Friday, March 30, 2007

Remembering Why...

Movie Scene, "Wakin' Up In Reno," with Penelope Cruz & Billy Bob Thornton... He puts his shoe on the bar with a line to the effect of "Know what that is? That's two months' rent, what's that tell ya?" She answers back with a very sultry delivery of "Rent must be very cheap.."

That's all I could think about while I sat here listening to this know-it-all tell me how in Missourri, or anyplace other than Oklahoma, you can make a living in racing. Now, I've never raced in Missourri, but it seems to me that in the small-time world of home-town racing, things can't be that different a state away. Those NASCAR guys are making a living off the NASCRAP marketing empire, sure, they can make a living off it -- but most of us regular grass-roots summer weekend racers are definitely not able to race as a sole means of keeping the bills paid.

I bought my first car because it was something I'd always wanted to do; I had no idea what I was getting into, and I'd done almost no homework as to what to look for when buying an Outlaw Stock, but by-gawd, I had a little money, so the deal went down. The first time I started it up, it was the biggest, loudest thing I'd ever had my hands on and it lit up every nerve in my entire body -- a night at the races was heavenly, even when it was hell.

The first year I raced, I was stunned to find that they were handing out checks at the end of the night. Gettin' paid for something I'd always dreamed of doing; if that ain't a sweet deal, I'll kiss yer ass. That first season was quite an experience, and I did come out ahead financially, with the exception of what I spent on the car itself. It wasn't exactly a banner year, but the weekly checks took care of what I spent on B-32 and oil & filters anyway. I didn't figure in the $20 a week that it cost to get in 'cause I'da been spending that on "entertainment" whether I was racing or going to a movie or whatever. The other major consideration is that the Camaro, never a front-runner, ran that one motor and one transmission for the whole season and was only involved in one crash which only required pounding a fender back out flat.

I know that there really is no way to make a living at dirt track racing in Oklahoma, and most likely not anyplace else either. The only way to come close would be MLRA, TORA, or possibly WOO; but even then, the only real way to make a small fortune in racing is to start with a large fortune.

What pissed me off was when he said "Some people race for trophies; I ain't racin' for trophies, I only race for money."

Don't get me wrong, I need all the money I can get; but that's not what racing is about -- Money is why I have a Monday-thru-Friday Job.

All the work that goes into my racing is for that feeling that's so hard to put into words. Money won't motivate me to crawl under a car on a dirty trailer floor with my hair and bare skin exposed just to unhook a chain that I can't quite reach from outside the fender. Money isn't worth forcing a helmet down over a hooded sweatshirt just to stay warm in the car. Money isn't what makes me willing to get dirty and sweaty and skin my knuckles on greazy parts.

I do what I do for that feeling, for the way it feels to climb in, set the belts, and put the helmet on, for The Holy Time. For the way it feels as I head over the rise and out the gate onto turn four. For the way it feels when the guy at the cone points toward the flag stand. For the way it feels when the Green Flag drops. For the way it feels to be out there in the middle of it all with my heart pounding and my eyes watering. For the way it feels when it comes easy, and even for the times when it seems like it's just not going right at all.

For the way it felt to come under the Checkered for my first win, and for the way it felt to climb out of the car afterward, go to the front of the truck, and almost puke. For the way it felt to jump out of the car and hug My Dad. For the way it felt when two little boys I'd never even met before asked me to sign their T-Shirts. For the way it feels when my friends' kids want their picture taken with my car. For the way it felt when Tommy said "Well, ya can't tell which one's got the girl in it." For the way it felt the night I saw Shonda stand up with a huge orange 20 on a posterboard, and for the way it feels every time I look at all the messages that were written on the back of that posterboard that night after the races.

My other favorite movie quote is from Smokey & The Bandit -- "For the good ol' American Life, for the glory, for the money, and or the fun. But mostly for the money..." Two outta three ain't bad.

Here's to the Fun and the Glory, and with God's Grace we'll come up with enough Money to keep it happening in '07!

More Later... _\,,/


Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Ask Debbie...

Dear Sam:

Please, Please don't listen to Amy on this one!

