Debbie Does Blog...

The post I've been sitting on for a couple Junes.

2012-02-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

I almost talked myself out of writing this, telling this story, then last night I realized just how much space it's occupying in my head, how many moments of inappropriate tears I've fought back. He's not someone who gets to be there rent-free, so I'm getting him out right here, right now.

Last night, I headed into my ever-changing, ever-growing hometown, down the same roads I drove to get to highschool. The car, like all my cars, has a little age on it; I've had this one back on the road since the end of August, and just made the last payment last month. That's part of what I like about the older cars, salvage auction, MasterCard, zero-interest deal, only a year's worth of payments. This is my second Mark VIII, bought gently fender-bendered from the auction in hopes of replacing the one that broke a timing chain the previous Christmas. My first one was sparkly, snowy white with tan leather; this one looked white on the webcam, but it's more of a vanilla color with a little paler shade of leather, different wheels, and the first sunroof I've ever had. I'm taking a while learning to like the vanilla color, but I love that sunroof more than I ever imagined! Life's good when you appreciate the little things…

Just like every time I leave the East side of my neighborhood in either Mark VIII, I eased up to the stop sign and hit the two-button sequence to turn off the traction control just in case I ended up with the chance to shoot for a gap and possibly hang it out sideways in the process. Like every time, I found my gap and even though I took off hard, I didn't take off hard enough to hang it out sideways -- yeah, hi, I'm a grownup. About the time I got moving and headed toward town, I reached for the radio and hit the #1 button.

The radio's memory buttons are a habit that has stayed with me as long as I've been driving. The same stations have been on essentially the same buttons all these years, save for a few changes when stations changed hands or when Tulsa got a classical station. #1 is a station that I don't listen to near as much as I used to, but it's still there. When I hit the button, I figured it wouldn't stay there long 'cause they don't play the old stuff like they used to; usually I just see what's on and if it's some new corporate radio crap, I flip on to the next station. My finger was already touching the surface of the #2 button, then I heard the DJ introducing a song, "The new one from Shinedown, it's called Bully."

Wait, what? Okay, I'll let it play.

"It’s 8 AM, this hell I’m in, Seems I’ve crossed a line again, For being nothing more than who I am."

Shit, here he is again, the FaceBook message, the screen-grab, the blog post I keep putting off, the flashbacks to the anger and the self-loathing; the guy I forgot when I wrote "Bullet List."

And there I was, crying alone in my car again.

I must've blocked a lot of it out, but the message he sent me on FaceBook brought way too much of it right back to the surface, where it's been popping back in on me every once in a while ever since a year ago last June.

He was a year older than me, and we were both in band. He sat near me quite a bit, and he always had something to say about anything and everything; usually involving my clothes or the size of my ass. I think what made him the worst of 'em all was that I really wanted to care, I didn't want to be angry all the time, I wanted to be warm and kind and friendly, not ugly and mean and full of hate all the time. He wasn't just mean like all the others; he'd pull me in and make me think he was going to be nice this time, let me think he'd changed and was all warm and sweet, then he'd say something nasty, even worse than the last time. That led to me not only hating him, but hating myself for letting him trick me into believing he might not be mean anymore. Over and over again, I'd sit through band practice hating myself for letting him trick me again, hating myself because apparently I'm not even good enough to be friends with someone who sits an elbow away from me every damn morning.

I had Jesus in my heart then and might've even offered to share in the warmer moments, but you didn't care at all, you were always mean, always nasty, always finishing with abuse every time. I've carried your words and your meanness around with me way too long, and I'm done now, because I know you never had to fight back tears before you made it to the front of the line at the drive-thru. You may say you're not the person you were back then, but I have too much experience with your words, I don't trust your words and I don't trust you. For the good of humanity, I hope your kids are as "wonderful" as you claim they are, I hope they're not relentlessly harassing anyone who'll end up crying alone in their car twenty years from now. I especially hope you're not just one more jerk hiding behind the supposed goodness of "church people," just lurking in the shadows waiting for one more chance to tear someone else down. Don't worry, The Lord is with me, His Peace is with me, but not because you sent Him to me. He has always been here for me; he kept me from ending up a school shooter, didn't he?

I haven't sent any sort of reply, none at all. I've written it in my head a thousand times, but no matter how eloquent it starts out, it always ends with "and the horse you rode in on."

Yeah, I think that's about it; I've let my thoughts out here because letting them out was what I needed; there's no point in wasting my time on someone who's not worth the hassle of a direct reply. That sums it up best, so I'll just go ahead and say it, "Fuck you, John, and the horse you rode in on."

Notes From A New Job.

2011-09-28T18:17:00.000-07:00

So, a while back, I wrote (eh, vaguely) about a big change.

I also covered an old story and a thrilling moment with the trailer.

In the month or so since, I guess you might say another big change took place.

After I'd heard the words "prollyoughta look for a job," way too many times, I put in a couple applications. Prollyoughta, that's one of those Oklahoma words, like "y'uns." Don't look at me like that, this blog and F@ceBook are the only places I actually use those Oklahoma words in type.

I'd applied for a couple jobs that sounded interesting, but I can't say I was being real serious about the hunt. I didn't hear anything back and none of the people I'd given as references heard anything either. Then one day, I got a phone call from this friend of mine… Probably the best friend I've had as an adult, and certainly the closest guy friend I've got who's never seen any part of me nekkid. (Heh, there's another Oklahoma word.) He was the first person to hand me an iPod to play with, he showed me the magic of microwaved peanut butter as a dessert topping, he made me cry with emailed pictures of brand-new babies, and he taught me how to order my dinner at Taco Bueno, as in "say these exact words," so that I get a whole entire box of just what I want, and it's so good, he'd about as well be a Jedi.

Find your people, you need a friend like that!

So, he calls me with this job offer, and first, I panic and say I need to talk it over with my Mom and Clay… As soon as I hang up, I start thinkin' I'll go for it… I was scared shitless, but I decided to go for it. I wouldn't have had the balls to try something like that from a want ad or a CL post, but since my name had already been mentioned as having experience, I went for it.

It involves moving trailers. It's three ten-hour days. It works out to more money than I was making in the ol' salvage biz.

It's only three days a week.

I get a comfy seat with AC and heat, and I pick the radio station. No retail public. No phones.

No more calling tech support then answering questions about the p@rn on the office PC. No more sharing a bathroom with Teh P@rnhunter.

Those first couple days, I was kinda worried; but it's been getting easier and easier as time goes by.

My trailer-backin' skills are gettin' better and better, like within inches. The in-traffic people-watching that comes with a couple hundred miles a day is incredible.

I already got a raise.

It's pretty freakin' schweeet!

_\,,/

Packing Materials and Flashbacks.

2011-06-15T13:02:00.000-07:00

I don't think I had a "traditional college experience." I did a little bit of partying, but my well-planned-out weekends were probably nothing; I say "well-planned-out" because I always made sure my car was safely out of the street and I stayed put 'til noon the next day. I only got truly drunk once, all those other times, I still stayed put 'cause I just stayed put. I never showed up at school under the influence, I never skipped classes, I always did my best to not be late…

I still couldn't fit the mold. My Mom still pokes at me about why the hell I didn't get the degree, and I know she'd never understand, so I don't try to explain. I guess they're a tight group that won't let just anybody in; I mean, really, they all loaded up to go to the lake 'cause somebody had a lake house and a sailboat, they all loaded up and went to some bar 'cause somebody played in a band. Nobody wanted to load up and come to the races when I bought my first Outlaw Stock. I just didn't fit the mold. The girl who had the highest grade in the whole program used to have all the parties and mix all the drinks and let us all sleep at her house afterward, she quit, just got sick of it all and quit. The girl who was always falling asleep in classes, she got a degree. The girl who always had gloves on because she was afraid to touch people, she got a degree. I, the girl who brought rollbar padding and zip-ties to a clinical rotation to save a patient's legs from the sharp parts of a power wheelchair, I did not make it outta there with a degree.

I didn't manage to fit the mold. I'm alright with that, except when My Mom brings it up over and over again. I have fun with what I do, I make enough money to pay my bills and I'm not stressed-out all the time, it's good enough for me.

Every now and then, I still think about the professor who "broke the news" to me that I wasn't good enough, because "not good enough" ended up being something I struggled with off and on through my twenties. She had to have a third party present in our meeting that day; the program director couldn't be there supposedly due to having to take her dog to the Vet. She wore a denim vest with worn places under her elbows; the white threads dirty and brown like she didn't realize it needed to be washed every once in a while. She told us about how we needed to "be adult learners," but she almost never made it to any class meeting on-time. One of the people who told me I wasn't good enough didn't even know enough to keep her own clothes clean -- that always helps me remember that good enough for me is good enough; I do have high standards for myself, I am good enough.

I do vividly remember one particular experience with that professor, I had a little flashback to it earlier this week.

After a string of break-in's around here, we ordered a motion-activated camera, which came in the mail. The cardboard box was just big enough to have lots of room, just small enough I could bring it back from the post office on my bike. Inside, the camera and matching memory card were cushioned with those "air pillow" strips of inflated plastic bags, the kind that always remind me of my one shining moment with that professor.

She had unpacked some sort of shipment in the lab office, and reused the box for something else, so she'd stuffed a bunch of those packing pillows into the wastebasket beside the office door. She kept trying to poke them into the half-full waste paper basket, and they kept squishing out because there were so many of them. Their fluffiness made them excellent for protecting things in shipping boxes, but it also made them very difficult to cram into a little trash can. She kept trying though, this supposedly educated silvery-haired adult just couldn't seem to figure out that every time she crammed some in, more spilled over the edge of the container. I watched for a little while, I have no idea how long I sat there and wondered just how much a degree meant, the kind of degree where you get to sign your name with letters after it, just how much could it mean if you have that much trouble with simple problem-solving?

The first pair of scissors my eyes landed on were the kind for cutting bandages, all chrome, thin loop handles, short little blades, with a safety knob on the bottom side. I quietly stepped over toward the trashcan and corresponding pile of packing pillows, and silently snipped a hole in each little pillow, allowing them to deflate and sink into the wastebasket, where they now took up almost no noticeable space.

She looked a little shocked; I'm not sure if it was at the simplicity of the solution to the problem, or the fact that I, a lowly student, had been the one to discover it.

I didn't get a degree, but I learned a lot about how people work.

I don't have nightmares anymore, but I do still remember her every time I unpack a box and find those air pillows.

I don't get to sign my name with letters after it, but I still manage to get things done.

From A Trailer.

2011-06-02T20:26:00.005-07:00

Get away from Go0gle Reader and go write something once in a while!"

There's a lot to be said for the experience of owning a trailer… Not the kind you have to run away from when a storm comes; the kind you can hook onto the back of a truck and haul a car with.

As a kid, I lived in the kind you have to run from when a storm comes, and I can't seem to come up with any desire to do it again -- especially not one on top of a big hill, where running for cover involves getting in a 4x4 Toyota with a roll bar (like that would save anybody from tornado debris?) and rushing down the hill in the rain and the wind and the dark and oh God, please no, never again.

I remember when I was in middle school or junior high, well before I had a driver's license, my folks had a big ol' deck boat. I can't really say we were "boat people," I think it was just one of those things Dad got a steal-of-a-deal on and brought home to fix up a bit and sell off later. One of my little "things" with my Dad was that when we headed home from somewhere, if it was just Dad and Me, he'd stop at the same spot on the way into the neighborhood and let me drive home. My Mom was not a fan, she didn't willingly ride in anything with me until well into my twenties, but Dad would pull over and stop at that same corner in whatever he was driving and switch me places, as early as fourth or fifth grade -- his truck, Mom's car, lot cars, the wrecker, and one time, I even got to drive the GMC and pull that enormous boat to the house.

Until I bought my first race car, that was the extent of my trailer experience.

For the first few nights of that first season, David drove the truck and pulled the trailer and parked it in his space so that I could unload the car he'd raced the previous season and sold to me. The first time he had to work late, he would be to the track in time for the actual races, but I can't stand having to rush and hurry and take chances on messing things up -- I need to take my time getting ready and know that I've done everything that needs to be done. So, that night was my first time alone with the truck and the trailer; and I wasn't nearly as worried as My Mom. I still maintain my belief of what I told her that afternoon when I left, "The truck does the hard part." The truck takes care of most of the hard work, but I still had a lot to learn.

I drove to the race track, bought my pit pass, and pulled in to head for my spot. I made a wide circle and eased it into the spot we always used; a truck to my left and a crooked patch of concrete to my right. I was in there smooth and easy, and before I could put the truck in park and take the key out, there was a knock on my window. I put a smile on and reached for the window crank; then I realized, it's that guy who tapes his foot on with ducktape every week. It's possible he could've been attempting to stabilize a weak ankle, but seriously, he would put layer after layer of ducktape over his pants leg and his shoe, not like when the football coach tapes up an ankle, more like if you tried to fix a gate hinge with ducktape instead of bolts. All that tape, when we're three miles from a Walgreen's where you can buy a well-made brace with laces and not have to pick all that glue out of the pants and the shoe! He was also the same guy who watched me back the car off the trailer a few weeks before and asked Dave, "Are you gonna let her drive it forward too?" That guy. Ugh. Oh well, I already smiled, at least I'm a friendly girl.

"You can't park there."

Uhm, what?

"You can't park there, that's Dave's spot, you gotta move."

Dave'll be here in a little bit, c'mon, don't you remember me?

"Back it on out."

I tried everything and he wouldn't' listen to me -- there I was, in the same white Ford truck, with the same black trailer with the same blue-green Camaro with the same white 20 on it, the same girl who always shows up with David every Friday, but noooooo…

Looking back, it's one of those moments I wish I'd stood my ground better -- hey, I'm ten years older now, I'd do it differently if it happened again, but at that moment, I was just trying to get it over with. "Back it on out, I'll help ya," he said. He stood in front of the left headlight of my truck and pointed at me, or at the area behind the truck, whichever. I started it up and let the park brake go, and put the ol' white Ford in reverse. As I let my foot off the brake, the truck started to roll backward and the trailer pushed sideways, headed for this guy's car that he'd unloaded behind his trailer. He put his other hand up and made a circular motion, apparently like the steering wheel of the truck; if you're familiar with Sign Language and/or the Manual Alphabet, you can picture that hand like the letter "e" with the thumb sticking out instead of folded near the fingertips.

I knew that backing the trailer was not an easy task, and I knew that I had noooo experience with such task. I'd left work that afternoon with every intention of carefully planning where I left the truck and trailer so that I would not have to back up, but there I was with him pointing and yelling and angrily circling that "e" at me. It was not working, it was just not working, probably partly because he was facing me and making the motions, probably mostly because the longer it wore on, the more frustrated he got and the more stressed-out I got. I lost count of how many times I pulled forward and backed up and pulled forward and backed up, trailer twisting as it pleased, but somewhere along in there, the frustration got the best of me and I put the truck in park and put my arm out the window. I signed for the guy with the taped-on foot to come closer. When he got to the driver's door of the truck, I pulled the handle and popped the door open. Without breaking eye contact, I slid my ass over into the middle of the truck seat -- "Here," I said, patting the seat beside me, "This whole arm-motion business is NOT working, so you just climb right in here and YOU put this truck wherever you want it to be."

