Bullet List.

That one-n-only TV show that I actually care enough about to make time to watch every week has turned up in the re-runs on weekend cable, and sometimes it really gets me thinkin' about things.

There's a scene in a bathroom where two highschool girls are sneakin' a smoke and discussing the importance of popularity related to the coming future. I never smoked, wasn't particularly popular, and don't remember ever having such discussions with anyone in highschool, but... What really grabbed me about that scene was how one girl desperately needed the popularity and would do just about anything to get it; the other told her something to the effect of "I'm going on to bigger and better things, this isn't all there is for me."

Looking back, I may not have consciously known it then, but somehow, on some level, I guess teenage me (previous "shooter" reference here) must've figured out that something bigger and better was coming and that the school system and what went on there wasn't all there was. Somewhere between that, the Baptist upbringing, "Thou shall not kill," knowledge of the Death Penalty, and possibly the lack of small guns in my house, I got outta there without shooting up the place.

Don't get me wrong, I still had a list in my head of people I'd like to put holes in, or at least bruises on. I carried a half-size spiral notebook with a Parker Vector Rollerball pen (which I still Love) clipped in the spirals, it was always with me in case I needed to vent -- one particular bit of that venting involved a very descriptively written piece about goin' batshit with a baseball bat on someone I'd managed to corner in her back yard. Getting a good hard beating in seemed far more satisfying than pulling a trigger; and I guess I'd think the same way now, 'cause there's not much of anything more satisfying that pickin' up a lug wrench and takin' bash after bash at a windshield. Anyhow... I was kinda proud of the odd grin it elicited from my best friend, the only person I ever let read anything from my little notebook -- I was definitely not proud of the shock it put on My Mom when she snuck a peek. That's called "learning the hard way," and after that, I was a lot more careful where I left my little notebook.

For all the rotten things that were yelled at me.

That guy who kicked the shit out of my shin with his damn cowboy boot.

The principal I talked to about the incident who said I needed to "be a little more thick-skinned about things like that."

That girl who was so relentlessly mean to me, and then the following year, didn't recognize me and started in on telling me what a horrible bitch Debbie was. She found me on MySpace a couple years after the ten-year reunion and couldn't figure out why I "didn't like her very much when we were in school."

That guy who asked "what'cha listenin' to?" and then took the CD out of my DiscMan so he could pretend to read the top while he scratched the back.

That guy who would not leave me the hell alone in that Math class.

That guy who would not leave me the hell alone in that Art class.

That teacher who sent me to the principal's office for standing up to that guy who would not leave me the hell alone in Art class.

That teacher who said he liked my shorts and would give me an A if I'd wear 'em every day.

I could've been a school shooter way before school shootings were all over the news...

Some of it finally came to a stop after one afternoon in tenth grade. I was in my truck waiting for traffic to clear so I could back out and leave when one of those guys stopped right behind me and just stayed put even though the other cars were moving on out of the parking lot. He just stayed right there, with the passenger door of his shiny burgundy Cutlass Supreme lined up with the back bumper of my truck. I could see him in the mirror, just sittin' there starin' at me. I wouldn't dare back my truck into anybody's car, certain things are sacred regardless of ownership, but hey, it was a gravel parking lot back then...

I gave him a little time and he still didn't move, so I put it in first gear and eased the clutch out ever-so-slowly to creep up against the concrete bumper; then I pushed the clutch back in. I waited just a little bit longer and that smartass was still sittin' there staring at me. Cars had cleared out and the space straight across from me was empty -- so I revved it up just a little and let the clutch out just a little harder than was really necessary. I don't know if he had the windows down or not, but he was gone pretty quick once the spray of gravel started. I pushed the clutch back in and let it idle down; not one to quit halfway through things, I let the clutch out a little easier and drove on over the concrete parking curb anyway.