I really don't think she "truly understands" the situation. She has a forty-year-old car that she's keeping, but she says it's not reasonable for you. So it's okay for her, but not for you? She says it's "unsafe at any speed;" which Amy's Corvair may well be, but if you've loved your Suburban this long, I'm sure you've taken care of it quite well, and let's face it, something built in 1990 was put together a lot better (and built a lot safer to begin with) than those ol' Corvairs. She also says that "women don't seem to get so sentimental about cars," and I can tell ya that's a load of crap right there. That's three good reasons I think Amy's way off-base on this one.

No, Sam, you are not crazy; there's nothing crazy about emotional connection. When it comes to insensetive, I don't know for sure, but I doubt it. I get the feeling from your letter that you do care about your wife's wishes; surely she cares about yours too. Maybe you can explain your thoughts to her so that she'll see why you want to keep the Suburban.

There's no real reason to worry about the safety of a 1990 model unless it's been abused or poorly maintained; which I'm sure yours has not; since you say you're emotionally attached to it, I'd say you've most likely taken good care of it. With six kids, there's nothing unreasonable about a big American-made 1990 Suburban where everybody has a seatbelt and nobody's crowded.

If you want to keep it, I say by all means, keep it! Surely keeping it maintained & insured is cheaper than making payments on something brand-new that's big enough for a family of eight. On an emotional level, if you just really need something else to drive, there's nothing wrong with keeping it around just in case you might want to get it out every now and then or maybe hang onto it to pass it along to one of the kids as a sentimental classic. I'll never forget driving to the Homecoming Game my Senior Year in the Trans-Am that My Mom drove me to my first day of Kindergarten in; Mom and I both still Love that car, it's not goin' anywhere -- surely one of your kids is sentimental too!

Where I come from, there are more memories stored-up in rollin'-stock than you'd ever believe. Words can't describe the feeling of finding that Indy Pace Car Mustang that I watched My Dad rebuild when I was in first grade; I was so proud to bring that home years later for Mom to see. I still smile when I see my ol' 94 Ford across the parking lot, and I plan to keep it for a long long time. I still get goosebumps when I think about bein' seventeen and crusin' down the highway in that limited-edition '75 GMC that My Mom drove when I was a baby. I still remember the shine of red paint, the smell of black leather, and the rumble of that '72 Pantera that My Dad sold shortly before I got a driver's license; and I'd give anything for a chance to have it back. Oh, the 351, and the smell, and the rumble like thunder that shook the whole neighborhood... It's makin' me feel all funny inside!

If you want to hang onto it, by all means, hang onto it! It's better than letting it go and wishing you hadn't!

_\,,/ More later...

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Monday, March 26, 2007

Me And My Anger Problem...

As if the HoMeSkOoL thing didn't worry me enough.

I was sooooooo close to titling this post "If you're Googling for ____ ____ ____ Church, I'd love it if you'd read this," but y'all know how I worry about my own little Googlers finding me.

I know, I know, I shouldn't go into Religion here, but stay with me -- I'm headed toward personal safety, and we'll get there if you'll just bear with me.

Now, I have no idea what led my brother and his wife to the ____ ____ ____ Church, especially seeing as how both brothers and I pretty much grew up in (or nearly in, however you'd like to say it) a little Baptist Church. I, personally, as an individual, have come to several conclusions on how I, personally, believe; I've learned a bit about what makes other organizations different as Methodists, Catholics, Baptists, Jehova's Witnesses, whichever. I don't have much of a clue about the Mennonites though, and I don't have a clue as to why my sis-in-law takes the kids there every time the door is open unless it's just to get 'em outta her hair for a while. That worries me too; after hearing about 'em all loadin' up in some highschool kid's car to go to Sonic while the folks think all the kids are "at church," but that's a whole different rant. I support every family's freedom of choice when it comes to churches, I just wonder how they made this choice since it's been at least two generations since anybody in this family owned a horse, buggy, or bonnet; but that's probably just a bad joke that's really beside the point.