He sighed an exasperated sigh I'll never forget, his shoulders dropped, and he waved a hand across in front of him, making the internationally recognized sign for "Oh, screw it!" as he turned to walk away, back toward his own truck. I put the ol' six-cylinder Ford into drive and pulled forward, back to almost exactly the same spot where I'd put it in park the first time I pulled in. I got my ramps out and unloaded my Camaro, got the tools out and ready, and was calmly waiting to go race when Dave got there. Mister Ducktape never made eye contact with me again after that -- I'm sure he has no idea that I'm thinkin' about him almost every time I end up having to back a trailer. Heh. Thinkin' about mowin' him down. Muwaahaahaa, just kidding.

Since then, that ol' trailer been hitched to several different trucks and has hauled several different race cars, auction cars, breakdowns, horse traders, and furniture. The first time I saw Colorado was with that trailer, loaded down with both four-wheelers and a freezer, in hopes of bringing home a dead elk. The first time I hitched it onto my nearly-new black & silver big block Ford, I'd backed the ball right under the tongue perfectly on the first try and I was so proud; in my excitement, I forgot to latch the hitch, and when we pulled the Camaro up the ramps, the tailgate caught the full brunt of the launch just before the safety chains ran out of slack. The first time I fell asleep at a race track, I was sitting on the side of that trailer, feet square on the ground in front of me, hands in my lap, and fully asleep with a Modified B-Feature on the track -- it was past one AM then, it was well past 2:30 when I finally made it to the track in my Pure Stock. The second weekend after David died, I came down to the barn by myself to load up my stuff and go back to the races, I climbed up onto this trailer and sat down, cross-legged, right in the middle of the wood, just to think about how things had been and wonder how things were going to be from here on out.

Over the years of racing, I figured out a thing or two about myself and trailers; like if I can't look in the mirrors and back the ball under the tongue in one try, I can get out and go look at it, then figure out where I need to put my foot to get it right. If I have a truck that doesn't sit too high and doesn't have a manual transmission, I can put myself halfway in the seat with one foot on the ground and back the truck to where it needs to be. The professor who covered "Proprioception" didn't really appreciate that little bit of information, but I still use it anyway.

Even with that skill under my belt, I still struggled a lot with that whole backing the trailer thing. My Dad can put a 20-foot trailer into a ninety degree parking place between two cars just like at Wal-Mart. One night I watched him back it into a garage door, race car, ATV, tools, tire rack and all, through a garage door with less than two fingers worth of spare space on either side. I ain't even tryin' that. One of my girls on (Coffeyville's only) "All-Girl Pit Crew" had experience with fishing tournaments and could get the trailer anywhere backwards and lightning-freakin'-fast from having to outrun "those other guys" and get the trailer into the water to get the boat out quick. From my spot in the shotgun seat, with or without anybody in the middle, she was so fast and made it look so damn easy, it was like a magic trick and I didn't stand a chance of figuring it out by watching 'cause it happened so quick.

Seems like nobody really teaches that whole "how to back a trailer" thing, no matter how valuable of a skill it can be.

Through several little moments; in the pits of race tracks, on city streets, in driveways, in parking lots, in the back yard (or the front yard), I took on the task of figuring it out myself. I'm not ashamed to admit, it took me a while. Every now and then, I'd strike it real lucky and manage to back it right into the driveway; then there'd be other nights that I'd spend an hour out there, barely miss the neighbors' mailbox, and end up turned completely around just trying to get it out of the street. Just like that night with Mr. Ducktape, I knew that if I tried to rush it, I was screwed. I always end up with better luck if I have the time to stop, sit still, and look things over -- look around and think it through, look in the mirrors, look at what's close by that couldn't take a hit from a trailer (or a truck), and forget about whether or not anybody can see me. The stop sign at 106th & Peoria barely survived a hit from a trailer (my apologies to the county highway department), I'm still pretty sure it's all 'cause some dip crowded me off the bridge, and I was trying to hurry so he wouldn't hit the front of my truck.

It takes a minute or two to look at where I want to get the trailer to go, and then think about how to go about it. Turning the wheel to the right makes the front of the truck ease to the left, which pushes the back of the truck to the right, which pushes the front of the trailer to the right, which pushes the back of the trailer to the left. Oh man, that's the first time I've ever typed that all out, and it makes even more sense now! Even when anybody would try to give me tips, like "turning the opposite way," I couldn't get it to make sense in my head. While I was trying to figure out what to do about the button on the E4OD transmission, I found a little bit in the truck's owner's manual about backing the trailer, and it said to "put your hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and push the way you want the trailer to go." That really turned a light on, but I still try my best to process it through my own thick head. When I can take the time, I (mostly) do just fine… I can look in the mirrors and see what the trailer is doing in relation to what my hands and feet are doing, and I can make it go where I want it. I'm still not going to do it real fast, and I'm still going to avoid the really tight spots.

Last night, I backed the ball under the tongue on the first try and hung that trailer on the back of the diesel extended-cab and picked up Clay at his house. I was kinda proud of myself for bein' able to turn around at the end of the block; something I only tried because there were absolutely no cars parked in the street at all. We headed on over to South Tulsa to pick up Clay's newest Camaro at an auction company. An auction company that really doesn't specialize in cars… In the back lot of an auction company that really doesn't specialize in cars. I had to make a left across three lanes of after-work rush-hour traffic, into a parking lot at a near u-turn, then make a right through two gates. I made it through the gates, nervously, past the Camaro like oncoming traffic, to turn around and get the trailer ready to load it, then I saw that the back lot was full-up with trucks and trailers and trailers and trailers -- there was not a big empty patch of gravel to make a big circle like on Go0gle Maps.

It was an undeniable "oh shit" moment.

I tried to look around and see what I was getting into, and I went through the two gates as straight as I possibly could just in case I ended up in a full-on panic and calling for help to let someone else get it back outta there.

The thought process may or may not have involved something like "Sweet lil eight-pound Baby Jesus, please just pick this truck up and point it back toward the street for me."

I went on in, past a semi trailer and made a right. I pulled straight forward 'til the trailer was straight, then I backed it very slightly around to the right and up to the fence. I turned right again, into a space between two semi trailers and up toward the loading dock until the trailer was straight. I backed out from between the trailers and up close to a truck so that I could pull out past the Camaro, pointing the same direction so I could back up to the front of the car to load it.

Each time I pulled up and backed up, I did it in one try, and I was stunned. So stunned, I barely noticed the guy on the loading dock who had been carrying boxes but stopped for a second to see what was going on. When I put the truck in park to get out and put the ramps down, he said I was awesome.

I would so love to be able to make it that awesome every time…

Like everything else, it is what you make of it -- so, along with my own trailer experience, I salute Miss Britt and the fantastic journey she's leaving on, click on over and follow her as she takes her family to see the whole country!

One more thing -- since Dave made an appearance or two in this post, I'll also mention that if we'd had that wedding, today would've been our ninth anniversary… Happy Anniversary, David Paul, you wouldn't believe the crazy things that have happened around here!

_\,,/

Perspective...

2011-03-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

Has Fac3Book taken me a little further away from the blog than I thought it would? Possibly. In all honesty, I get a kick out of posting the occasional short-n-quick "vague" status update, but sometimes I get a little sick of being "careful" since my oldestbro is on there now and God knows he'd run straight to Mom with anything he thought might be kinda juicy.

Two of my latest FB status posts:

"Debbie is still thinking about that line about the way to to eat an elephant is one bite at a time; but since I refuse to eat it, I'm chopping it up into fist-sized chunks for easy disposal…"

"Debbie has lost track of just how many "fist-size, easily manageable pieces" there are, but is going to keep cutting up that elephant..."

I guess I've been telling myself that the elephant analogy is the easiest way to look at getting through this enormously scary change that's been a long time coming but has still shaken me a good bit. Little bits at a time, little bits, little bits… Stress, what stress? The stress that I thought I was holding at bay sneaks in on me sometimes, like when I walked into the middle of a stack of boxes in a storage unit and something smelled just like My Grandma, which led to me getting weepy and having to put my sunglasses back on so I wouldn't have to explain why. She died in 2005, just a couple weeks shy of getting to meet Clay; but I'm sure she would have liked him even though he asked "So your Grandma smelled like a bunch of boxes in a storage unit?" Ehm, no. It's a soft, velvety, lotiony-perfumey sort of smell that probably came from a box of her stuff that hadn't been gone through yet; but that's a whole 'nother blog post.

I have considered, but not posted, one more vague status update: "Debbie admires those who face change without fear."

I have told myself that it's just a little change in one area of my life, and when I sat down to write this, I think I put things a little more in-perspective…

This feels like a loss of sorts, but nobody's dead. I'm packing up some boxes and moving some stuff around, but I'm not facing homelessness. My Family will be doing different things or doing things differently, but nobody's moving a million miles away. My finances may cause a challenge, but I have better credit and savings and better management skills than the last time I faced a major change -- and I also have couple spare cars to sell off if things get too desperate. I'm a little scared, but not as scared as when My Mom told me she had cancer; so hopefully, once this is all over and things have settled down again, the Hallelujah will be just as glorious as when My Mom got the all-clear from her oncologist.

I'm getting rid of a lot of stuff that I might have held onto way too long, but it's still my decision what stays and what goes -- live Christmas Tree Stand, sayonara buddy, don't know where you came from, but have fun at the thrift store 'cause I've never had a chopped-down-Christmas-tree in my life and I don't see myself dealing with one in the future.

I'm looking at a major change in my life, but it's only in one area of my life. I still have my family, and My Mom, who promises "we'll figure something out," which is enough for me. I still have my amazing friends who always know how to recharge my batteries, remind me that I'm not alone, remind me that I'm not the only one who sees things the way I do, remind me what "Bold And Fearless" means, and never let me forget that we are all connected, all the time. I still have Clay, who knows exactly how to make me forget everything and laugh until I wheeze and cry and get hot and have to take off my coat; then just when I get straightened out, laugh some more 'til everybody thinks we're both about half crazy.

I'm not sure exactly how this is going to happen, but I'm sure everything is going to be just fine. I'm going to keep doing what I need to get done instead of sitting around (probably eating) and wondering what the hell I'm going to do. I'm going to keep chopping this elephant into small, easily manageable pieces, and taking showers to wash the crumbs off of me, and just keep after it until it's all done.

More later… _\,,/

Sick Humor and Christmas Ornaments.

2010-12-21T10:06:00.000-08:00

I was ever so close to revisiting an old post about My Favorite Ornament sometime this week anyway -- and then I saw The RHOK's McLinky Monday post and was blessed with a perfect excuse to write about my little ballerina again!

When I was a kid, I'm guessing sometime around pre-K age, My Mom took me to Dance Classes.

I had the ballet shoes and the tap shoes and the leotard; I don't remember ever owning a tutu, but the tap shoes were pretty darn cool, they were back patent Mary Janes with a black ribbon that tied the strap together, and they had low little stacked heels with the metal taps screwed into the heels and toes. Honestly, I don't remember getting a whole lot out of it other than being out of the house for a little while every time there was a class. I don't remember any recitals or performances of any kind until that play in first grade where I was a fortune teller with tons of jewelry and a crystal ball. The jewelry was every cheap unimportant thing my Mom and Grannie could round up out of their jewelry boxes, and the crystal ball was the glass globe off the light fixture in the hallway, carefully forced down over a piece of black velvet draped over a plywood box base.

I got a lot more out of that first grade play than I ever got out of dance lessons, tap or ballet either one, so we can tell that previous ballet experience is probably not where my love of my little ballerina ornament came from.

I got her during the 66% off after-Christmas sale in late December of 2007. The first time I wrote about her here, I refused to name the store, but since it's part of what makes me love her, I'll say it like a LOLCat, mah ballerina came from Hobbeh Lobbeh.

I know y'all have already heard how I Love Hobbeh Lobbeh, with their not-so-in-your-face-Christianity that's kind and Loving but not pushy, their muzak from a Hymnal, and their almost-weekly 40% coupon… I'm pretty sure they'd be offended by the nature of this post, because even though I love Jesus and I tend to sing along with the Muzak, I ended up with a sick sense of humor right alongside my love of deals like after-Christmas sales.

Right there in the marked-down ornament aisle with "Away In A Manger" being gently hammered out on a dulcimer, I looked up and saw this teeny ballerina, in the midst of this Christian artsy-craftsy store, there she was, a good girl with a wild streak.

She makes me giggle so hard every time I see her, sometimes I don't want to put her away for a whole year.

My favorite Christmas Ornament is a tiny ballerina with crotchless panties!

When Black Friday Comes…

2010-11-26T20:07:00.000-08:00

I am just not a big fan of the crowds; though I love a deal, I can't stand the pushing and shoving, and there's no way I'm camping out on the sidewalk overnight for anything for Christmas. I love a deal year-round, and those amazing deals are out there to be found without having to put up with the Black Friday Crowd. I've been to "The Store That Shall Not Be Named" with My Mom later in the day a couple times, but I don't think I've ever been shopping anywhere any earlier than I'd be getting to work on an ordinary day -- I need my breakfast, and I'm not going to eat while pushing a shopping cart 'cause that's just trashy, and I'm not going to eat in an elbow-to-elbow crowd either, 'cause that's just gross.

I've found some excellent deals over the years; but none of 'em were Black Friday Deals. My favorite deals are mostly the result of always keeping an eye out or being in the right place at the right time… None of 'em involved chasing my ass out of bed at an unholy hour to freeze half to death fighting a shopping cart through a crowd of grumpy strangers.

My favorite Black Friday Story involves only minimal shopping…

In 1998, my 22nd Birthday landed on Black Friday. I was in PTA School and had been considering a tattoo for quite a while, but there was always a friend or boyfriend or someone there to talk me out of it, but not anymore -- I had me some girlfriends, and one of 'em knew a guy who ran a tattoo place just across the state line in Siloam Springs Arkansas. I told the folks we were all going out shopping for Christmas, and we loaded up in my car, the three of us and "Kelly," the kidnapped training mannequin from the college, who went along strictly for the photo opportunities.

I'd fully planned it out to make the trip on the sly; we stopped on the way out of town for aluminum foil to wrap up my Pikepass so we could pay cash for tolls and not have anything show on the statement. I called My Mom and checked in from the loud, crowded grocery store where we picked up the foil, then I turned off my phone at the city limits so it wouldn't show any roaming charges.

My Bee tattoo is from a stamp that I picked up on a random trip to Hobby Lobby, way back before I knew the magic of the yarn department.

With two piercings, one tattoo, and an entire roll of film, we were headed back into Tulsa while it was still light outside.

I was very careful to always keep pants or socks on at home. My folks never knew a thing about it for almost six months, when late into April, I headed into the kitchen in my bathrobe without any socks. I realized what I'd done when I was about halfway through the living room and Mom had already seen me, it was too late to turn around and go back for socks. She saw it while I was pouring a glass of milk, and the shit hit the fan. The fit that ensued involved everything from IV drug use to white trash to homelessness to slutty girls to just don't fucking talk to me about it to think about finding some other place to live; and I never said another word that day.

It's a honey bee, notably life-like, life-size or thereabouts, and I can cover it up with a nickel. It's on my right ankle, just anterior to the distal end of my fibula. Heh, sorry, just had to say it like that 'cause I was in PTA School when I got it. It's on the outside of my ankle, right behind (level with) that bony bump, 'cause you know how all those homeless, slutty, white trash needle-druggies get nickel-size tattoos to hide the tracks 'cause they're shooting it in right there by their ankle bones, right?