I guess it's that concept of certain things having their own degree of a sacred nature that kept me from doing any real damage... Much like the difference between wedging a truck bumper into a car door or just flinging a few rocks; I chose to fantasize about getting a few whacks in with a baseball bat instead of carrying a gun to school to blow somebody away. I like how Ron White explains the Death Penalty; "If you kill somebody here, we will kill you back."

Through the magic of FaceBook, I've seen that several of the people from my own personal "Bullet List" are actually still alive, and out of all of 'em, that girl who found me on MySpace is the only one who's on any of my "Friends Lists" now -- partly because when she found me, I wasn't interested in putting forth the effort of a long hearty "Fah-Q" type of e-mail, and partly because I thought maybe neither of us was the same girl we were in seventh grade. Maybe someday she and I might discuss it all a little more at-length. Maybe. The rest of 'em can suck it just like Alex Trebek.

All the times I dreamed of just getting away from all of it, those dreams came true with College, where everything was different and I didn't think about beating the life out of people anymore.

Where was I going with all this?

Well, I really don't understand why there's so much concern over this guy getting a "fair trial," especially when he didn't even consider what would be "fair" to any of these people who didn't even do anything to him personally.

I say let him stay (guarded, of course) in the hospital until all of the injured victims are well healed and back on their feet. When they're good and ready, then let each victim, each person he shot, each person who lost a loved one in that shooting, let each and every one of them line up and take a few whacks at him with a baseball bat.

Then put a bullet through some minor artery so he can die nice and slow.

We salute you, Fort Hood, and pray for you in your time of need.

Happy Veterans Day.

Catching up, yeah, sorry 'bout that.

Yikes, has it been a month?

Well, I'm glad to say I'm still on my trend of "being less psycho." I just got off the phone with that ol' bag from the transmission shop and I was nice even though I wanted to have a little fit. Seriously, I've come to expect the whole "needing to talk to a guy" from the old jerks who don't know any better, but this is a woman (supposedly) running a damn transmission shop... Anyway... I was decent about it and didn't say "Bitchy ol' crow" 'til after I hung up the phone.

--

Clay and I had a great weekend with a borrowed Ford; some cars "got soul," this car "has a soul." The Thunderbird knows me by my Indian name, "Flirts With Old Dudes." For all those years my folks were not about to let me drive that car, I was stunned when Jerry told me to "come on out and pick it up." Stunned, I tell ya; I could've just planted a big ol' smooch on him... I took the Limo out there Friday after work to make the switch and I can't help but wonder if Jerry has any idea just how much he blessed my little heart by trusting me with the Thunderbird, by not worrying about it, by just squeezin' my shoulder and tellin' me to "go have fun."

We took it to dinner (at The Minuteman, where we could park it right by the door) Friday night, more fun with that later... I followed the Hearse to the Mounds Car Show on Saturday where The T-Bird won a nice little trophy for third in the class. I know there might be some folks who'd be disappointed with a third, but hey, I'm talkin' about a car that My Dad always said was "just not a show-quality car." The Fall Duck-Nic was also great fun, and even though I'd hoped for more sunshine, I did get some great pictures and I was really glad my folks stopped by to see us too!



--

I'm typing at work, if ya didn't already know.

--

That crow from the transmission shop just called back again and wanted to know "if any of the guys were back in here yet." Once I finally managed to convince her that I was still by myself, it turned out she wanted to know where to find parts that she already knew we didn't have anyway.

--

It's not that I'm a horrible bitch, I can be decent to almost anybody, I'm just not putting forth the effort to be friendly to people who aren't friendly back. Sorry.

--

Back a few years, before I was writing here, I had an interesting experience at "The Dirty W@l-Mart." (That's what we've come to call the one at Admiral & Memorial, because it always has a strange smell.) I think it was around 2003 or 2004, I remember having margarita mixer and grenadine in my shopping cart, so I'm sure I was getting ready for a Speedway awards banquet of some type. I stepped around the end of an aisle and felt something a half a second before I locked eyes with Andy, my highschool boyfriend and prom date. I have no idea how to put it into words, other than I felt something, felt him before I saw him. I had a friend around that time who claimed that was "demon involvement," but then again, that friend also said I was a "dirty liberal" because I listen to "so much NPR," so whatever. I think it was emotional involvement; I was eighteen when Andy and I split, and eighteen-year-old-me was probably a freakin' psycho, 'cause she just didn't take it well. Late-twenties-me was less crazy and more glad to see a familiar face from the past, and kind enough not to pick on him for buying bacon and tampons.