I got away from said little Baptist Church shortly after I started college; partly because I got busy with things like camping in the woods on weekends, partly because I didn't feel all that guilty staying away since things didn't feel right to me there anymore. When I decided I might go back, I found out why things didn't feel right; my Sunday School Teacher had herself a little thang goin' on with The Pastor. After their little thang brought about two divorces and ruined the home life of several kids, I wasn't interested in being a part of that church anymore. I am sooooo happy & comfortable with my non-conformist little Baptist Church, because God wants our Honesty, not our Conformity. We're a small group, where most everybody knows most everybody's name; which is nice because who wants to be a nameless face in a massive throng? It's good to be with people who share my views, especially the one about how Religion is generally a bad idea because it's usually run by people, who tend to feck things up and that it's not about religion, it's about our Relationship With God and that's what's most important.

Going to Wednesday Night Church because you get to bring your damn skateboard seems about like going to the races because somebody might let you ride their four-wheeler. (Uh, guess who'd better not be touchin' mine, whole 'nuther rant there too though). Leaving Wednesday Night Church in the car with some highschool kid after mom drops ya off? Out of the question. I'da never even been ballsy enough to try it when I was that age, but apperntly, it works for their bunch.

One more thing that apparently works out okay for the Mennonites is letting an elementary school kid bring a knife to "church" with him.

Yeah, ain't that nice? The younger of the two HoMeSkOoLeRz, the one who's nine years old, apparently got cornered by a kid at "church" yesterday who pulled a knife on him and threatened to "cut his throat."

Wasn't physical violence one of the scary things about public school that made 'em choose HoMeSkOoLiNg???

I am also irritated by the fact that that sis-in-law seems to think it's not a big deal and that my brother "shouldn't get so mad" about it.

Shouldn't get so mad about it? Now, I'm not anybody's mom, but if some little bastard pulled out a knife and offered to cut my nine-year-old's throat, I would most definitely be mad about it. Shouldn't get so mad about it? As a crazy ol' aunt, I'm pretty fucking pissed off about it, and the first thing I said was "Are you sure about the quality of your church?"

There's a part of me that wants to tell her that because she's the mom of the only little MyLastName kids there's ever going to be, I want her to think about how she builds their future and what they learn from the choices she makes for them.

There's also a part of me that wants to corner her, pull out my pretty-butch-for-a-straight-chick pocket knife, grab her arm, jab her a couple times, and then ask her how mad she is about that.

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Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Disjointed Tuesday, "They're All Gonna Laugh At You!"

If you call a number that's listed in the Yellow Pages as "Ford Parts," start the call off with "Is this ____ Ford Parts?" and then tell the person who answered that you need "A Vortex 350 for a 90 Dodge Suburban," you really shouldn't be surprised if you hear giggling.


If you write down an e-mail address for someone, you should be careful to spell things right, both before and after the "at." "qt ok sent. gov" just isn't the same as "," and nobody should have to throw a guess as to just which letters were left out.


If you have trouble with that whole "turn-knob-push-door" concept, are you sure you're okay with being out on your own??


If you wait in line at Subway, have two sandwiches made, and then get to the cash register and decide you only want one of them, people are going to think you're a jerk. If you think the people who work at Subway are going to be able to "take that apart and just put that stuff back," you're a crazy jerk, and everybody in line behind you knows it.


And on a more personal note... If you do something, repeatedly, aiming at a target of irritating me, I'll eventually get pushed over the edge into the area of "pissed off." When you manage to hit the target you've been aiming at, don't act puzzled.


That's it... I'm done for now...

More later. _\,,/

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Saturday, March 17, 2007

I Love Meat. I Just Do.

Grazin' In The Grass?

I get a kick outta readin' blogs, I really do. People are fascinating; as Bloggers, and as Commenters.

Especially that guy who left a comment for me about my last post with a link to some damn Ford Bumper site. Hello? As if it's not totally obvious you were Googling for just the right place to leave your spammy comment with a link to your less-than-stellar site peddling who-knows-what-quality of parts...

Anyway, back to where I was headed.

So, every now and then, Heather posts some of the hateful mail just because it's usually hilarious. I'd link to her, but since most everybody already knows who she is, and I'm not getting paid, I don't really feel the need to. Amongst the usual punctuation-challenged and semi-literate pieces, she shared this one:


Holy Shit.