My little honey bee is twelve years old today, and I think he still looks alright -- the yellow has faded from his little stripes, but his lines have stayed crisp and black. I still like him, I still hit him with a little lotion (or sometimes lip balm) to wake him up when I'm wearing shorts or sandals where I might get to show him off. I think My Mom has managed to get over it, mostly; and for me, regret has never been a factor.

Happy twelfth birthday, lil buddy, sorry it's too cold to let you out to play today!

Psychic Powers.

2010-11-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

I've joked about bein' psychic before, and deep down, I know it's bullshit, but…

A couple weeks ago, the neighbor kid crashed his Ford Explorer on the way home from Owasso. Someone ran a stop sign, he tried his best and managed to slow down a good bit, but he didn't quite miss 'em. Thankfully, nobody got hurt and the owner of the other car had good insurance, which provided a rental car and hauled the almost-driveable Ford Explorer away to a storage facility "while they decide which way to go." I'm not here to bitch about insurance companies, but we're talkin' about a highschool kid who was makin' payments on a cheap-but-decent older-ish Ford Explorer -- it wasn't a new car, but it was reliable and he liked it and it really wasn't crashed all that hard.

We were all standin' around at work talkin' about it Wednesday afternoon, 'cause he'd called us to ask about the place where they'd towed his Explorer. Oh, That Other Auction Company, the one we don't use. We have an account with one of the local insurance auctions, it's where I got the limo, which has led to my habit of checking the listings every few days or so. I look through That Other Auction Company's listings once in a while, but I don't have a habit of it 'cause I know I can't log in and bid, so there's really no point.

The auction company that we use has their website set up where users can search for specific vehicles, and if a given car is on the property, it shows in the inventory -- if it's ready to sell, it'll show an auction date and location, if it's not, it'll show a reason why, something like "hold" or "need title" or whatever. Apparently That Auction Company That We Don't Use doesn't work that way, they only show the cars that are ready to sell. I had hoped to get a look at the Explorer just to see how bad it was damaged just because it didn't really seem like the insurance company was giving the kid a fair deal… I didn't have any luck, but I did end up skimming through a few listings. After I'd checked out a few trucks and looked through all the Towncars, DeVilles, and Fleetwoods just to see if there were any hearses in the bunch, I clicked the little button with the calendar on it and scrolled down to the Tulsa list.

Their auction in Tulsa was on Friday, and the list was set up a lot like the other auction company -- list of cars, thumbnail photo on the left side. I looked through a few cars and trucks, just clicking the ones that looked interesting for whichever reason. I guess I was about a quarter of the way through the list of a couple hundred cars when the though hit me: I wonder what ever came of the car that Kenny & Debbie crashed over here on West 61st Street… I figured I'd finish looking through the rest of the sale listing and then search for Toyota Solaras just to see if it turned up, ya know, unless I got distracted with the phones or something and forgot.

A little further down the list, there was a blue Toyota Solara with a junk title and a biohazard flag.

Oh shit. There's that sick, sad feeling, just like when that "Estate Sale" sign turned up on the corner at 61st & Union.

Now, when I used to see 'em every once in a while, they had a white minivan and a couple burgundy cars. I never saw the Toyota except the little bit of silvery blue that could be seen in the spill of the firetrucks' lights on the television news…

I grew up in the salvage business, I've seen a lot of crashed cars. I've seen some really really bad ones where somebody shows up asking if they can get their stuff out of the car -- even when the cars have the unholy shit knocked out of 'em, I guess I just always harbor the hope that the people might've made it out alright somehow. I'm sure we've had several that nobody walked away from; but there's always that chance, 'cause we really never know, we don't get any backstory unless we buy it from a family member. With auction cars, anything could've happened; driver thrown clear by the impact, car unoccupied at time of impact, who knows, there's always a chance somebody made it out of a really bad one. I walked (eh, stumbled) away from Ford Truck that looked like nobody got out, it can happen, so there's no way to tell.

When we can know what happened, that makes it completely different.

When belonged to someone we know, that also makes a big difference.

Even without a definite identification on the car, it was a silvery blue Toyota Solara, it was hit really hard, potential fatality hard, and it had been hacked up with the jaws. When I saw the wheelchair still in the back seat, I got that sick and sad feeling even worse -- yip, that's their car. I guess there wouldn't have been any real reason to get it out of there, or maybe the car was wadded up so bad it wouldn't come loose, whatever, I'd say it was a sure sign it was the same car.

When I wrote that post, "The Shit You Been Through," I mentioned having questions that I might not ever know the answers to. Seeing the pictures of the car only left me with one really big question. To crash a car that hard, it takes tremendous speed, way more speed than you'd see from normal folks, driving at night on a little two-lane street among houses with a "day school" on one side and a park with a jogging trail on the other side, having just come through a major intersection with a stoplight. They were almost there, two more turns and then into the driveway, that close to home. To tear the car up that bad, it must've been haulin' serious ass. Haulin'. Serious. Ass.

None of the news articles mentioned who was driving, but one did say there was no evidence of involvement of drugs or alcohol.

My one big question: What if it was that whole Toyota throttle thing? What if…

I guess where I was going with that is that when we hear about that whole throttle thing on the news, it's scary, but it's not personal, it's just somebody on the news. When it's someone you've spent time with, it's heartbreaking, even if you kinda lost touch over the years. It's not just somebody on the news, it's somebody who handed me a cold beer and then made me laugh 'til I couldn't drink it without choking.

It's never too late to send a quick hello to someone from your past -- because when they're gone, they're always gone too soon.

No Club.

2010-10-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

A month or so ago, one of my highschool friends posted a link on Twitter that made me laugh myself silly, and I haven't looked at my in-box quite the same since.

If you do this in an e-mail...

Go on, check that out, and after you're done hitching and snorting, I'll be here waitin' for you when you get back.

Among my little group of knitters, there are three who are serious e-mail forwarders. It's mildly irritating to know that if I get some sort of forwarded or forwardable e-mail from one of them, I'm going to see it again two more times from the other two even though I (and presumably, they) can see my name and e-mail address in the CC's from the previous forward or forwards. It's so predictable it almost doesn't seem right to call it irritating. Now, whoever it is who's sending out boner pill spam that looks like it's coming from my domain, that's irritating… It's not that I have a problem with forwarded e-mails, I dig jokes and I heart LOLCats as much as the next Crazy Cat Lady, send 'em to me anytime ya want. It's not that I can't stand forwards, it's just that if you saw my name on it where the person who sent it to you also sent it to me, there is no need for you to send it to me again 'cause I already got it the same time you got it, and that whole mess about how you'd better pass it on is still bullshit! But anyway...

My awesome Librarian, who also gets the predictable forwards but almost never sends an e-mail that's not honestly personal, she noticed me checking out knitting books and Elizabeth Zimmerman videos when I first got started knitting. I got my start from books and the internet, and I picked up a thing or two from the videos, but I'd never knitted with other people until my awesome Librarian put a bug in my ear about starting a group at the library.

Another Librarian who worked at a different location came to get us all started. She was a highly experienced knitter, and the socks she had on with her jeans and loafers that day were my first glimpse of real hand-knitted socks and they were stunning. We had quite a crowd that first day, several experienced knitters paired off with the newbies and lots of folks got a start at learning to knit.

That was a little over two years ago; the group hasn't been that big again, but between the knitters and the quilters, there's often a decent group of us in the meeting room and we have a nice time. Occasionally we'll see a few of the faces from the first meeting, a few new knitters have turned up, but there have been several weeks where there were only two or three of us or even just me all alone.

At first, I didn't mind showing up by myself; I figure if I believe in it and want there to be people there, I should at least be there myself -- like Billy Joe Shaver said, "Wouldn't be no Kentucky less you didn't stick to it." I love the knitting, I like friendly people; I was proud to show my hats or socks or baby blankets to strangers who'd ooh and aaah and promise to come back the following week.

After being by myself a couple weeks in a row, I got to thinking about all the e-mails that got passed around. All those Fwd's, even the ones with the threats about how horrible things will happen if you don't forward this, all that e-mail, but nobody could send one out to say "Hey y'all, I'm not gonna be there this week." I mentioned that a time or two while being asked for my cell phone number, "Ya know, you can use e-mail for actual personal communication, it doesn't have to start with "Fwd" every time…" (I just don't want to give my cell phone number to someone who forwards that many e-mails and then end up paying a nickel each for forwarded texts.) I'm still trying to decide what I think about this, but the weekend I was going to be in Missouri for the hearse show, I stopped by to tell my awesome Librarian I'd be gone. That was the one week that someone else besides me got to be the lone knitter -- and she got instantly mad, leaving after about ten minutes, later grumbling to others about burning her gas to get there "all the way from Tulsa." Ehm, how many times did I drive in from Tulsa, or even Mounds to be there alone?

She sent out an e-mail a couple days ago that I just can't get out of my mind. It's not that I'm really touched by that stupid mooning scarecrow with the pumpkins for asscheeks; it was the signature that messed with my head. I encourage you to click this picture so you can see the full splendor of it all -- I blurred the name(s) and phone number(s) out of basic decency. See? I do have a little decency...

Really? You show up once every couple months at best, you've been here a total of, oh, what, five, maybe six times and you're thinkin' that's something you need to show the world in your e-mail signature? Pretentious, much?

I'm the only one, besides the Librarian, who was there for the very first time there were any knitters in that meeting room. I've been there since the very beginning. I stood up to the mean one. I invited people who peeked in from the lobby to come on in and knit with us.

Ya know what's in my e-mail signature?

Nothing.

I don't have one.

I think I'll put "Lone Wolf Knitter" in there…

McLinky Monday: Favorites

2010-09-13T12:25:00.000-07:00

McLinky Monday: Favorites

Favorite Actor:

Billy Bob Thornton. Don't look at me like that; I'm not talkin' about his personal life, I like the voice (If he read audiobooks, I'd buy every one of 'em) and the mannerisms and the creativity. I'm not a big fan of skinny-druggie-lookin' Billy Bob, I first had a thing for virile-young-healthy Billy Bob with some meat on the bones, like when they made "The Outsiders" into a TV series in the very early 90's when he had that dark curly mullet.

Favorite Actress:

The first favorite that comes to mind is Camryn Manheim, because she's, ahem, sturdy like me, has great hair and uncommon confidence. Also, she Signs, which kinda makes me wish I'd stayed with it in college. I really liked her in "The Practice," which may be why I ended up celebrating racing events with new earrings.

Favorite Movie:
Oh, how am I supposed to pick just one? "Where The Heart Is" and "Slingblade" are both great stories of Friendship and Love, "Identity" was an excellent "thinking" kinda horror movie, I liked just about every Stephen King movie, and I have a thing for Kevin Smith.

Favorite Band:
(Well, at least it's "band" and not individual, that helps narrow it down some.)

Widespread Panic; I love the music of the hardest workin', hardest tourin', rockin' little jam band ever. The concert experience is a cultural spectacle as well. There's a WSP song that I want played at my wedding, but I know I could never get John Bell his own self to show up for that…

The Gourds; these guys caught my ear on Austin City Limits one night, I was just wandering through the living room and "Burn The Honeysuckle" stopped me in my tracks. I've seen 'em twice here in Tulsa, and I got to love on Kev both times -- that's why I love those small-venue, "intimate" kinda shows, I saw 'em on TV, I have the CD in my car, and now I know what a couple of those guys smell like. Heh. Yeah, hi, I'm kind of a sicko.

My other favorite from a small-venue show, Deadbolt. Those guys rocked me to pieces, I freakin' loved every CD Clay handed to me, and the night they played in Tulsa, I got to meet Harley before the show -- he grabbed me and hugged me right off the bat, but I couldn't smell him. I was puzzled until the show got going and he whipped out a purple can of Aqua-Net; that's why I couldn't smell him, he smelled just like me.

Favorite Musical:
I don't know if I really have one… We marched to Music Of The Night and a medley from Les Miserables in highschool, I'll always love those; but more as music than as musicals.

Favorite Novel:
If I have to pick just one, it's "The Outsiders," it's a Tulsa classic.

Favorite Cuisine:
Down-Home Momma-n-Grandma Cookin', like Thanksgiving or Christmas Dinner. I have a hard time resisting pizza, especially the meaty varieties. When it comes to restaurants, ya can't beat a good steak like from Santa Fe Cattle Company; medium-to-medium-well, loaded baked potato, rolls, maybe a cup of soup (I'll try almost any soup, like a lot of 'em). I am also crazy for Mexican, even though I never touched a crumb of it until I was well past twenty five. Somewhere around here, I thought I had a picture of a table full of goodness from El Charro, but I guess I lost it -- so I'm posting this shot of a "Hall Of Fame" from The Minuteman Pizza Parlor in Prattville, 'cause it's the best pizza there is!

Favorite Wine:
I have no idea… I had some Red Sangria out of a box at a party one time that tasted pretty good, but I really don't have much experience with wine, I'm just not much of a drinker.

Favorite Store:
Just like Mrs. Albright who wrote today's RHOK post, I love-love-love Ross, Marshall's, and TJ Maxx, in no particular order, eh, when I'm away from home (like that weekend in Springfield), I'll visit 'em in whatever order they come up on the GPS, especially the shoes & handbags. I'm not a real big fan of the mall, but I was pretty impressed with the Joplin mall, which I visited just because there's a TJ Maxx there -- I changed into my new shoes beside my car in the parking lot. I also love-love-love Hobby Lobby, at home and away, so they're also on that GPS list.

Favorite Vampire:

Favorite Primetime TV Series:
"One Tree Hill," which I started watching because of Craig Sheffer, who they shot and killed off just as soon as I got attached to the rest of the people on that show.

Favorite Time Waster:
My iPhone!!! It does everything, FaceBook, MySpace, a behzillion different kinds of solitaire, puzzle games, Sudoku, it's got everything and there have been occasions where I've sat down with it and lost track of time to the point that I've had to answer awkward questions like "Are you having trouble emptying your bladder?" Yes, seriously.

Favorite Chore:
Knitting isn't a chore, so let's say Naps. Heh.

Favorite Quote:
I have lots; "I think I'll just buy me a used car lot and never sell a one of 'em, just drive a different one every day depending on how I feel." - Tom Waits.

Favorite Smell:
The ones that bring back memories -- like when I got my race trailer, it smelled just like how the kindergarten rooms at Ator always smelled when they built the "spook house" every Halloween. I have tried desperately to duplicate that late-70's GM car cleaned with gold Lysol smell, but I can't make any of my cars smell like Mom's Trans-Am smelled when I was a kid; but it still smells the same after all these years. I'll never forget the smells of my Grandma's house, my Best Friend in highschool, my first Coach purse, my first Bell helmet, and Stetson Sierra…

Favorite Vacation Spot:
Anywhere! I just wanna go somewhere! :)

The Springfield Update.

2010-08-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

Does that sound like a name for a newspaper?

Just like last year and the years before, Clay headed out to Springfield Thursday around lunchtime; I stayed here to work 'til closing time Friday and then go feed the birds.

I pulled out of the garage Saturday morning and was well on my way up the turnpike when I realized I had left without my pillows and also forgot to grab a blanket for the bleachers. I wasn't interested in turning around for 'em; I'd packed a towel for my hair so that was gonna have to be good enough to fill in for a spare pillow if there wasn't one in the room, and maybe I could pick up a stadium blanket with some odd local sports team on it so we'd have a soft place to sit and a souvenir too.