Andy and I, as adults who got back in touch in the middle of The Dirty W@l-Mart, are pretty good friends now who can talk about everything from cars and music to dating and emotions; good friends who know that each of us lives in a different world when it comes to relationships, and that's alright for each of us. Each of us cares about what happens to the other, but we both know that we'd probably never make it if we tried to "be together."

That's not "Demon Involvement."

Now, as for what I felt Friday Night at the pizza place, well, I'm still up in the air about that.

Running into people from your past can be so odd, and it's not always like the night that guy I used to know cornered me under the pressbox and threatened to kill me... A time or two in Skiatook, I've locked eyes and exchanged smiles with a girl I'm just sure sat beside me in art class in junior high; just sure, but just not sure enough to be sure it's her, and neither one of us ever managed to say anything, it was always just a fast little "silent hi" kinda smile, so I'm still not sure if it was really her or not. I swapped that kind of smile with a waitress in a little diner one night and she came back over to ask if she knew me from somewhere; sure enough, I used to go to church with her and her sister.

Because it's never good to engage people who look angry, I try not to just let myself slouch into that look of hostility that sometimes seems to sneak in alongside generalized boredom. I try to always be ready to at least look inquisitively into the eyes of others; I figure that if I can't muster "instantly friendly," I can at least avoid "instantly hostile." It's probably sick how much I worry about that -- like the night I ran into Stacey at the hockey game; I spotted her as my eyes drifted through the crowd right when I was about to nod off -- boy, was I ever glad I got to talk to her so I could tell her just how bored I was and that I was glad she woke me up.

I know that I couldn't have looked bored or angry or hostile at that moment, because I'd just pulled the first slice of pizza onto my plate and was about to stick my fork into the first bite of cheesy, meaty, magical goodness. Mmmmm, the "Hall Of Fame," Pepperoni, Salami, Polish Sausage, and Bacon -- it ordinarily comes with Jalapeno Peppers too, but we order it without 'em, and add on Canadian Bacon instead. The Minuteman does not use a timed conveyor belt like lots of pizza places do, they use a real oven and keep an eye on each pizza, cutting the edges in and popping the bubbles out of the crust until it looks just perfect to take out and slice. It is perfect, The Minuteman makes the perfect pizza every time, and we're to the point that we just don't eat pizza from anywhere else unless we're just too sick or tired to leave the house.

When I met her eyes, I'm sure I ended up with something between "inquisitive" and "blank stare" just due to the conflict between being calm and happy and the fiery flash of a million emotions and little pains coming back to me all at once.

Sittin' in the greatest pizza place I know of, about to take a bite of an awesome pizza, with the second coolest car my folks ever sold off parked right by the door, with the keys in my purse, you can bet I was a happy girl; but...

In that moment, I figured out how to put "that feeling" into words. When I "felt" Andy before I saw him, it was a surprise like when the doorbell rings unexpectedly (with the living room perfectly neat and the bathroom completely spotless). What I felt when I locked eyes with Dave's sister was like the feeling of having someone straighten out an old metal coat hanger, heat it over a campfire, and shoot it through me like an arrow, diagonally from one collarbone to the other hip.

She didn't recognize me. Not even second look. Not a clue.

It's probably best that she didn't try to talk to me; if she'd tried to feign friendly with me, I might've caused a scene.

Seven years, four months, and a few days since I last kissed her brother and listened to him drive off down the hill. Seven years, four months, and a few days since I fought rush-hour traffic to get to where he was, or where his body was...

Seven years, four months, and a few less days since I got tired of saying "not yet," so I stood up for myself and said "no."