We're feeling the feelings of the dead animals?

I love bacon, but it's never made me crave corn. Fried Chicken made me thirsty as hell, but I thought that's 'cause it was salty; and it didn't make me want to scratch around or anything. Beef is some good eatin', and I like it in just about any form, but it's never made me want to eat grass and I've never felt the need to just indiscriminately shit right where I'm standing as I eat grass.

Oh, damn, now that I think about it, there was that Chinese Buffet... Man, that stuff was good, and I ate a bunch of it, and now I really wish I could lick my own genitals. Oh yeah, it wasn't the food; I'd already been thinkin' about that for years before I discovered the magic of Sweet & Sour.

So, what's the alternative? How can we get calm meat??

Oooohhhh, How'bout Natural Causes? Yeah, that's the ticket, let's just take our chances with somethin' that laid down and died somewhere, how'bout that?

I'll take my Ribeye professionally cut & packaged, thanks so much.

More later... _\,,/

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Thursday, March 15, 2007

It Was Only A Rental...

"Saint Valentine drove a red Continental,
With a headlight out, and a dent in the side;
He swore it wasn't his, it was only a rental;
But he drove it every single night..."

So, you rented a Nissan from Enterprise...

What's that you say? There's some asshole in a green Ford right on your bumper?

Well, if you're in such a hurry that it's totally necessary to run a stop sign to pull out in front of someone, you're being an asshole. Or, if you were talking on the phone as you came up the exit ramp and just didn't notice there was a stop sign there or didn't notice there was a car coming, you're being an asshole.

If, after you've ran the stop sign and then noticed that there was in fact a car coming, and that car has ended up awfully close to your Silver Rent-a-Altima, you choose to hit your brakes instead of continuing in your noted hurried fashion, yes, you guessed it, you're being an asshole.

If, after establishing that you're in such a hurry that "STOP" signs at the top of exit ramps don't apply to you, you decide to abandon the idea of hurrying just so that you can try to fuck with somebody who's trying to get to work, you're being an asshole. If you forget all about your hurry so that you can slowly creep up to sixty just to slam the brakes and get 'er down to thirty or twenty four times in a stretch of five or six miles, you're being an asshole.

I know, I know, it's not your fault you're being an asshole. It's not your fault you ran the stop sign when there was a car coming, and of course it's not your fault you almost got hit, 'cause hey, they should've been watchin' closer and stayed outta your way since those stop signs aren't for you. It's all to blame on that other car who was afraid to just go around you because since you'd already established that you're in the mood to be an asshole, you'd probably just floor it as soon as the other car pulled out to pass.

And hey, there's no accountablilty and you can be an asshole all you want since nobody will recognize you after you take that rental back.

Don't worry, we all know who the asshole is, it's pretty obvious.

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Monday, March 12, 2007


Saturday, we spent most of the day gettin' The Twenty ready for paint. Grinding, sanding the spots I missed, grinding some more... I had to take a couple wheels to one of the body shops, a rare occasion for a Saturday, but at least traffic was fairly light most of the way. The Crab stopped by to see us, and when I got back from Tulsa, the car was sittin' there runnin' and almost ready to be washed.

In chatting about websites, the topic of The Blog came up, along with how I haven't been posting as often as I did in November. While I did have fun with the NaBloPoMo post-every-day in November deal, I kinda wondered if I was crankin' out the crap just to be writing every day. I know deep down that I probably have to stand a little crap just to work out the odds and turn out a good post every now and then, but I guess the bit about ""Ramblings"" did shake my tree ever so slightly.

So... While there is apparently at least one person who was enjoying the ramblings, I still have this itch to cut the crap and just post the interesting stuff.

Sunday Morning, Oops, Afternoon, I was trying to think of what to write about next. Rubbing my hair with shampoo and rackin' my brain tryin' to figure out something fascinating and philosophical just wasn't workin' like it usually does, and I couldn't think of a thing. Nothin' was comin' to me, not a thing; and then I ended up at K-Mart.