I love the driving, I like to feel what the car is doing, I like knowing what goes into it all; like new tires this year, two Kumhos on the front and two Goodyears, just a little bigger on the back… The Mark 8 is notably heavy and stays put fairly well, but I can still feel it loosen up just a little bit when I get just close enough to the back of a semi. With a pinch of great CD's in the changer and a good breakfast (Diet Dew & Cheez-it's) in the passenger seat beside me, I was ready to watch for cops & wrecks and just cruise right on up the highway to Joplin.

When I got out of the car at the Joplin Hobby Lobby, my two-day-old clearance-sale Avias were starting to hurt my feet, but I'd already decided I was going to check the shoes & handbags at TJ Maxx and have lunch at the mall while I was there. I parked outside TJ Maxx and made my usual compulsive pass through the handbag department; resisting the temptation of the one and only Coach bag because the color was just wrong. I checked the shoe department and also resisted temptation there because as cool as hot pink All-Stars would be, one-size-too-big is way too big for shoes that already make everybody's feet look too big. I did find a pair of Sauconys to replace my ache-inducing Avias, and then I took off toward the food court for some lunch.

Joplin's Northpark Mall was crowded just like Christmastime in a movie, and it seemed really huge. I'm still trying to figure out if it seemed so big because I'd never been there before, or if it really is bigger than any of the familiar ol' malls in Tulsa -- I'd just bet it's bigger. Every place in the food court had a line of people waiting; I ended up at Chic-Fil-A, 'cause hey, might as well get what ya know is gonna be good. I took my tray and turned around to find a place to sit. I'm not a real big fan of eating alone in public, but I plopped my purse and my TJ Maxx bag on the end of a long row of tables where there were lots of chairs between me and the next stranger. I wasn't alone for long, next thing I knew, a couple with several elementary school age little girls sat down at the same table. The dad ended up closest to me, so he and I ended up talking about chicken, Mexican food, and motorcycles with the dad while the girls chattered away with the mom.

I almost hated to get up and leave, it's hard to find those folks who are "friendly like they've known ya forever" without running into a few super-creepy ones. I have no idea if it was just that guy or if there really is a higher percentage of friendly folks in Joplin -- it was kinda cool to not feel all awkward about eating lunch alone in a crowd though… I want to see more of the Joplin mall sometime when I can stay longer; but I had to get back on the road, I had a little more driving and shopping to do before time for the races in Springfield. Once I was back out on I-44, I set the cruise and kicked my shoes off -- then turned the cruise off as soon as I'd tossed the shoes into the back seat.

I got to the first Springfield Hobby Lobby and eased the Mark 8 into the same spot where I'd parked the Limo the year before, and the ol' Velveteen Rabbit Windstar a couple years before that. It's funny how my brain seems to "take notes" when it comes to sounds and smells and situations -- like how I remember exactly where I was the first time I heard Norah Jones cover "Wurlitzer Prize," or the last time I played this particular game on my iPhone was while waiting at the Dr's office, or the last time I knitted on that bag with the green cotton yarn "Bit Bang Theory" was on the TV. When I opened the car door in that parking lot and tossed my new Sauconys on the ground to step into them, the first thing I thought of was the near-migraine headache that I was trying to fight off the last time I was there -- so I tied my shoes with thankfulness on my mind; "feels so good, felin' good again." -- what a way to arrive in Springfield!

Y'all already know how I love the dirt track in Springfield, and the annual Sunday morning walk through "The Car Corral," but this year, I found out I'm crazy about something I had no idea I could like…

Branson.

The first time anybody I spent any amount of time with ever mentioned going to Branson, it was a little over ten years ago and I didn't really care either way. I probably would have went with him if he'd wanted me to, but I wasn't pushing for it and I didn't think it'd be my thing unless Bobby Bare or someone like that was there. Clay has family there though, and I'm crazy about his Aunt Linda -- so hey, it might be cool to see Branson one of these weekends…

And then I heard about The Coach Factory Outlet Store. My heavenly days, there's a Coach Outlet? Coach? Real Coach stuff at less-than-retail? Get me my car keys!

It was every bit as magical as I'd imagined, and the bag I've been waiting for an eB@y uber-deal to turn up on was only about ten steps from the door. Don't get me wrong, I made a lap of the building and checked the clearance shelves too, but I still wanted the same one that I'd wanted for a long time, and there it was… Oh, it is stunning, just stunning, the only hard part was deciding between black or tan -- and I ended up with tan, despite Clay's idea of "Just get 'em both." I came soooooo close, but I guess ya might say I halfway resisted the temptation.

I haven't made the switch yet, but I did drive home with it in the shotgun seat; and in all honesty, I did reach over and pet it a time or two…

I already wanna go back -- I can't stop thinking about "Just get 'em both," and if I find a wallet that matches this bag, it'll probably have to come home with me too.

M-m-m-Monday!

2010-08-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

When I read the words "Today we are going to play a game called," the first thing I thought of was sitting in the bleachers with the flag team at football games and a captain would stand up and yell "We're gonna play a game called bus and I'm gonna drive!"

If you've never played the bus game, you're missin' out...

Anyhow, RHOK has a fun game for Monday, and I'm playin' -- I'm gonna use my weekend that I was fixin' to write about.

Today we are going to play a game called Two Truths and a Lie.

I will tell you three things about myself and you try to figure out which one is the lie.

I'll let you know the answer in the comments section.

Here goes:

1) Saturday night at the dirt track in Springfield, a guy who sounded a lot like "Grandpa Jones" from Hee-Haw said a prayer before the races and I cried, so seriously I had to wipe my sunglasses off.

2) Sunday afternoon, we went to Branson, where I took Clay with me into the Coach Factory Outlet Store to look at handbags and wallets during a sale that involved an additional 20% off the already incredible outlet store prices; I resisted the temptation to bring anything home with me.

3) Sunday, in Branson, we had lunch at the Mickey Gilley's Texas Cafe and it gave me the farts so bad I was glad to be alone in my car 'cause I had to roll the window down a couple times on the way home.

Do you know which one is the lie?

How to waste ten dollars.

2010-08-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually a real big breakfast eater; it's not that I don't love bacon and sausage and pancakes and all that, I just like stayin' in bed more. Last time I had a breakfast that involved home-cooked eggs, I had just woke up in somebody else's bed -- much like the previous line, it's not that I'm slutty, I just like stayin' in bed, sometimes more than driving home. Heh.

Weekends usually involve sleeping late and stumbling to Clay's kitchen for whatever I might find; could be PopTarts, could be cereal, sometimes it's biscuits & sausage, sometimes it's peanut butter and crackers. During the week, there's usually a lovely buttery biscuit waiting for me in a styrofoam box beside the newspaper and that's how I start my day at work. One morning a couple years ago, there was a brown paper bag from Sonic sittin' in that spot and I was surprised with a breakfast burrito... Now, I like sausage and I like cheese, but I never had tried 'em together, let alone with scrambled eggs mixed in; but it was good, really good. I really like the Sonic breakfast burrito, so much that sometimes I get one for lunch just to avoid more deep-fried stuff.

So, this morning, heading back to Clay's house about 8:15, I thought to myself, "Heyyy, there's a Sonic right on the way, I'll pick up some breakfast for the two of us!" Clay eats the same things I eat, I'm sure he'll like it...

Now, Sonic, oh dear Sonic; I have loved you nearly all my life. I have loved your onion rings since I was too small to see out of the car; I fell for your glorious cheese tator tots way back when my ass was small enough to sit on the center console of the Trans-Am between My Mom and My Grannie. Oh, the great conundrum of being forced to choose between a corndog and a grill cheese to sit beside my onion rings was enough; then My Grannie showed me the magic of the fish sandwich and cheese tator tots, oh my my! I'll never forget that night in my other Grandma's Chrysler with my Best Friend from highschool, who showed me that it was totally possible to special order a Sonic cheeseburger and get it just how I wanted it instead of having to pick off the garbage and find a place to put it without getting any on the car.

That limited-time-only Brownie Blast was amazing, the Campfire Blast (Smooooooorrrres!) is heavenly, and when those are gone, the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup blast is so excellent. The chicken dinner with the white gravy is like down-home cookin' in a red and white box, and there's not many places that'll put a lime in a Diet Dr. Pepper or a cherry in a sweet tea, Oh Sonic, how I love thee. Love ya even enough to get past those irritating commercials.

Now, that being said, I've come to the conclusion that the one on South Union Avenue isn't a real Sonic. It's the Anti-Sonic.

With a quick peek at the menu, I reaffirmed the decision I'd made when I found myself wide-awake after, ahem, working a night shift. "Number Eleven," the Sausage Breakfast Burrito Combo, a big (not dollar menu) burrito with tots and a drink -- so that's what I said into the speaker, "Two number eleven sausage burrito combos with tots, one with a Diet Dr. Pepper and one with orange juice." I figured Clay wouldn't want the orange juice (I was right), and I knew for sure he wouldn't want the "Super Sonic Breakfast Burrito," 'cause neither of us is a fan of the veggie-type stuff, so no tomatoes, no jalapenos, no onions, no lettuce, no nothing like that.

Two regular sausage burritos, two tots, two drinks. Doesn't sound that hard, does it?

I'd been tellin' Clay about the magic of the Sonic Sausage Breakfast Burrito for quite a while, how it's so good and so perfect for picky eaters like us -- no veggies, no BS, just a flour tortilla with chopped up sausage, chopped up scrambled eggs, and melted cheese to make it all stick together, mmmmmm, so good...

When I got to the house to surprise Clay with breakfast, I handed him the sack while I put my stuff down and took off my shoes -- Clay pulled a burrito out of the bag and took a bite and said, "I think I got yours."

Uhm, they're the same, I got two sausage burritos...

Clay, by the luck of the draw, got a tortilla wrapped around bacon and cheese, which is pretty cool, but not the "Sausage Breakfast Burrito" that I ordered.

I unwrapped the other one and saw some sort of a pink morsel stuck to it. Bad sign. Eh, here's my sign, I bit into it anyway, got grossed-out and had to spit out what I had. When I unrolled the tortilla, I had two slices of tomato, a handful of jalapeno, a mess of onions, and maybe a little cheese and/or egg.

There was no sausage anywhere in that bag, so Clay had a pretty cool bacon burrito and I had two orders of tator tots. Mmm, breakfast.

I don't want to be that person pushing the button to complain, and once I'm home and glad to be there, I really don't want to put the stuff back in the sack and get back in the car and drive back to Sonic to push the button and complain. I don't want to be that angry person growling "How can I be a happy customer?"

I just wanted to take home a good breakfast, so I ordered one of the easiest things I possibly could pick off that menu and they still boogered it up.

There is no way a real Sonic would do that...

"The shit you been through..."

2010-07-29T17:52:00.000-07:00

I had this thought of writing a fairly long piece, as a salute of sorts, to a couple who touched my life several years ago, but I'm keepin' it short 'cause I just don't think my words could do 'em justice.

Tulsa World Article

Kenny & Debbie were friends of a guy I used to spend a good bit of time with, they were kind-hearted people who were fun to hang out with when they had the time -- it seemed like they were always busy, always going, traveling, doing; Kenny embodied that phrase "busy livin'," and together, he and Debbie were one of those couples who seemed so permanent, I was a little shocked to see the word "boyfriend" in the newspaper article, I just thought they were married.

For all the questions I may never know the answers to, I know without a doubt they Loved each other.

For all my love of storytellers, Kenny was the first person I'd ever heard give a first-hand account of climbing out of a wheelchair to jump out of an airplane, and it was quite a story.

For two people who survived a lot of rough patches and lived a lot of life, it breaks my heart to think it ended so suddenly and so close to home.

For two people who met the end way too soon, I hope there was no pain, no fear, no evil...

_\,,/

Here's to you, Kenny, your buddy's ex girlfriend sends her best -- hope it's okay that I used a bit of a song for a title here, it just seemed to fit.

Oh Dear.

2010-07-21T08:34:00.000-07:00

A few quick postcards:

Dear Neighbors: Today was the third morning in a row that your horse was out wandering in the ditch and back and forth across 92nd Street. Seriously? Three days? Don't you feed 'em once a day or something? Did you not notice he's been on the wrong side of the fence since Monday? Will your homeowner's insurance cover my car if he ends up on the hood?

Dear Local Politician: I need to let you know that I refuse to vote for you because of your TV commercial, and I scramble for the "mute" button every time it comes on. When your little girl tells us how you've "pwotected pwesidents fwum bad guys," I want to punch you in the neck. If you don't care enough about your own child to take her to a Speech Therapist (translated: Thewapist), there's no way I'd trust you to care enough to make the decisions involved in government.

Dear Post Office Employee: Thanks so much for protecting the security of my mail by refusing to hand over the contents of my PO box that time when I couldn't find my keys. I appreciate the fact that you hold everyone to such high standards that even long-time customers with photo ID can't get their mail without the key. Now, I have questions about you fishing out some "package" for that guy who "had his stuff shipped to my address" even though he's in no way related to me or associated with my business and has never had a key to either one of my mailboxes to begin with.

Dear Limo: Please steal the heart of a cash buyer very soon, 'cause I found a truck that caught my eye. Don't take it personal, it's just that I don't think you can handle the trailer like the truck would.

Dear QuikTrip: Please come to Sperry Oklahoma, please? I've been crazy about you, QT, ever since way back when ten bucks would fill up the Honda Accord's gas tank and get a quart of Lime Koolie and a Butterfinger with some change left, and Sperry Oklahoma needs you in such a serious way. Sperry is a quiet little out of the way place, but it's full of good, kind-hearted people who could really use a nice place to buy gas for their cars; and I personally would love to be able to grab a good glass of iced tea and a corndog every once in a while too.

Dear Telemarketers: I can talk faster and louder than you can, if you'd like to turn it into a "Talking Carl Fight," we can, and there's nobody here to get mad at me for pissing you off 'til you hang up. Thanks for the laughs...

Dear Internet Search Engines: When I'm looking for images of motorcycles, I do not need to see kitchen appliances. When I put in a town and search for a list of Churches, I want to see phone numbers and/or addresses for churches, as in places where groups of people worship, designated as plural by the "es" on the end. When I search for Churches, I want to read about this church or that church, not "restaurant reviews" involving "Church's Chicken." Apostrophe-s is totally different from e-s.

Dear Pimple-In-A-Really-Scary-Place: Boy am I ever glad you're gone, please don't come back, okay?

Dear Hard Drive: Though I'm glad you were so easy to remove from the MacBook and place in that USB Enclosure, I really wish you'd spin up one last time and stay on at least long enough to pull my Mojo Nixon albums and a few other things out of my old iTunes folder...

Dear Snow Leopard: I think I love you, I wish I hadn't waited so long to make the switch!

_\,,/

Look.

2010-07-02T22:11:00.001-07:00

Clay and I were talkin' in the car on the way home from dinner tonight about the campers and boats and motorcycles and summertime-ish stuff...

Sometimes I miss the motorcycle, the shimmery emerald green Triumph Thunderbird that I sold off to pay for my race trailer. I never could quite get comfortable with myself on it, and even though it was hard to let it go, watching that tiny little lady from Fort Cobb ride away on it was easier than I thought it would be, and easier than listening to My Mom have a fit about it every time the subject came up. She had enough reason though; my oldest brother crashed a bike and nearly lost a leg.