Seven years and a few months or so since I learned the hard way that "We want to help you" didn't mean help with bills or someone to talk to; but something more like "We're waiting to get our hands on some stuff."

But I'm not going into that here, and it's probably a good thing I didn't end up going into it in the middle of the pizza place.

Boy am I ever thankful for how far I've come in seven years or so, thankful for Love, thankful for kindness, thankful for real friends who couldn't put a dollar amount on a friendship if they tried...

_\,,/

Maybe those new pills are pretty good...

I had my "yearly" Dr. Appointment a couple weeks ago, and as appointments go, it went quite well. I got another different Dr., as is common practice with the "Clinic" that my insurance company let me pick. She was great, and the student she had with her was alright too -- So, I certainly hope that since the "Clinic" is affiliated with a University, that this Doctor is a Professor and not a high-level student who's about to graduate; that's how much I liked her in that one appointment, and it's not just because I got to skip the, ahem, smear this time.

I freaked out a little bit when my lab results came back -- My cholesterol is just a teensy bit (20 points) high, my triglycerides are a good bit high. When I talked to the new Dr. on the phone, she said she was pretty sure it was a genetic thing and not solely from what I eat, and she said all the right things to calm me down about it too. I had to go back for a liver function test (praying) so I can start a prescription to lower 'em and avoid the risk of problems for the next fifty or sixty years. That's what she said... And I could just kiss her for not tellin' me it's all because of my fat ass.

The thing that really made me love this new Dr. was that she didn't doubt me when I told her I had started taking "the pill" to level-out my hormones but I was not active, and she listened without making faces when I told her that I wasn't as able to fight the urge to be a psycho during the white pill week.

So, I got switched. She gave me the big long pill pack, the one that has three months of pink pills for every one week of white pills. I have two friends who have mentioned taking this variety of pill; one mentioned that it "keeps the crazy to a minimum," and the other is uncommonly happy with the decreased number of white pills -- and hey, I like both of those options! This morning I took my third hot pink pill outta that pack; last night, I got an, uhm, urge while watching a nature show about fig wasps. Getting my urges back to a little higher frequency is kinda nice too, and I have noooo problem takin' care of 'em myself... (Okay, I'll stop before I get into T-M-I territory.)

Today, I took one of those phone calls without lashing out too, so maybe I'll be able to laugh 'em off more like I used to.

Alone on the counter, I switched my lovely morsel of Red Velvet Cake to my left hand so my right hand would be free to look up parts with the ten-key, I picked up a phone and stuck it between my shoulder and my left ear to answer as I hit F9 to clear the computer screen. An older dude on the other end asked for one of the guys.

I told him that guy was out on the yard.

He asked for the other guy.

I told him that guy was running a fork lift.

He was quiet.

I tried to sound friendly, "Is there somethin' I could help ya with?"

Now, this is one of those places where "proving myself" is like a river to wade across...

He says he needs a six-hole fifteen-inch Chevy wheel.

This is a Ford yard, but I'm already ankle-deep in that river of proving myself, I'm wading across, dammit... I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I hold my right hand up with a "2" and ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is, making my right hand into a "3" and taking a nibble of cake from my left hand.

His end is still silent, save for a bit of labored breathing.

I'm pretty sure y'all can figure out where this is going. As my right hand turned into a "5," I decided to ask one more time even though I'd just about made up my mind we didn't have any mystery wheels... They're different for different years of trucks, even if it is a six-lug, it could be a metric or SAE, it could have a different offset, it could have a different size of center hole depending on whether the truck is two or four wheel drive.

After the sixth time I asked what year the truck was, he finally said "Ooooouuuuhhhhh, I dunno, somethin' around a '71..."

I tell him we don't have anything anywhere near that old around here, and we've handled mostly Ford parts for several years.

After a brief pause, he says, "Would it be better if I just came over there to talk to one of the guys?"

I was nice, and even though I forgot all about that "river of proving myself," I was nice.