We've been runnin' around to all kinds of different places looking for these. Clay's holdin' all three of the ones we found at the K-mart in Sand Springs -- one of the last three remaining K-marts in the Tulsa Metro Area. Like the true obsessive people we are, we've been trying to hoard up all the Matchbox 63 Cadillac Hearses we can get our happy little hands on -- one from a Toys-R-Us, one off Ebay (that I bought because I didn't think we'd ever find a second one) and these three from K-mart. The 63 is a little different bodystyle from my '68, but bein' that small, it's close enough and they're pretty darn cool.

Yesterday afternoon led to a trip East, as in "Hey, we haven't been to thatK-mart yet..." Ah, that K-mart, you know, the one in that part of town. Before the recent fit of Hearse-Hunting, I hadn't been to a K-mart since who-knows-when. It was like stepping back in time -- back to when CD's were rare & usually just "greatest hits," Cassette Tapes were plentifully available, along with those tabletop cassette recorders like we had in the "media center" in elementary school. This K-mart was no different -- and 'twas also a fascinating people-watching opportunity.

Rounding the corner from the lawn & garden department into the toy car aisle where Clay was standing, it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud as my mind flashed back to a senseless yet unforgettable moment from my last Christmas break as a highschool kid...

I don't remember where we'd been, but we were coming toward downtown Tulsa on I-244 in Andy's ol' grey Monte Carlo -- the one I'd love to have for a parts-car right about now. I was sittin' in the middle of the front seat, between Andy and his roommate, who was just about as agitated as he could be. It was the first time I'd ever heard the phrase, and I'm sure My Mom would want to smack all three of us if she knew how it's stayed with me all these years -- "Get me home, man, I got a damn turtle-head pokin' out." Poor Randy had to shit so bad, but just couldn't stand the thought of any of the half-dozen or so QuickTrips and other stores we'd passed along the way. "Get me to the house, I gotta shit!"

Between what I saw in K-mart and the vivid memory of my then-boyfriend-now-good-buddy's voice making fun of his friend way back when, it's really a stroke of luck that I didn't just bust out gigglin' like an idiot and get thrown outta the place.

It's not that I caught somebody takin' a shit in the lawn & garden department; it's just that the first thing I could think of was "Get me home, man, I gotta blog!"

Heh... You didn't really think that... Naaaahhhh, surely not... Oh, wait, we are talkin' about that part of town...


In the lawn & garden area, the folks who run K-mart have put together a display model of one of their patio furniture sets, with a glass-topped table and six or eight chairs under a nice little matching canvas canopy with mosquito net sides tied to the corner posts with matching ribbon.

Amid the common "kid noise," I happened to walk by as a Mom was telling her kids to "Just sit down and shut up, I'll be back in just another minute." The kids, two little girls with matching hair-do's, and a boy a little older, were sitting at the patio table. As I got closer, I could see why the girls were loud and the boy was not. I know I'm a bad guesser when it comes to ages, but I'd say the little girls were probably around kindergarten-age, and then boy was a little older, maybe fifth grade or so; I'm not sure, but I'd guess by their size they'd be old enough to know better. Apparently I'm a bad guesser when it comes to "old enough to know better" too, since I was raised by a Mom who insisted on being absolutely sure that all of her kids did know better...

The two little girls were loud and unruly, but the boy was quite occupied. On the table in front of him was a vividly bright, partially colored coloring book and a big box of Crayola Crayons; open from the box-top, not the traditional perforations.

Remember that first-day-of-school feeling? Remember that magical smell that only comes around once a year? Remember what it was like to crack that diagonal perforation around the lid of a brand-new-untouched box of Crayola Crayons? I vividly remember carefully breaking each little sliver of thin cardboard that held the big square lid sealed and then folding back the cover to reveal four stadium-style rows of perfectly molded points of every imaginable color from ordinary ones like red or blue to the wildest in-betweens of puce, magenta, and peach, and the amazing white Crayola that just wouldn't really make a mark on anything, even colored construction paper; but the white one was still special because it was only available in those big boxes. I remember that feeling of knowing that there was potential in that box, all sorts of creativity just waiting to be released by my own hands; and I also vividly remember knowing that they'd only look like that this one time, all those perfect little points would be gone in no time because no matter how carefully you color with them, those points never, ever stay that way. You can try to sharpen 'em, but they'll still never be the same because they're only brand new once.