I just couldn't get used to working a clutch with my hand and shifting gears with my foot, not even on the cheap ol' Yamaha that I bought from the wrecker auction just to "practice with," so I sold it off to put the money toward the Triumph payments and I was perfectly content to just ride on the back. I rode with Dave every chance I got -- the first close look I got at a Ford Escort ZX2 was when one passed us on the left and then made a right turn across in front of us over by the Gilcrease QuikTrip; she pulled into the driveway of a house right there in the neighborhood and when we got home, I was so mad I was ready to get right in my car and go back over there but Dave wouldn't let me -- I kept my lugwrench under the driver's seat even way back then. Those first couple years after Dave died, I missed riding with him just as much as I missed everything else about him, and I'd get on just about any bike and ride away with just about anybody who'd let me. If it weren't for Clay, I might've tried to charm one last ride on the Triumph with the lady who bought it -- she was only about half my size though...

Like I told Clay in the car tonight, I miss riding, I miss sitting up there; I don't miss encounters like we had with that dumb bitch in the ZX2. There's a place out on the highway between Tulsa and Sand Springs that always seems a little cooler than usual; I've felt it in the convertibles, I've rolled the windows down to feel for it in a regular car, but it's the best, the most intense, on the bike. I have no idea how it works, but no matter how hot it is, there's always this little bit of a breezy cool spot out there, and it's amazing to ride through it on the bike. I miss feeling that cold spot out on 412 with my entire body, I do not miss wondering who's gonna try to run us over.

Both of my brothers and a few of my friends ride; I try not to be one of those people who worry all the time. I am not one of those people who hassles others about wearing a helmet 'cause I know I didn't always want to wear mine; I pray God's Grace over all of 'em 'cause I know He saved me from harm many more times than even I know about.

A few weeks ago, one of my friends got hit by a car on her way to work. There's a FaceBook post that'll make ya feel all sick inside: "T-boned on the bike." I cried when her sister posted that; I cried even harder when she logged on to tell the story herself. She saw it coming and did all she could do; after the hit at highway speed, she kept it together long enough to get it to the shoulder and get stopped, then put the stand down and fall off. The guy driving the car "didn't see" the bike. I cried when I handed the computer to My Mom so she could read it, I cried when she read it out loud to my brother.

Tonight when I got home, there were a couple FaceBook posts about a wreck involving a car that had pulled out in front of a motorcycle out toward the edge of Owasso -- one post was was a basic "avoid the area, fatality, traffic tie-up," the other was more emotional, "this looked really bad, call your people and check on 'em." Oh, FaceBook, making the world smaller and smaller, showing us stories we might not ever hear from strangers... In the FaceBook comments, there was a post from someone who stopped his car to try to help, he told of how he'd held this man and talked to him and tried to keep him from slipping away. He didn't know a name, he didn't recognize a face, he just saw someone in need of help, so he stayed to help; he said the man died right there in his hands fifteen or twenty minutes after the crash.

Tonight, thanks to FaceBook, I've shed tears for someone I don't even know... Or, well, I hope it's not someone I know...

I guess dying in the hands of a stranger who's offering kindness is better than dying alone -- I just hope nobody I Love has to spend their last fifteen or twenty Earthly minutes hurt and looking into the eyes of a stranger just because somebody "didn't see" 'em.

Was that a drip?

2010-06-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday, Miss Messy Kitty was down here with us all day, on her leash and hangin' out on the counter. Today, it's a little cooler so I haven't tried to get her down from the top of the back office.

She's our baby kitty, she lives here, this is her home. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to just take her home with me, but she's "Teh Official Recycling Faciliteh Kitteh." We've been keeping her on her leash since the weather has been warm enough to prop the doors open because I really don't want her to end up being a snack for whatever it was that made those massive paw prints in the snow across the parking lot last winter; and probably also those massive paw prints in the mud between here and the post office last week.

Yesterday, while I was sitting on the barstool and Miss Messy was stretched out on the counter in front of me, this guy came in lookin' for a steering column. While I was punching numbers into the computer to look up the column, he reached for Miss Messy, petted her, and said something like "Awww, kitty-kitty-kitty."

Now, tryin' to trick me into knocking fifty bucks off the price of the column irritated me just a bit, but hey, I had a sweet little kitty waitin' to love on me and that guy would be outta here soon enough, so I let it go.

He said he was gonna go get the cash and he'd be back later.

Miss Messy even got a "Buh-bye, kitty" as he turned away from the counter to head toward the door.

Today, his easily-recognizable car pulled in the parking lot. When the door opened, the cane came out first, then the guy, then a fannypack that he hung on his shoulder, then a leash.

A leash.

With a dog.

A leash with a dog which he led right through the front door, then he said "izzuh cat around today?"

I'd only managed to shoot a look of irritation because I had a phone to my ear; My Mom, through near-panic, said "No, she's hiding on top of the back office."

"Oh," he said, and he took the dog back out to his car.

Seriously? You brought your dog in here just to see what our cat would do? Pardon my "language," but, you fucking douchebag.

And then when the cat wasn't nearby, you put the dog back in the parked car? What? Not worth the hassle of holding the dog's leash when there's no cat to harass?? Yip, you fucking douchebag.

Your fannypack probably smells like vinegar & water.

Competency. Huh?

2010-06-02T14:37:00.000-07:00

Heads-up, I'm gonna rant and bitch about work, but it's okay, I ain't gonna get Dee-Oh-Oh-See-Eee-Dee over it. And seriously, how does she ever make a living off that website? How does someone who doesn't even know the difference between "itching" and "scratching" pay for health insurance by making money from "writing" on a website? Anyway, on to what I wrote...

Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a little town not so far away, there lived a guy who though he was old enough to know better, he used drugs and drove a car anyway. Through this course of action, the cops caught him driving said vehicle while under the influence of said drugs, and after the traditional court case experience, this guy was left without a license.

Now, my part of the story begins.

Friend of the folks' was in here huntin' this taillight for a truck we don't have around here, The Boss ordered one in from an aftermarket supplier. When it got here, it ended up being the wrong side. I'm still not entirely sure who told who the wrong side, but anyway, there was some catch involving delivery fees for getting the aftermarket supplier to exchange it for the other side, so that light is still in the box, layin' on the counter.

A week ago yesterday, I was given the task of finding a used one -- which I attempted, even though now I wonder if I might've been better off to just put the box in my car and drive into Tulsa to exchange it for the other side. Now that it's been a week and a day, I might've even been better off to hook the box under my arm and take off walkin' to Tulsa to exchange it, but anyway...

So, a week ago yesterday, I typed a request into that computer system that connects, at current count, 783 salvage yards all across the country. Eh, the 783 yards that are willing to pay what amounts to the equivalent of a payment on a reasonably decent truck every month to be connected to the system. It's like those phones that used to have the speaker on 'em and just talk all the time way back in the day -- now we've gone digital and we type it in to show up on a screen. From voice phone to satellite to internet, the connections between salvage yards have come a long way over the years, but we still get the same ol' BS, I guess.

Looking through the list of replies from yards where someone had seen my request and sent a reply, the closest one with the best price was in Tahlequah, the little Oklahoma town made famous in "Where The Red Fern Grows," as in "What're we goin' to Tahlequah for?" It's not close like jump in the car and dash right over there, but it's close enough our football teams play each other once a year; it's been a long time since I took that bus ride, but I'm guessing it's probably about an hour and a half or so.

Part of the accountability of that "like a decent truck payment" fee that we mail off every month is being able to just send a purchase order and get it goin' without all the hassles of making an account and filling out a credit application or using a credit card; yards who pay in have credit with other yards automatically, supposedly to make for an easy flow of commerce.

Apparently, nothing is ever at all easy.

I sent the order and we waited a couple days; figuring that two days was enough time for "the big brown truck" to bring a box from Tahlequah, I sent another message asking for a tracking number. I had to re-send it about half a dozen times, and finally, I was told that the yard in Tahlequah "didn't see the message," and had never shipped the taillight.

In the midst of the bitchyfit that I caught for "dropping the ball" (apparently I was supposed to drive to Tahlequah and point at somebody's computer screen), I was told that "____ is really worried about his kid driving around with the broken taillight because if he gets stopped, he'll get hauled to jail for not having a license." Call me crazy, but it seems to me that if someone doesn't have a license, a broken taillight should be the least of their worries, 'cause their car really should stay in the driveway and they should ride with somebody who has a license.

So, I caught a bitchyfit because someone at some other yard wasn't paying attention to their computer AND some un-licenesed drug user is driving around with no license. Both are totally my fault. Nice, huh?

After sending back "nevermind, cancel my PO" to the yard in Tahlequah, and resisting the urge to scream at anyone, I looked through the replies again and the only yard that matched the price was in Tennessee. Since I felt like I'd been bitched at enough, I wasn't really in any mood to ask about spending more money. I sent an order to the yard in Tennessee; thankfully, they sent back a reply thanking me for the order so I could at least know they were paying attention.

After the holiday weekend, it kinda seemed like the one that was ordered from Tennessee should be here first thing Tuesday. It was not. Today, Wednesday, I sent four messages asking for a tracking number and got no response at all. On the phone, I still couldn't get 'em to give me a tracking number, and I was told that they "shipped it to the wrong place" and had it returned; they'd shipped it out to us on Tuesday. Terrific.

I resisted the temptation to scream into the phone because being mean to someone on the phone won't make the taillight get here any faster. For the record, taking it out on me isn't going to make it get here any faster either, but that's a whole 'nother rant.

There's been no shortage of bitchyfit on the incoming side... Seriously, I don't work in Tahlequah, I only had dinner there a time or two, it's not my fault they didn't see the message on their screen. I've never even been to Tennessee, so that whole shipping the part to the wrong place mess wasn't my fault either.

We're waiting-and-seeing if it shows up tomorrow.

Once upon a time...

I know, I know, I've made some mistakes of my own, but I know which ones are mine to deal with, and the ones in Tahlequah and Tennessee are not mine.

Once upon a time...

Now, just let me clarify this: If you drink or use drugs and drive a car, then get caught and lose your license, it's your own fault. Don't even try to tell me cops are dicks and that's why you got caught. You got caught because you were drunk or high, end of story. If through some odd occurrence, lawnmower flinging rocks, errant golf ball, crazy ex-girlfriend, whatever, you get the taillight broken out of your truck, that sucks. If you're driving it around with that broken taillight and the cops stop you and ask for your license, it's still not anybody's fault but your own because hey, you weren't supposed to be driving anyway.

Yeah, yeah, the folks at the salvage yard are trying to order one in and it takes a little while, that sucks, but hey, if you don't have a license right now, you've got some time to find a taillight 'cause you won't be driving anywhere for a while anyway, right? If you get hauled in for driving without a license, it's not my fault, it's yours. If you get hauled to jail, it's not 'cause your dad ordered the wrong side, it's not 'cause Tahlequah ain't watchin' their computer, it's not 'cause Tennessee sent the box to the wrong address, it's not 'cause of me or anybody else in the salvage business. If you get hauled to jail for driving around without a license, it's not because it took me a while to get your taillight shipped in, it's because you're the one who decided to hop in the car and drive around with no license.

I have a few hard questions I'm dying to ask... So, if you're driving around with no license, do you have insurance? While driving around with no license, if you do have insurance, will it cover you without a license? If you hit someone, will your insurance company take care of them, or will the claim be denied because there was an unlicensed driver involved? Since you lost your license due to a drug/alcohol related offense and you're driving around unlicensed, are you still driving around under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol too?

I really hope the big brown truck shows up with that taillight tomorrow, 'cause I am sick and tired of catchin' hell over it.

I really hope I can resist the temptation to call the cops on this guy just as soon as he gets that damn taillight installed...

More later.

_\,,/

Roar!

2010-04-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

Way back before the nature of the marketing empire came out, I used to go to meetings every Thursday night... Now, I won't disclose the name of the company, because even though I left angry, it's not my place to drag 'em through the mud here 'cause that's not what I'm here to write about.

Stay with me here, and you might recognize 'em anyway. This company provides a service which has been life-changing for lots and lots of people -- alas, they are in a business to make money, not just to help people make these changes. There is a cost to attend the meetings; once you've met your pre-set life-changing "goal," you get to attend the meetings for free.

Can y'all see the "Catch Twenty-Two" there? The person who leads and teaches at the meetings has to get paid, but the more people learn, the less they have to pay. A really great leader who teaches people how to meet their goals isn't bringing in enough money for the company because there are way too many successful people in the group who have met that goal and don't have to pay anymore.

A great leader got "let go" because there were too many "freebies" in her groups.

She was awesome, and I'll never forget her -- she made a tremendous difference for me, but my experience just wasn't the same after she left.

One of the things she told us was this: "If you had a bad week, you need your meeting; if you had a good week, your meeting needs you."

Wow...

So...

I had a few rough moments today. Now that I'm not at work anymore -- sittin' here in my car with the windows down and a bit of a breeze blowin' through -- now that it's just me by myself with the computer and the car, it seems further away and less important, but I said I'd try to write more, so here I am.

We sold a car yesterday, and the kid took it home and tried to put a stereo in it. He's struggling. He's calling, a lot. We had to haul it back in once and change the starter, then he took it back home and tried again; there have been fuses and relays and phone call after phone call -- I'm sure he's a lot more stressed-out than any of us are, but it just seemed like every third phone call I answered, there he was, poor kid.

Boat confusion. Using Go0gle to answer questions over the phone for someone who could just as easily click over to Go0gle without calling me. The creepy guy. Several phone calls from people who weren't sure how the phone is supposed to work -- please, you have to say something else besides "hello" forty times, or I'm gonna hang up. The other creepy guy. That woman from the transmission shop who thinks she has to "talk to a man" every time, even if he turns around and asks me to look up the parts on the computer. The guy who thinks he's a pimp. The girl who flipped Miss Messy in the forehead yesterday.

Seriously, what the feck was that about? I know, I know, you've got fifteen-year-old-girl-hormones and Chemistry homework to deal with, but if you can put up with getting a text message every twenty seconds while you're supposedly doing your homework, there's nothing wrong with a kitten sniffing the edge of your Chemistry book. Just like the ol' man with the Chihuahua said, "This is that kitty's house, you're in her house, you better be nice." Bitch just flipped her right in the forehead while I was on one of those phone calls where somebody wasn't sure what to say after "hello," and it was a hard, full-on middle-finger-from-thumb, hard-thumping flip. I was so mad I wanted to scream. Or just reach over there and flip her in the forehead. I think of her like family; but I really wanted to hit her when she did that.

I'd parked on the very edge of the parking lot this afternoon, right out by the street, and when I got ready to leave and there was a white Chevy truck headed South down the street as I got in my car. He had both windows down, and as I walked toward the street to open my driver's door, I noticed he was leaned over toward the middle of the seat and NOT looking in the direction the truck was going. As he got closer to me, I could see the toddler standing in the middle of the truck, between the driver and the baby carrier car seat in the passenger side. I was reaching for my phone when I saw the paper UD tag...