I was nice.

I didn't say "Oh, fuck you very much" until I'd already hung up the phone.

Some sick little part of me hopes I'm still alone on the counter when he shows up.

Heh heh heh...

My First "Wordless Wednesday!"

Well, okay, so it's not completely wordless, but it is freakin' awesome beyond words...

The annual trip to Springfield is usually fascinating (with the exception of that one year that I got sick from that restaurant). Clay goes on Thursday afternoon and I leave outta here about mid-day on Saturday and take my time gettin' there, which usually involves stops at multiple Hobby Lobby stores.

I always enjoy walkin' a pass through "The Car Corral," and I shoot random pictures of the stuff I like...









The weekend in Springfield also always includes a trip to the Dirt Track -- I know I've mentioned Springfield before, but it bears repeating: The place is impressive. Even this close to the end of the season, the cars are still straight and shiny 'cause they don't have anywhere near the rough-driving problem we have around here. The pre-race prayer before the National Anthem always makes me cry too.

Some of my pictures turn out kinda cool;


And some turn out kinda blurry;


But still moderately interesting;


Interesting, as in using a Front-Wheel Drive body on an obviously Rear-Wheel Drive car:


Ah, but the most interesting car in the whole bunch was this one, the two-seater Modified:


And Clay surprised me with a ride in it at intermission.


In the shotgun seat with Jerry Hoffman his-own-self;


And Clay took lots of pictures:


Along with a video of the experience:


In the interest of honesty, I showed up in Springfield with a monster of a headache. I took a teensy nap when I got to the hotel, and I took Tylenol with dinner, but it didn't completely go away 'til the first time Jerry hit the gas; and then I forgot all about it.

The two-seater Modified is an incredible experience, and if you ever get the chance to ride in one, by all means, do it!

I can't say I ever worried for my actual safety, 'cause hey, it's only one car out there, so ya know it's already safer than any Pure Stock A Feature I ever pulled out with. The only thing I really worried about was crammin' my ass into a racing seat that was visibly smaller than any of the ones I've had in my own race cars; but it worked out alright. The shotgun seat even has it's own free-spinning steering wheel; which I'd just as soon hand off to somebody who'd get a kick out of holding it, 'cause I didn't put my hands on it once we were out on the track. All I could really think about with a steering wheel that doesn't do anything was the kid mashin' all the buttons on the video game even though he hadn't put a quarter in -- it's not responding, but he's pushin' all those buttons just like he's playin' like crazy 'cause he's not smart enough to know the difference...

I'd kinda hoped it would be a bit of a learning experience, especially since the track had dried out and slicked off some -- I don't seem to do as well on a dry/slick track, so I thought it would be great to see how somebody else drove it. The whole car is boxed-in on both sides, so I didn't really get to see what he was doin', but getting a feel for it was Amazing and four laps is really just not enough when it comes right down to it.

The State Fair wouldn't know a Thrill Ride if it bit 'em...

Full Flickr Set from the whole weekend: Here.

More later. _\,,/

Could ya hand me a pin, please?

So, after lots and lots of listing all of the possibly entertaining/satisfying responses for that guy on the phone yesterday, the first phone I answered this morning was an oh-so-familiar voice that said the exact same thing in the exact same tone.

He wanted to talk to anybody but me.

I almost managed to hold it back. Almost.

But I lashed out. I went batshit on him, and asked him if he remembered what he was doing eight, ten, twelve years ago, 'cause I was workin' here, workin' here, workin' here. When he tried to tell me it was "about something I didn't know anything about," I told him I'd been here long enough to know what the hell was goin' on and if I was the only one on the counter, I'd just have to be the only one there was to talk to.

Maybe he could hear my inner child... Not the one who loves Knight Rider and Hotwheels and Matchbox Cars; the older one, the frustrated junior-high one who could've been a School Shooter way back before School Shootings were all over the news.