I'd just about bet that as soon as the mom was finished up with her shopping and ready to load 'em up to head home, she's not going to drop that coloring book and box of crayons into her shopping basket on her way tot he check-out. I'm sure that's why it was open from the top flap instead of from the perforations. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the whole mess didn't get left on that patio table without a thought; or if it did all get picked up, it probably ended up getting left in the toy department, or stuffed in behind something like a rack of underwear or shoes, or behind a television in the electronics department. Just like motor oil in the greeting card aisle...

Somewhere a few months from now, a good kid who's excited about going back to school will probably pick up that big box of Crayola Crayons along with their brand-new notebooks and pencils and fresh bottle of glue and put it all in their new backpack to head out for the first day of school. In some elementary school, some good kid will be disappointed because the crayons in that box had already been colored with; but will they be able to talk mom and dad into returning the box to the store? If the kid is able to convince his or her parents that it's not just a scam to get the brand-new ones again, will the kid and parents be able to convince the person at the K-mart service desk that they really did get them from the store that way, especially if the unsuspecting good kid has already broken that perforated seal?

Parkin' your kids at the patio furniture display and tellin' 'em to read a book or something is almost reasonable, if you've got well-behaved kids who'll sit there and just look at a book; but let's face it, lettin' 'em tear into a box of crayons (hey, be careful not to tear up that box, we've gotta put those back) and start a coloring book in the middle of a store is a low-down dirty thing to do. Teaching kids how to make good use of resources is a great thing; but letting kids grow up thinkin' the whole entire K-mart store is just sittin' there bein' all theirs and free to use as they please is just not a good idea.

And that's my two-cents-worth of parenting advice for the day.

Oh, and a little more advice -- if you're buying a big box of crayons at K-mart, open that top flap and take a little peek to make sure they're not used.

More later. _\,,/


Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Disjointed Wednesday!

Well, Hello Google and Helloooooooo Chandler Arizona! Ah yes, Chandler Arizona, home of Dave's Parents (last I knew, anyway), is where the latest big-fun-Google hit came from. The search was for "mardi gras girls beads breasts tits." Well Woo! Someone in the UK also found me by searching for Clay and Debbie Salsa, which admittedly sounds rather interesting. Clay does make some bitchin' Salsa, I'm kinda proud to have my name tagged-along on that concept. Heh. Sorry, I know I was really reachin' for it on that one...


That "pfb" stitch that I was fighting with last week came pretty easy, then later on, I had to look up "ssk" just to be sure. When I Googled for it, I found this other lovely site with video; it was easy as could be, and I decided that since I was actually getting the hang of the stitches, I'd ditch that clown-vomit yarn and start all over again with black and white.

And I'm fully fascinated with where it's all going:


The Twenty gets its orange paint this weekend...


The Twenty is one of the things that keeps me from leaving this job at a dead run. Yesterday I was so frustrated that I just got in the car and left before we'd even turned the signs around and locked the front door -- but not a word was said, so I guess it wasn't a big deal. I just figured that after I'd been alone on the counter while that damn drunkass spent twenty minutes in the can, I was just as important and could leave a couple minutes early to go meet Clay and get to Owasso in time to have dinner before 7:00. Seriously, he went in there at 5:00, we close at 5:30, and apparently there was just no way to wait. Seriously though, if I'm bad-off enough that it can't wait a half-hour for me to get home, it's not gonna take twenty minutes for it to fly outta there.


But I know, y'all listen to me bitch and gripe about that enough.


I'm not giving up on the ol' family biz just yet, but I'm more and more convinced that my next job will not involve the retail public. As entertaining as it is to laugh at 'em later, trying to help slow-thinkers understand how the telephone works is wearing a little thin. If you want to say "Hello" or "S Q Me" after every word I say, I guess it's your right -- but I don't always have time for it and I'm sometimes likely to hang up, especially if there's another line ringing while you repeat the same answer for every question I try to ask.