A black Honda ran the stop sign to pull right out in front of me by the crummy trailer park and I found myself imagining being the next car in line behind some numnutz who ran a stop sign and got smeared under the front bumper of a Freightliner. I couldn't see a driver at all; no head over the seat, nothing visible in the mirrors, and let's be reasonable, a Honda Prelude is a pretty small car -- how small do you have to be to be invisible in there? Ten, eleven years old? The black Honda ran the stop sign at Peoria Avenue too, but there was no Freightliner there either.

When I put on my left blinker to turn into my neighborhood, there was a silver foreign SUV behind me that darted to the right, off in the grass to pass on the right -- they ended up having to slow down anyway because there was another car in the intersection. One of these days, if I can just do it in something I don't care about, I'm gonna make a right turn in front of some jerk like that and sell off a car... Just not in the SHO or the Mark 8...

I still really like the ol' three-hundred-dollar Mark 8, I've put just over 33 thousand miles on it now, and I just really like it.

I dashed in the house to grab a quick bite to eat and pick up my Bible -- I really thought about skipping tonight, keepin' my nasty attitude at home instead of being out among other people, and then I thought about the wise words of that wonderful leader from several years ago; "If you had a bad week, you need your meeting; if you had a good week, your meeting needs you."

I tossed a quick snack in a bag and filled an icy glass with some orange caffeine and headed back to the car.

Out I went, out on to the highway and into the evening rush-hour traffic, where there are way too many people doing way too many things that shouldn't happen with the car in gear. If you want to talk on your phone while drinking coffee and working a crossword puzzle, there are many, many far more appropriate places to do that than in your car. If you'd like to talk on the phone and ignore everything outside your car, please do it with your car in "Park." For the love of the planet, turn the car off, and I guess since I'm trying to be a little more humanitarian, crack a window so you don't smother. I know, I know, I shouldn't have to tell people about that whole crack a window thing, but hey, if they're not smart enough to put down the phone long enough to use turn signals and check their blind spot before moving over into traffic at highway speed, you never know what they might need a little extra help with.

Of course, there's always the other extreme -- some move all over the place like drunks, some won't move over at all. Sure enough, I ended up behind two of 'em, side-by-side just like a parking lot. When we came under Highway 11, they were still side-by-side, and I saw my chance, so I went for it...

I'm not crazy, I didn't do anything any more dangerous than staying parking-lot-close-side-by-side at highway speed, and I didn't get anywhere close to any other cars. I've only did it once before, in a "Service Loaner" Ford Escort way back when the SHO still had factory warranty -- and it took everything that little car had to pull it off, I made it, but there was no more car left...

On Southbound 75, where the Highway 11 ramp comes on from the left, there are two extra lanes for a short distance. It's a generous bit of merging area compared to most in the Tulsa area even though it's crazy to send 'em on in the passing lane to begin with.

There were several car-lengths between the two cars side-by-side and the next car ahead of them on to the South, and there was nothing coming down the ramp from Highway 11, so I decided to go for it. Not eating my dinner, not talking on my phone, not fixin' my hair -- just belted into my comfy seat with both hands on my well-worn leather wheel, I hit the blinker and pressed my toes down just as soon as I could pull to the left into that short bit of spare passing lane. The pedal didn't touch the floor, and I never felt like I'd used up all the car had; it just dropped a gear, wound up, dropped another gear, and took off, just as quick and easy as ya please, right blinker on, moving back over, and making the pass with room to spare. For a car that somebody gave up on and sold to a salvage yard, it sure is sweet that way. The person in the car blocking the passing lane may not have even realized I didn't come from Highway 11.

In that moment, with that ol' 4.6 opened up to a smooth roar, I forgot everything I'd been grumbling under my breath about all day and it was all just gone and I didn't have a nasty attitude to worry about anymore. It's a good thing too, 'cause my Wednesday Night group probably has more important things to worry about than what kind of rotten grumpy day I had.

It's a lot like what I love about The Twenty -- when the roar hits me, there's nothing else on my mind, nothing else to bother me, nothing. Nothing else.

Now, just as soon as this weather levels out...

_\,,/

For April 19th.

2010-04-19T14:54:00.001-07:00

Fifteen years.

Wow.

Really? Fifteen years?

Fifteen years ago, I was a senior in highschool. I was in Band, the regular second hour class for juniors and seniors, along with fifth hour, I'm not sure which name had been hung on that hour, "Pep Band," Jazz Band," or something like that -- I had it to fill in that hour for the second semester after making up a semester of history that I'd flunked in tenth grade. There wasn't an actual Band involved, it was really more like Study Hall in the Band Room -- homework, practice time, or when the Director was gone, there might've been a little horseplay involved... It's been fifteen years, I'd say that surpasses the statute of limitations for "Snitching On The Sly."

I remember one classmate who had a different "extra hour" of band getting extremely pissed off at me when I started putting my mouthpiece in my purse; in fifth hour, my friends and I occasionally messed around with drums and xylophones and the piano. Sometimes we'd warp the hell out of that massive gong and then have to press ourselves against it to stop the ringing 'cause we thought we heard a door start to open. We did not put our mouths on things... Apparently the other groups played around with everything, including my bass trombone, and uh, Ewwww! I've never been interested in putting my mouth on things that other people put their mouths on -- I was just a little creeped out by the invasive nature of someone pulling my horn out of the case without my knowledge, but I might've got over it were it not for them using my mouthpiece instead of getting their own. How many times did I pull that horn out for rehearsal and unknowingly end up with someone else's germs? Bleh! Mouthpiece in purse from there on out...

I did not have any sort of Math class that year, having already met my requirements by squeaking through Honors Algebra II by the skin of my teeth the year before. My two computer classes were just interesting enough that I didn't get bored. Art class was pure gravy. Senior English was a challenge, but the teacher was great, so everything went fine.

My brother had already choked the mouthy punk who wouldn't leave me alone in third hour. My Best Friend and I were still on good terms then. My parents took care of my truck, and the gas, and the insurance, and the giant Uniden cell phone in the big leather bag that took up the entire middle seat of the truck. I had probably just had my first tiny peek at the green SHO that would be my graduation present -- but I still had my heart set on the red Mustang 5.0 convertible beside it...

Andy and I had been dating just almost six months, and the prom was three days away.

I was eighteen and not worried about anything except makin' room in my purse for that bass trombone mouthpiece.

Not worried about anything.

I remember leaving the band building to come into the school through the back side of the cafeteria, and there was a crowd between the tables, all staring at the TV. Those TVs were never, ever on, except for "Channel One" (the silly video tape that got played once a week in imitation of a "satellite feed") or to play whatever video the popular people had put together. There was never any random TV-watching on any of those TVs, so it had to be something big coming in on the national news.

The first thing I saw was a building with the side blown open.

The first thing I thought was "Great, one more thing for the news to fixate on and repeat over and over again just like that stupid OJ police chase," television had started to seem a little repetitive with that being all over the news all the time.

Yeah, eighteen-year-old me might've needed a pop upside the head once in a while.

When I realized it was in Oklahoma City, everything shifted and I felt a little sick inside.

I guess it didn't really sink in 'til I got home and sat down in the living room with my parents and Andy to really watch the news instead of just hearing bits of what I could catch in the cafeteria in the five minute breaks between classes.

There was a daycare center there, there were babies and toddlers, little kids... Little kids were hurt and killed, deliberately, violently.

I cry every time they read the names on the news or the radio on the anniversary of the bombing.

In 2000, I was in Oklahoma City for a convention of Automotive Recyclers; I ended up hangin' out with two guys from other yards in Texas and we drove over there to see the memorial before there was an actual museum. They were just getting the sod put down among the chairs. The chairs and the reflecting pool were stunning, but it was the statue of Jesus and the fence... The chain-link fence covered up with every sort of memento anyone could attach to a chain-link fence... It was the fence that brought me to my knees.

As Robert Earl Keen says, "That morning in late April, Oklahoma, '95," we do not forget.

We do not forget.

See that we do not forget.

--

--

What were they thinking?

2010-02-22T19:00:00.000-08:00

When I walked in after work, the ABC Nightly News was on the TV. (it's Channel 8 here in Northeast Oklahoma) I'll be the first to admit I'm not a real big TV Watcher, and I'm pretty sick of hearing about this stupid Toyota mess, but this piece caught my ear/eye, and I stopped to watch the segment.

http://abcnews.go.com/WNT/video/testing-toyota-9914148

It's three and a half minutes, but just in case you'd rather read than watch, the TV News Reporter gets to drive a Toyota that a Professor has wired to recreate the electronic "shorts" that cause throttle malfunction. They also have a hand-held scanner which shows NO error codes in the electronic system, neither during nor after the incident.

Toyota says the computer system won't let it happen; but one second, they're doin' 20mph, the next second, it's tachin' 6500 and the brakes won't shut it down.

The whole thing bugs me in so many different ways...

Toyota has published video of a guy displaying a gas pedal with the electronic parts attached, he's got all the moving parts in his hands, everything that tells the car how far you're mashing that pedal is right there -- it sends signals through the computer system from there. No rods, no cables, just that round rheostat-looking thing attached to a computer system. Who designed that and what the hell were they thinking??? Have they not seen how difficult computers and computerized parts can be? Have they never lost a homework assignment (or a whole computer) to that oh-so-lovely "Blue Screen Of Death?"

More importantly, have they never had a throttle stick open on 'em? Surely I'm not the only one who's ever downshifted to third to beat a yellow light only to discover that the truck didn't rev down when I let up to shift back into fourth... Faster than my buddy in the shotgun seat could figure out what was going on, I got the clutch in, got it in neutral, and hooked my toe under the pedal to pull it loose before it could blow itself up.

That's how it's supposed to work; even though who-knows-how-many people drive around every day without knowing that's how it's supposed to work -- that's how it works. That gas pedal under your toes is connected to a rod that, through leverage and linkages, pulls a cable on a carburetor or throttle body, which lets air in to mix with fuel, which burns to make the car go. No computerized parts to short out and wreck things, just metal parts from your toes to your throttle. If you have the car running and the hood open, you can put your thumb in there and press on the spot where that cable connects and it makes it rev up just like if you had your foot on the gas. If you're a highschool boy, chicks'll think it's cool. If you're a chick, you can use that skill to shock a guy or two, or possibly an unsuspecting used car salesman. I know first-hand about shocking the unsuspecting used car salesman, it's fine fun.

Who puts digital shit in the middle of that? What's the point of taking chances with computers when rods and cables have been working just fine for all these years?

Don't get me wrong, computers have done helpful things for the automotive world. I'm sure "Limp Home" mode has saved lots of motor parts, electronic transmissions save gas, and that "oil change needed" calculator is pretty darn handy -- but a rheostatic control for the throttle? Really?? When I think of rheostatic control, I can't help but think of that vibrator with the malfunctioning rheostatic control that I ripped apart in a last ditch effort to, uhm, finish a task.

If you're fighting to control a car that's "floored" itself, you're not going to be able to crawl under the dash and rip things apart to touch some wires together and attempt to fix the problem.

I'm still not over the whole "Cash For Clunkers" thing. I still think a lot of people got screwed, and some of 'em don't even have a clue. Quite a few might be getting a clue as they struggle to regain control of their Toyota and start to miss the good ol' car they traded off to the boat anchor factory.

Debbie Does Current Events.

2010-02-09T20:35:00.000-08:00

I try my best to avoid politics, but this whole Tulsa Police & Fire thing bugs me. I'm not going into the whole deal with the cops not stickin' together and then bein' mad and wantin' a second chance when the firemen did -- it's the "limited response" that bothers me most. The person who spoke about it on the news said that they were not responding to non-injury accidents or larceny calls; ie "Let's say you have a chainsaw in the back of your truck and somebody walks by and takes it..." Now, I'm not interested in snatching a chainsaw, but if I were, that line just kinda sounds like the police department is saying "Hey, Free Chainsaws!"

Drivers involved in non-injury car wrecks are supposed to "exchange insurance information and file a report on their own," so what about those assholes who don't have insurance? I'd say they're probably going to just leave; so what are the rest of us (who are paying for insurance and playing by the rules) supposed to do?

Here's my idea. Go out to your car right now and pop the trunk. Dig around in there 'til you find your lugwrench; it might be a stick with a bend in it with one pointy end and one lugnut-size socket on the other, or it might be an X-shaped one with three sockets and one pointy part -- whichever -- take it out of the trunk and stash it under the driver's seat. If you're involved in a wreck that appears to be non-injury, take pictures and then get out that lugwrench. Ask the other driver if they have insurance; if they say yes, put the lugwrench away, if they say no, let 'em know you're willing to use it. If they don't have insurance, it'd be wrong to let 'em leave, so if you can't disable their car with your lugwrench, injure someone so that the cops have to respond. If you really insist on taking the high road, you can injure yourself; but really, I'd recommend injuring the person who's not playing by the rules. If they drive without insurance, that's the chance they took.

--

Also, how'bout that "off duty Tulsa cop" who ended up in jail for waving his gun around in a bar... Did ya know he's on "paid suspension" right now? Tulsa can't afford to keep 'em on the job, dozens of officers are looking for work and wondering how they'll pay their bills, but that dip is getting paid while not working. Nice, huh? Let me have his gun, I'll make sure nobody walks off with someone else's chainsaw -- he's more suited to a job that involves a french fry basket than a gun anyway.

--

Tonight on the news, apparently some of the last few cops still on duty caught a man in the act of what could've ended up being a homicide. I'm glad to know that they stopped a crime in progress and most likely saved the life of a mom and her child; but then after they'd hauled this man to jail, supposedly he bonded out a little faster than expected. The impression that I got from the folks telling the story on TV is that they were puzzled as to where the "bad guy" came up with the nine thousand dollars to bond out so quickly.

I don't know if anyone else has pointed this out or not, but last night on the news, they told about a robbery of a grocery store where the "bad guy" made off with "about seventeen thousand dollars." Hmmmmmm... Think there might be a connection there?

--

More later... _\,,/

Oh, hai.

2010-01-28T21:18:00.000-08:00

I know y'all probably get sick of my "disjointeds," but... Oh, wait, are there any of y'all out there?

I have this big ol' long post that involves a freezer getting un-plugged, it's almost done over there in my TextEdit -- but the more I edit/proofread/re-read it, the more I wonder if it's just boring-as-hell to anybody who's not me.

I also have a lovely story about a kitten that I just might use here one of these days.

I really have been using TextEdit after that one post got lost in the ether of Blogger.

I spent most of this morning dealing with a lovely batch of passive-aggressive anger that could've been avoided; but then again, that's part of the nature of passive-aggressive anger: catching my attention last night and saying "Hey, move yer car" would've been easy, picking up my keys off the counter and moving my car would've been easy, but somebody thought waiting 'til the next morning to be nasty about it was way more fun, so there we were. It seems to me that if you have two cars that are fully operational and someone parks behind one of 'em, it would be easy to just drive the other one 'cause hey, it's great to live in a country where we're free to own two cars... But passive-aggressive fun doesn't work that way, passive-aggressive doesn't think about how great life is -- passive aggressive is planning how much fun it's going to be to yell and act nasty to someone the next chance it gets.

It doesn't even seem like it's worth writing about now -- just that I learn from these experiences and that's about all I can do until I hone my psychic skills.

Oh, and we have ice, which means I ain't workin' tomorrow, which just puts it all a little further away...

Maybe tomorrow we'll have a nice kitten story or something like that.

_\,,/

Snow Alert.