There was something strangely satisfying that I could hear in his voice as he tried frantically to smooth things over; he called me "honey" and "baby" several times, and that almost pissed me right off until I realized it wasn't the same guy who pissed me off yesterday.

Whups. They really sounded a lot alike.

My inner junior high kid put her gun back in her backpack and tried not to cry...

When he finally gave in and asked me that question he thought I wouldn't know anything about, I was able to give a perfectly reasonable, professional, realistic, totally truthful answer.

"Yes, I saw the truck you worked on for us, and yes, you sent back the wrong key with it when we picked it up."

I resisted the temptation to say "See there? I know my shit..."

Here in the real world, I do not own any small guns that might fit inside any sort of backpack.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go find a pin so I can stick the almost-empty pill pack on my shirt to be sure the whole world can see just why I'm crazy this week.

Knight in shining whatever.

I woke up this morning with an incredible idea for a fascinating post, but it seems like the longer I'm awake, the dumber it seems. Either that, or it was like a dream and the major details that made it so fascinating have just slipped away.

I left work today wishing I was quicker at thinkin' on my feet and wondering why the best responses always come to mind well after it's too late to say them out loud.

Is it sad that I sat down in the living room with the laptop and got completely distracted by a re-run of "Knight Rider?"

I was so angry when I left work, but...

It's the first-ever-very-first episode.

I cannot believe anybody would talk to me like that, and I really wish I'd had a more interesting reply, and I really want to bitch about it, but I'm having a hard time focusing on it now...

And I can't believe I'm letting "teh internets" read about how I'm completely distracted by "Knight Rider" on RTV.

I was crazy about this show when it was new -- and I was six or seven years old. I was an obsessive kid (gee, like y'all didn't figure that out), I had the talking car with the David Hasselhoff action figure, and I even had Knight Rider jammies.

Now I'm 32 and completely distracted for a whole different reason. I have no idea why, but even though I thought "Baywatch" sucked, even though I snickered and giggled every time Norm McDonald joked about how "Germans love David Hasselhoff," even though I busted up laughin' when Spongebob Squarepants "Rode the Hoff," I get sucked in every time and I always sit down and watch. Even though I've talked to other people my own age who remember it being really cool way back in the day, and we've all said the same thing about how freakishly corny it seems now, but this show is like a time machine. It's a corny, hokey, goofy time machine that takes me right back to 1982 where The 'Hoff is long, tall and handsome; virile, young and healthy with a full head of soft, silky, curly hair and shocking blue eyes that are so beautiful, it doesn't matter how tacky a pastel-colored Members Only jacket looks when paired with dark jeans and a way-too-shiny, way-too-big belt buckle.

He's hot. There, I said it. I even had a very vivid hot dream about him a couple weeks ago. Yeah, hi there, internets, go ahead and make fun of me now.

I can't help but think about that song off that "Southpark" CD; "I'm not talkin' about Meridith Baxter Birney today, nooo, I'm talkin' about Meridith Baxter Birney who was on TV ten years ago..."

"I'm not talkin' about David Hasselhoff today, nooo, I'm talkin' about David Hasselhoff that was on TV twenty-five years ago..."

Oh man, twenty-five years ago. No, wait, twenty-seven? See there? I'm too distracted for math!

I'm okay for small-number math though -- Clayton and I had our first date four years ago tonight; Late Models on the high banks at Salina, and a lovely late night sittin' on the tailgate 'til I saw the moon way up over the top of the house. When I finally made it inside, the clock on the stove said Three Fifty-One just like a Ford small block.

Clay's blue eyes can make me feel things The 'Hoff wouldn't know anything about...

Happy Fourth First-Date-Anniversary, Baby!

More later... _\,,/

Actual Conversations.

Girl on phone: "I need doors with manual windows for a 96 Mazda MPV."

Me: "We don't have any Mazdas here, we handle Ford parts."

Girl on phone: "Oh, it wasn't a 95 Mazda, it was a 92 Buick Century."

--

Well shit. Next time, maybe I'll think quicker and see if I can sell 'em a dishwasher.