This morning, some ass called about a wheel; and even though he didn't want to tell me which "70 Ford" he was workin' on, and didn't want to take my word for it when I said we didn't handle anything that old, one of the things he tried to tell me was "Oh, it's an ol' Salvage wheel, I'm sure yawl got one out back there." Oh, well, God Knows, any wheel will fit on any car, right? Yeah, it don't matter what bolt pattern it is, the hubcaps cover those up... How fascinating is it that ol' jerks on the phone and young jerks in AOL Car Chat see that just the same? Oh, and if you already know everything that's here, why don't you get in here and answer these damn phones so I can go home? I know, I know, you want a five-hole sixteen-inch wheel, but there are only a couple dozen different ones when you consider width, bolt pattern, and offset. Just because the hub has five bolts doesn't mean any five-holes will fit over 'em, but hey, if you think they will, and you'd rather tell me you're "sure there's one here" than tell me which bolt pattern yours is, then why bother with the phone? Just hurry on over here and get one, and since you're so sure I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, I'll head on home as soon as you get here just so the place will be in better hands.


It's not all bad, I promise... (I'm sure that sounded a lot like puttin' down my hockey stick and climbing down off the roof.) I hope that guy who picked up the Merc differential this morning has a blessed day, 'cause he was a blessing to me, and I'll bet he didn't even know it. The little things mean a lot; on a morning when I'd been fighting to stay calm & professional, it was so very nice to deal with somebody who smiled, acted polite, swapped a check for a recipt, and chatted about how nice the weather was as he opened the tailgate of his red (rare) Jeep pickup. Seriously, it's so nice to get an easy one every now and then, and I'd rather lift heavy things onto tailgates for a couple dozen friendly decent people than lift one phone to my ear for another rude know-it-all dumbass. That's part of why I want to drive the truck -- I won't have to answer phones for people like that, I can smile and be friendly while lifting heavy things off tailgates, and I'll be more efficient running deliveries becuase I know without a doubt that I can get to Tulsa and back faster than you-know-who since hey, if I do have to stop at QuickTrip to use the bathroom, it's not going to take me an hour to get-er-done.


Have I mentioned my iPod itch? It's almost as bad as the MacBook itch was... I want one. I really really want an 80GB Video iPod, especially now that I ran onto the software to rip movies for it. I'm waiting though, because I'm just sure there's something new coming. I just bet there's something coming, and if I bought one now, there'd be an even bigger one come out in a couple weeks. So... Maybe by the time I'm finished paying off this MacBook... Just maybe...


Disjointed as it is, I can't think of much else I wanted to get out of my head...

More later... Peace, Love, and B-32! _\,,/

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Tuesday, March 06, 2007

And It Smells Sooooooo Good!

It's In!!

And it's my first YouTube Video!!!

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Thursday, March 01, 2007

Well Duh!

The internet is the handiest thing since... Since... Well... The handiest thing since the Thesaurus!

Oh my, if that's the best thing I could come up with, maybe I should just log out and try again later.

Anyway, I can guarantee it's better than those rude, grumpy Nigerian Telemarketers; two of whom have hung up on me this morning.

Yesterday morning as soon as I'd finished checking my mail, I Googled for that "pfb" thing, and I found This Lovely Page with nice big pictures of nice hands holding nice big wooden needles and working with nice easy-to-see orange yarn. Amazingly enough, I managed to resist the temptation to hunt up a couple pens and cast-on with some twine just to try it. I was also not distracted during Wednesday Night Group; probably because good teachers are good at holding people's attention, and I had a great time at Church. I didn't really think much about my knitting until I was about halfway home.

I picked it back up as soon as I was back in the house last night, and it was just as easy as it could be. It worked so easy I wondered if I'd just been out of my mind the night before.

I have a little hole toward the edge from where I didn't quite space things evenly when I was picking up stitches along the edge; but I'm not too irritated about it, and I'm not all that concerned about the not-so-wonderful combination of colors there. I'm thinkin' that once I have the techniques down, I'll start another one with colors that actually belong together.

I think I can do this, I think I can make it work...

And now I just want to go home so I can knit some more!!