2009-12-29T18:34:00.000-08:00

Aaaah, Grocery Shoppah...

Oh shit, it's gonna snow, you better go to the store and get some groceries!!

Now, keep in mind, my trip to the grocery store didn't start out pissy or irritable -- I've got tortilla soup waiting at home, all I need is a bag of tortilla chips to go with it, and I've got cash in my pocket to pay for 'em. I don't have any real reason to be worried about the weather that's comin' in, and I don't see any real reason why it would take me very long at all to dash in, pick out some chips, pay for 'em, and take my happy ass on home.

That being said...

Dear Angry Woman in the minivan with one headlight: I cannot move every car in this parking lot to accommodate your every whim, and I will not apologize for that. Why? Because it would be much easier to move your one single minivan and at least point it the right direction as opposed to moving all the other cars just because you're not smart enough to know you're going the wrong way down an aisle of parked cars. The engineers who planned the pattern of the parking lot did it that way for a reason, and if you'll just take a look, you'll see that the yellow lines are all angled in the same direction so that cars pulling in from this direction don't have to turn as sharp. When the cars are pointing at you and you see taillights, you're going the right way -- when the cars are pointing away from you and you see fenders and wheels, you're going the wrong way. When that big yellow arrow on the ground is pointing AT you and the headlights of other cars headed straight for the front of your minivan, you're going the wrong way. It's not because I'm a horrible bitch who won't get out of your way; it's because I'm going with the intended flow of traffic in a space that's really only wide enough for one vehicle, and no, I'm not going to back up for you because there are only six or eight other cars behind me who probably won't back up either. Pay a little attention, put down the phone and take a look around at what's going on outside the minivan so maybe you won't end up turning down the wrong aisle next time.

Dear Grown Man Old Enough To Know Better: I do appreciate your forethought in stopping and standing still to quietly talk on your phone instead of meandering about and bouncing your shopping basket into things, please, please think about what you're doing. I'll never forget the loveliness of sitting on the porch at my Grandma's house; spring, summer, fall, we always had a nice time sittin' in the wrought iron chairs around the glass-topped table, or swaying softly in the parch swing... There was always a wind chime or two pleasantly tinkling gently from the corner of the roof. One or two wind chimes in a gentle breeze on a porch is nice; the noise coming from the forty wind chimes on that display that you're shaking with your elbow in the middle of a tile-floored grocery store is nerve-jangling. Seriously. How are you even talking on the phone with all that ringing a foot away? QUIT IT.

Dear Parent Of Elementary School Boy And Girl: Where the hell are you? Seriously, where the hell are you? Apparently you haven't you noticed that your daughter is sitting cross-legged in a shopping cart while your son pushes it as fast as he can and then jumps onto the handle and throws his weight to the side to spin it around and around, screaming gleefully as elderly people and other adults step out of the way so that he can travel the width of the store, all the way from produce, down past the check-out stands to the bakery. Where the hell are you and why don't you get your kids under control? This is a grocery store, not an episode of "Jackass." Oh, wait, there you are, telling the manager and the security guard to "leave them babies alone."

Dear Guy In Line In Front Of Me: If you did not want the two extra-large cans of cling peaches in heavy syrup, why did you bother carrying them all the way up to the checkout stand? I saw you headed toward the checkout lines, I got behind you because I saw that you were moving fast and only had an armload instead of a whole shopping cart load. The two big cans of peaches were quite a challenge to hold onto along with your ground beef, chicken legs, spaghetti sauce, and Kool-Aid; if you were going to hand 'em to the cashier and say you didn't want them, why bother carrying them around like that?? Also, I see you're rockin' the Buckcherry hooded sweatshirt and AC-DC pajama pants; while both of those bands kick some ass, is it really wise to be leaving the house in pajama pants? In the snow?? Really?

Dear Woman In Line Behind Me Who Looks To Be At Least My Age: Do you realize just how LOUD you are talking? Please consider that the person on the other end of the line is not the only person who can hear what you are saying. I couldn't help but overhear; I was three feet away and you were making sure everyone could hear... Who is it that made you so mad? Mom? Grandma? Auntie? Sister? Seriously, if they're letting you live with them, it's not too much to ask that you do some dishes every once in a while, and it's not so horrible that they asked you to stop by May's Drug on the way home and pick up some 409 and some lotion. It's not that bad, really. You're right here in the grocery store, just grab some 409 and some lotion while you're here. Quit telling everybody what a bitch she is, geez, she's letting you stay at her house,so... Oh, what's that? She told you to leave? Well then, I guess we know why!

Dear Crazy Androgynous Person In The Rough Ol' Buick: If that car isn't safe for the road, leave it at home. If your brakes aren't working like they should and you have a hard time getting that car to STOP, you shouldn't be driving that car anywhere, especially not right in front of the door where people are walking in and out of the front of a grocery store. There are people walking, STOP, okay? It's starting to snow, it's cold, it's damp, it's icy; those people who are walking are outside in that and you are warm and dry inside the Buick, STOP and give 'em a minute, okay?

--

The Tortilla Soup was pretty good.

Next time, I'll stop by the Dollar General for Chips, it's a lot smaller and easier to deal with.

--

More later... _\,,/

Bullet List.

2009-11-10T12:03:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-06T08:57:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-09-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

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!"

2009-08-26T09:31:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-07-31T12:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-07T10:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Through The Weeds.

2009-07-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

My work experience lies in healthcare and automotive; I have only seen the effects of "out in the weeds" as a customer.

I know everybody needs a little kindness, there's enough meanness going on -- that's why I'm quiet about it. It could mean I'm too scared to speak out and tell somebody they screwed up; it could mean I don't do well with "confrontation," it could mean that I've let the theories of retail friendliness get too deeply ingrained in my habits; but I'm choosing to believe the theory that Anne and I talked about the other night -- I'm a reasonable adult, therefore I'm not mean to people, no matter how much I can't stand 'em. Not directly, anyway.

Have I mentioned how completely awesome it is to be back in touch with Anne? She found me on F@ceBook and getting that e-mail made me get all jumpy and giggly!

Now, just like we talked about, I'm not gonna be mean to a waiter or waitress, 'cause it's just not right. The tip will shrink if the drinks don't stay full or an empty chip basket gets ignored, but I've watched way too many people pitch little fits and I just don't want to be remembered as that person who acted all nasty. I guess it's a case of "don't be that guy."

We tend to keep going back to the places we like -- somewhere between the kindness and the tips, we're remembered as being friendly, and we're usually fairly well taken care of. I don't want to be that person that people see comin' and think "Ugh, not again..."

Things seem to go easier if you can just be friendly...

Everybody was workin' hard to be friendly, but it might not have really been workin' today at lunch.

Fast food is completely different though...

I still try my best for quiet kindness though, 'cause seriously, if they were our best and brightest, they wouldn't be workin' in fast food, now would they?

I have no idea how anybody could get so "Out In The Weeds" when there are five people working and only two customers waiting for food, but the folks at the chicken joint were out in the weeds today.

It could be due to the guy who couldn't make up his mind what to spend his dollar bill and handful of coins for taking way too long to decide between chicken, potatoes, beans or a drink, dumping the entire contents of his pockets on the floor along with change and a big handful of only-God-knows what kind of pills -- finally settling on one piece of chicken all by itself; who knows...

The place started fillin' up, and since I wasn't all that interested in closeness with strangers or watching a gangsta mug the guy with the pills, all I could think about was getting my seven dinners and getting outta there.

Seven of us at work today, seven dinners, five with steak fingers, two with chicken strips. Five plus two is seven.

I had to wait a while, but I was glad to make it outta there without hearing anybody try to scam a free drink for havin' to wait -- oh, and in case you ever wondered, at this particular chicken joint, the most popular variety of that scam would be a "Schtrawwwbereh Drank."

The lady workin' the front counter, the one who was oh-so-patient with Mr. One-Piece with coins, she just made my day when she finally said my order was ready. I was sooo glad to get outta there, I just grabbed the bag and made a break for the car.

I was stopped at the second stoplight when I realized there were only six dinners in the bag.

There was no way I was goin' back in there with a confusing receipt and a complaint about bein' short a box.

If they were the best and brightest, they'd be able to count to seven and they wouldn't be workin' in fast food...

I really enjoyed that peanut butter sandwich.

More later... _\,,/

Oh yeah, I was gonna write about...

2009-06-18T13:04:00.001-07:00

Oh, hi there. I'm back. Sorry 'bout that, letting a month go by... Whups.

Let's see, where shall I start?

I sold The Excursion. The first time I posted it on Cra!gsL!st, all I got was a parade of disappointment -- lots of people asked questions, but nobody ever showed up. The second time was kinda "on a whim" (read that as "God's planning at work whether I realized it or not") and the first person who e-mailed me called within half an hour of my reply and showed up that night after work with cash. I made about a twenty percent profit and he thought he was gettin' a steal of a deal; which I'd say is pretty darn good all the way around. I still want another one though -- my next one will be a darker color with a diesel in it.

Out of that cash, I stashed a hundred bucks in the back of my checkbook 'cause ya never know when I might need it... I made out a deposit slip and took the rest to the bank along with my payroll check the next afternoon -- where I was asked for my ID in the drive-thru. Very interesting...

A couple days later, I fired up the ol' online bill-pay and paid off the credit card I'd bought the truck with, and then with what was left, I paid off every other piddly little bit of anything I had left on all my other cards too. I'm not carrying a balance on a single one of 'em now -- just the ones that I use regularly and I pay 'em off every month; that's how I rack up the "Cashback Bonus," by paying my phone, cell phone, and internet every month with Discover.

Now... Fast-forward to Monday...

A little somethin' interesting turned up on the insurance auction's website, and it was in Oklahoma City. Since I wasn't makin' payments on anything else, I didn't mind the idea of makin' a few payments on a cool piece of rolling stock.

I'm pretty sure it'll be easy enough to fix.

It ended up bein' about a grand less than what I spent on the Excursion.

I'm pretty sure I can make a little bit of a profit off of it; but if I can't, it was cheap enough I don't mind the idea of payin' it off and keeping it.

It was only bumped a little bit, I was able to drive it home.

It has fully functional air conditioning.

It's white on the outside and very, very bluuuuuuue on the inside.

It has six doors.

It's on my Flickr account:

More Pictures Here.

A First Experience, Or Two, and Somethin' Blue!

2009-05-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

Saturday evening, on the way to dinner at El Charro (I'm pretty sure that's Spanish for "Always Excellent."), we stopped at a certain big store to check out the toy department. I'm not afraid to admit, there have been occasions where I've stood in the Hotwheels aisle and sent Clay back to the front of the store to bring me a shoppin' cart. On this last trip, I took it kinda easy; I ended up with seven little cars in my hand and that was it.

While we were waiting for the person ahead of us to finish up with the "self check-out," the cashier in charge of watching the area caught my attention and offered to check us out at her stand. I'm not kidding, she seriously asked, "are y'all buyin' for the grandkids?"

I didn't know what to say, so I just kinda patted Clay and said "Oh, there are no kids here."

What the hell? I'm thirty-fucking-two. What the hell?

But... I've probably stewed and bitched enough over the weekend, so instead of making this post all ranty/bitchy, lemme show ya somethin' I made!!

That's the "environment friendly grocery bag" that I was workin' on at the Hearse Show -- the knitting that appeared in more pictures than I did. I left it in my chair for a while, and while I was gone, there were several pictures taken of the other people sitting in the chairs near mine.

The first Christmas that I was knitting, almost everybody got a scarf. I've thought about knitting these bags for everybody, but I had a hard time finding a pattern that I really liked. I made a couple bags from a yarn company's pattern; they knitted up pretty quick due to the big needles, but it's hard to sew a decent seam into something that's knitted with such big stitches. I checked out a couple other online patterns, but the one I really liked the looks of required a stitched-on fabric strap; I wanted something that had it's straps or handles knitted on -- I guess I have a thing about continuity.

I finally found a pattern that looked interesting; through that same yarn company, so I gave it a try. It started with a rectangular base and had an interesting lacy pattern that probably would've been pretty cool if I hadn't messed it up so many times. When it came time to knit the handle, I messed up my stitch count again, but where I'd wrecked the lacy pattern, it looked kinda cool.

So that's how I decided to try this... I started with a square instead of a rectangle, and instead of using a four-row pattern of lace, I repeated two rows for diagonals instead of round holes. I also went with stockinette handles instead of continuing the lace pattern.

There it is with a few random pantry items tossed in for the photo. I've yet to actually use any of my knitted bags at a store because they're always occupied with other stuff. I've been carrying my knitting stuff to the library in that messed-up one, one of my others is hangin' on the back of my car seat to catch clutter, and a few others are hangin' around different places with balls of yarn in 'em.

I think I've found a way to knit up some of the cotton in my stash...

;) More later. _\,,/

A Recycled Post, as a Memorial.

2009-05-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while since my last post -- I do need to "catch up," but today, I'm recycling a previous post because it seems fitting to share this story one more time.

My favorite little green birdie died last night. This post was originally published on September 25, 2006.

--

A Bird In The Hand...

Alternate Title: "His Eye Is On The Sparrow..."

My Grannie was born in 1912 and raised seven kids; My Mom came along right about in the middle. Mom's youngest brother and oldest kid were within a few months of being the same age. My Grannie saw the rise of amazing inventions like indoor plumbing and the microwave oven. She handled the death of her husband and the scary experiences of raising five boys and two girls in a rapidly changing world. Mom's brothers were into everything from cars to carpentry to ranching to military service to recreational herbal pharmaceutical sales... Grannie's youngest grew pot in her houseplants (especially after Grannie's eyesight started goin' bad) and helped make Claremore Oklahoma the "Drug Capital Of Oklahoma."

I'm sure I didn't really have the "Traditional Grandparent Experience" like most kids do, but it was an experience nonetheless. I remember a few interesting Christmases, jail visits, and trips to cemeteries in tiny little towns in the middle of nowhere with stops along the way to see family who lived in the dark ages with outhouses in their yards as late as the late eighties. Seriously, if I can look down the street and see the red and white neon magic that is a "Sonic" Drive-In sign, there's no reason any of us should have to use a substandard bathroom! Outhouses! In The Eighties!! It's just wrong!!!

Grannie loved her cat, "Callie," 'til her youngest son's "little anger problem" killed it. She loved her Chow Dog she'd raised from a tiny puppy; a "replacement" for the chihuahua that got addicted to blood pressure pills by eating the ones she dropped in the carpet. Poor little thing got to jonesin' so bad he chewed up the bottle and ate 'em all, all at once. Much like many human drug addicts, he was smart enough to do what he had to do to get his fix; but not smart enough to realize that too much of that shit at one time can kill ya. When she got the Chow Pup, "Taboo," either she was more careful, or the dog was blessed with a higher tolerance for the pills; but not a lot of tolerance for much of anything else.

My Grannie loved moving more than anyone else I can think of. She moved every chance she got; Mom and I tried to count once and I don't even remember how many different houses and apartments we counted up. Grannie lived in just about every place that was ever for rent in Claremore. I'm not sure how many times we loaded up all her stuff, along with that evil "Taboo," and shuffled it all into a different house or apartment; big, small, it didn't matter, that strange smell was always the same. For her last big move, to Foyil rather late in her life, My Grannie turned up with a Parakeet. Up in her eighties and meaner day by day, Grannie was in and out of the hospital but never ever gave in to the idea of "Assisted Living" or a "Nursing Home."

