me and said “I’m sure where ever he is he’s watching the game.” The Patriots won. YAY

So if I’m going to be in mourning for the foreseeable future, I may as well have some fun with it. Sounds a bit kooky, I know. But I never claimed to be a “normal” person.

Selective Dumb-Assery

Miss Scarlet, I don’t know nuthin’ bout birthin’ no babies. Housemaid from Gone With the Wind

Why do otherwise normal, intelligent, rational people throw their hands up in the air and claim they don’t know anything about their health or the lack thereof, and what medications they are taking? (Myself included)

Miss mother-in-law, husband and I have been on a nightmare merry go round of health issues this entire year. Frankly, I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I used to take ownership of my health, but somewhere along the way I let that fall by the wayside and now I’m paying a huge price for this lapse of responsibility.

If you go to the doctor they are going to give you a pill or lots of pills. That is just the way of their people. Maybe I should use reverse psychology and go to my doctor and state that I am absolutely and unequivocally NOT going to take meds for thyroid, come hell or high water. Then she would right me a script for thyroid meds so fast the paper would catch on fire. On that note I should also ask her to triple my cholesterol meds so she will tell me to stop taking them altogether.

Mother-in-law has become obsessed with her blood sugar and tests her herself 87 times a day. This is counterproductive because people’s blood sugar varies throughout the day. This is normal. I think she’s probably suffering from blood loss from all the fingers pricks.  Because of her complaining her doc doubled her diabetes meds and now she’s going around swooning from low blood sugar and getting sick from all the meds. Duh! It got so bad that Mr. Husband took her back to the doctor and he cut back on her meds. She’s feeling a bit better now. Imagine that.

I asked her one day what medications she’s taking and she said “Oh, I don’t know, I take so many of them” and then changed the subject. How’s that for passing the buck? Mr. Husband always seems to get sick when his mother gets sick. My theory is that it is stress related. When she’s freaking out about her health she gets hysterical, needy and bossy. That’s enough to make me want to run down the street screaming and ripping my hair out.

I’m going to figure my own health issues out if it’s the last thing I do!

You Wouldn’t Believe Me if I Told You

There are times when this blog develops cobwebs. Sometimes it’s because I get into a mope and decide that I don’t have anything worth saying, despite a body of evidence to the contrary. Other times it’s because my life gets incredibly busy. I get hit with curve balls, side winders, and then a life drops a piano on my head.

Well no that’s not exactly what happened this time. Life dropped a piano on my mother’s head. Mom, a five foot three, grey haired, 75-year-old lady, suffered through a home invasion. Some sick monster tail gated Mom into her courtyard, forced his way into her house, and hog tied her with her own extension cord. Thank God, he did not do anything worse to her than tie her up. However she still had to suffer through the terror of not doing how bad it was going to get.

While she lay there tied up in her own bed, this reprehensible bastard ransacked her house, defiled every nook and cranny of her home, robbed her of $300 cash and even wandered around the courtyard out back. He eventually left and she screamed for help and the neighbors came to help her, the police were called and all that good stuff.

So anyway, my reason for not writing about all the wild and crazy things that happened when I went to New Orleans is that I turned around and went screaming right back there only a few weeks after I unpacked from the last trip.

All six of Mom’s kids pretty much made a unanimous decision that the only thing to do was for her to move to a different apartment. She was terrified and relived the event every time she set foot in her apartment. Staying there alone was just not an option.

My sister stayed glued to her computer and helped do all the internet searching to find leads on apartments while Mom and I did the footwork. My brothers did the actually heavy lifting and moving. We got lucky in a French Quarter Miracle kind of way and found an incredibly lovely, recently renovated studio apartment. It’s one block away from a little grocery store, and one block away in another direction from a 24 hour deli that delivers. It’s like staying in a little hotel suite with a full kitchen and 24 hour room service.

The end result was that Mom’s kids, working together, managed to pull a rabbit out of our hat. We got her moved out of the scene of the crime and back into the French Quarter in a really cool apartment, all in a matter of days.

Looking back over the last two weeks, I don’t know how we managed it, but we did. And it was a wild ride, even by New Orleans standard.

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