I still think the Parakeet Experience was a big part of what pushed her off of the mental edge...

She was cleaning the cage at the kitchen sink; doing the cleaning with one hand, while holding the Parakeet in the other. The cage slipped, and when it did, she gasped, kind of like an "oops" or an "oh shit," and when she did, her other hand tensed up too and she squeezed the poor little 'Keet to death right there in her own hand. She just wasn't the same after that; she ended up in the hospital shortly after and never made it out. It was the strangest thing; after all the nastiness, she got so sweet and lovey those last couple days but she didn't know who anybody was.

My Grannie died right around my twenty-first birthday, she passed quietly while my Oldest Brother was there with her. She was eighty-five. When the phone call came, I was hangin' out in the living room with Pete (currently of Mothra Stewart, if you're Googling) and my Middle Brother -- My Mom was napping in her room while we messed around with my Stratocaster and the Fender Champ vac-tube amplifier that Pete had just brought me for my birthday. I don't know how anybody else felt about it, but I was relieved not to have to watch My Mom deal with it all anymore...

I had Peanut the Parakeet from about seventh grade until just last summer. Dave and I had Ozzy the Parakeet until we got Shadow Cat; then we gave him to AJ for her class at the elementary school. Did you know that all Tulsa Public Schools Classroom Pets recieve free Veterinary care? I'm sure Ozzy is much better off with a room full of kids than with a twenty pound housecat. I never could get comfortable with the thought of actually clipping wings myself -- I was always afraid I'd mis-snip and end up with a big mess, so both of my 'Keets stayed in the cages most of the time. With Peanut, it was a tremendous fear of the ceiling fan; with Ozzy, it was the cat. I spent my 'Keet time with my hands in the cage instead of the bird in my hands.

Since I've been with Clay and seen a few wing-clipping sessions up close, I still don't think I could do it myself, but I do get to hold the Birdies outside the cages. Heh... I think about My Grannie almost every time I reach into the 'Keet cage to take one out. I'm as careful as I can be because I really do not want to know the 'Keet Squeezin' experience first-hand, I just don't.

Clay's Quaker Parrot just fascinates me; they're so cute together. He talks a pretty good bit, and he lets Clay rub in his feathers or hold him any way he wants. I'm glad he liked me enough to let me pet him a bit and talk to me every now and then too...

While Clay was gone to Springfield, I'd just dash in and change the water & seeds and stay a minute or two for a quick chat -- I didn't open any cages except to reach in real quick. I figured I'd be on the safe side, since we'd already had that one weekend of hunting for the missing "Houdini 'Keet."

This past Saturday morning, Clay went to work and I stayed at the house while he was gone. I ran down to QuickTrip for Breakfast and when I came back, the Quaker was chattering away as I sat down and turned on the G4. I'd ate my apple danish and surfed the 'net a bit and since he was still talking, I went over and opened up the door. He only comes to me if he's on top; so I figured I'd give him a minute to get out and play a bit and then see if he'd come to me and sit with me while I was messin' with the computer.

He talked some more, he played with his toy on top of the cage, and when I got up to go over and see if he'd come to me, he flew toward the kitchen. Clay always worries about 'em gettin' behind the fridge; the last time he flew away from me, he got up against the front of the fridge door and knocked off some magnets and pictures and then landed on the floor; he came right to me as soon as I got there though. This time he didn't go near the fridge; he went straight for the laundry room and just as I discovered the french doors were not closed, he disappeared into the gap behind the machines.

Still momentarily calm, I dashed around the corner to the bathroom and grabbed the hand mirror off the nail. I held it up to the wall in hopes I could at least see where he was and maybe get him to step-up without having to pull the machines out away from the wall. I was glad to see him up high on the back of the dryer where I could reach him; so I reached. I had him in my hand, and My Grannie in my heart; I was scared of squeezing too hard, so just as I got him to let go of whatever he was hangin' on to back there, he squirmed out of my hand and disappeared, fluttering into the darkness between the machines and the wall.

My calm faded when I held the mirror back up and couldn't see The Quaker at all. I made sure he wasn't in the gap between the machines, then I un-hinged the french door and pulled the dryer out from the wall. There was not a single squawk to be heard as I pulled the dryer out further and further. I checked the back and there were no openings he could've gotten into; so I pulled the cord out of the wall, and then I saw the hole. I'd left the foil slinky vent connected because I remember what a bitch it was to get it hooked back on last time; but as I looked toward the other end of it, all I could see was that hole in the sheetrock beside the vent pipe.

That hole was all I could see and all I could think about, and I went apeshit. I looked around the washing machine with the mirror one more time, I dumped my purse on the bed to get a smaller mirror out, I tried to look into the hole with the mirror but I couldn't see anything. I cried, I prayed, I begged, I called, I knocked. I ran around to the closet and knocked on the wall from the other side hoping to shoo him out of there. I cried, I ran to my car but couldn't find a flashlight. I ran back to the hole and put my arm it -- all the way in, up to my elbow, and I found nothing. I cried and stared at the hole. I don't know how many times I tried to get Clay on the phone. I cried, I called, I whistled... I stared into the hole and begged God for some little something; a little tan foot, a little green feather, a happy little green bird, or even a sharp little beige beak; but there was nothing.

I was full-on apeshit and ready to start ripping out sheetrock. I figured, what the hey, I was once the Woman behind The Handyman Connection Craftsman Of The Year (Hi Google, E-mail Me!) -- I can fix drywall, it ain't nothin' they don't have a class for at Home Depot, and it ain't gotta be perfect 'cause it's behind the dryer where nobody sees it anyway. I thought about the attic, I wondered how big the gap was at the top of the vent pipe, I wondered if he was flying around in the attic stirring up insulation which would make me sick as hell if I opened that door at the top of the ladder... I went out into the garage and was glad to find a droplight already plugged in and layin' there, and I untangled the cord and was eyein' the ladder, but y'all already know how I am about ladders... I stood there thinkin' that even though I might be able to handle the nailed-to-the-wall ladder, how the hell was I going to handle crawling through the attic trying to catch the bird and what if I fell through? I'd decided that the drywall ripping method was going to be my best bet; but I knew I couldn't just start thrashing the place without at least getting Clay on the phone first.

Still crying and still apeshit, I was staring up at the attic door and wondering if I'd just screwed it all up and turned myself into the worst Girlfriend in the world when the phone rang. Clay called back and I was almost afraid to answer. I'd lost a bird, not just any bird, but The Uber Bird. Sure, I'm the Girlfriend, I've really fallen for Clay, and I think he'd know that, but The Quaker was here before I was... When I picked up my phone, I could barely talk, and Clay said "We'll get into something..." and he was hurrying home.

I went back to the laundry room and stared at the hole and cried some more as I thought about how I really had thought I finally "had my shit together" this time. I thought about how happy I've been with Clay, how nice it is to be so comfortable with him, and how much I care about him; and how I'd probably just screwed it all up. Even if I could shell out a couple hundred bucks to replace the bird, it wouldn't be The Quaker Baby. I'd finally found someone who appreciated me for who I am, someone who didn't bitch about the race car, someone who made me feel girly without bein' intimidated when I'm not-so-girly, someone who knew all the right little ways to make me happy, and I'd totally screwed it all up.

I was standing there crying when I heard the familiar parroty voice that I'd been praying and crying over... "Pretty Quaker!"

He was not in the hole.

He was in the corner behind the washing machine.

I said a quick prayer of thankfulness and ran to find something to stop up that damn hole. After ending up with an armload of socks, even though I knew I couldn't leave them there because of the risk of fire, I just wanted to make sure he couldn't get into the hole while I was trying to catch him... Once the hole was plugged, I called Clay back -- it took a couple more tries; and I'm sure we were both relieved when he answered. I went back to the laundry room and pulled the washer out as far as I could without pulling the hoses; and as I did, The Quaker Baby flew up toward me. I reached out as he got about level with the top of the dryer, and he landed right in my hands.

If that bird ever says "You Scared The Shit Outta Me!" we'll all know where he got it.

And then Clay says, "Well, he's back in the cage, if you hadn't have called me, I'da never known a thing."

Yeah, right...

Actual phone conversation.

2009-04-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

Caller: "You got a steering column for a 93 Chevy Truck?"

Me: "Is it column-shift or floor-shift?"

Caller: "Yeah."

Me: "Does it have the gearshift on the column?"

Caller: "It's a steering column, I need a steering column."

Me: "Mmm-hmm, does it have the gearshift on the column?"

Caller: "Uuuhhh, no, it's an automatic....uuh....yeah...uhh...column shift."

Heh. Damn, I didn't even get to use the ol' "Does it go PRNDLL or 12345R?" or maybe "That handle that you shift gears with, does it stick out of the floor, or out of the side of the steering column?"

A man on the bank ten thousand years my younger...

2009-04-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Ah, Skiatook Subway, just how much laughter and fun can come out of one little sandwich shop?

Sometimes I get a little burned-out on most of the lunch-y places in Skiatook; but Subway is different... Even when I'm tired of sandwiches and it's the wrong kind of weather for soup and pizza just doesn't sound good; even when I'm not really interested in the food, I always love the people at the Skiatook Subway.

When I went into Subway today, I didn't have a whole lot on my mind, but I had a smile on my face because Tim Wilson's "Chucky Cheese Hell" was playin' when I parked the truck. Why not have a smile to share with someone? I'm havin' a good hair day, wearin' my favorite jeans and a nice warm-fuzzy shirt, drivin' a truck I enjoy, and listening to a few new MP3's that are freakin' hilarious, it's lunchtime, and summertime will be here any day now; I smile because the simple pleasures are usually enough for me.

I got the two salads for the guys and ordered up my Ham "anti-vegetarian-picky-eater-special" (bread, meat, light mayo, that's it), and was kinda proud of myself for gettin' a giggle out of the person in line behind me. I didn't have a whole lot on my mind except the math facts of how right now with the "$5 Foot Long" deal, it's cheaper to get a foot long sandwich and just lay all the meat onto half of the bread instead of getting a six-inch double-meat. I know there's usually a little background music, but I didn't really notice it until the complaints were lodged.

The volume was quite low, as background music in respectable establishments usually is. It wasn't loud like the night we heard "F##k Da Police" bumpin' in the KFC in that part of town. It wasn't like hearing "I Want Your Sex" on a boombox in the laundry-mat. It wasn't like hearing AfroMan out the open window of that two hundred dollar Buick Regal with the two thousand dollar stereo sittin' at the gas pumps. It was better than "Muzak" I'll give it that... But... To me, personally, it was just another old song played way too often; typical corporate radio fare. I'd never really thought of it as "hard," I'd never thought of it as offensive, I'd never really thought of it as associated with "tokers and dopers." It never really crosses my mind except as part of the "Dazed & Confused" Soundtrack or as one of those songs that just gets played too much so I never really cared to own a copy of it. There may even be tokers and/or dopers out there who think it sucks...

It was Alice Cooper's "School's Out."

He said it was "turning him off," and that "the only people who listen to that hard rock music are tokers and dopers," and that he was "seventy four years old," and that he "wanted to see the manager," and that they "should choose something more neutral for public places."

I am thirty two, and I've never done any tokin' or dopin', but I do love me some music. Today, I saw Alice Cooper's "School's Out" in a whole new light, right along with my seventy-some-year-old aunt who always shares her recipes with me. I have no idea how she feels about the drugs, but she does love Alice Cooper, and you can bet her red minivan is usually rockin'...

When the door had closed and the complainer was safely out onto the sidewalk, most of the people waiting in line near me looked around and shared a giggle. I was so caught up in the laugher, I forgot to look for chips.

When I hopped back into the driver's seat of the Excursion and put the lunch in the shotgun seat, I clicked my iPod over to "Shuffle" just to see what I'd get...

I got Widespread Panic's "Rock."

Hey, I didn't say I'd never come home from a concert smellin' like pot, just that I've never smoked any myself.

Rock on!

How long since the last Disjointed?

2009-03-30T09:30:00.000-07:00

This morning I took a phone call askin' for Nissan Frontier parts. I told him we handle Ford parts and haven't ever had a Nissan Frontier. His exact words: "Oh... How'bout a Grand Am?" I (gently, I promise) reminded him we handle Ford parts. Then he asked if we were "on the corner." I told him we were on the North edge of town.

I shit-ya-not, he said "North edge? What's that mean?"

Uhm, well, if you leave the center of town to drive toward The North Pole where Santa Claus lives, you'd have to drive past the North edge of town.

--

It's not all a total bastard though, one of the ladies from here in town (I think she lives toward the South edge, hA) sent us a Chocolate Cake. I'm no serious connoisseur of cakes, I tend to love 'em just about any way I can get 'em. I can't say I have any serious skills when it comes to discerning "mix" from "homemade," but this cake is so seriously wonderful, I'd just about bet it didn't come from a boxed mix and the frosting may not have come from a plastic tub either. It's rich and moist and beautiful like a little bit of heaven in a lovely glass pan.

--

As a reasonably educated person with a love of language, I am not afraid to admit that I used the MacBook's Dictionary because I wasn't completely sure how to spell "connoisseur." Some people wouldn't go to that kind of trouble, would they? I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'...

--

Saturday, and only Saturday, we got an incredible amount of snow. Turns out I'd caught a large quantity of that Spring melt-off in the floor of the Mark 8, but I didn't notice until I got home and slung a wet laptop bag over my shoulder. Luckily the seventy-nine-cent thrift-store bag is fairly well-padded and the moisture didn't make it through to the computer or the external hard drive.

--

Saturday also brought me a string of interesting text messages with an odd feel to 'em; culminating with something like "I usually stay with Clay on the weekends," and a reply of "Oh. Do you have any single friends?"

I'm pretty sure that makes three guys who have asked me that same question fairly recently. I can only think of one single friend I have, but I can't really imagine her really hittin' it off with any of the three of these guys... I would love to wish each and every friend all the love in the world with somebody who'd be good to 'em -- I just don't want to be held responsible for putting any of 'em together because the odds are just too great that they'd end up with somebody who irritated the piss out of 'em.

I can only think of one "perfect couple" that I'd put together, but one of 'em is in Kansas and the other is in Southeast Tulsa, and neither of 'em has asked me about single friends.

That settles it, I ain't touchin' the matchmaker thing.

--

Today is also a HoMeSkOoL dAy, which means I just might post again real soon...

_\,,/

When my sick sense of humor looks back.

2009-03-11T09:31:00.000-07:00

The other morning I opened my cell phone to find a Twitter Tweet from my friend Scott, who was taking a tour of a Tulsa hospital. I couldn't help but hit "reply."

When I was 19, I got my first "real job" at a different Tulsa hospital; and though I'd taken a little "tour" amongst my little group of new hires, there were certain areas that I didn't get to see until much later...

The Summer that I was 25, I saw more than I'd ever wished to see.

There were a few weeks of hazy blur with only bits that stand out. The morning of the tenth of May was a Friday, and I'd spent most of the previous night stumbling back and forth between a king-size waterbed and a blue tweed couch. Sleep was essentially out of the question, but I was alternately trying to lay down on either one so that I might stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell I was going to do. Those were the days when I could take a shower at night, go to bed with wet hair, and get away with it; but I don't remember if I showered or not.

I do remember going out to the garage that Friday morning and sliding behind the wheel of the SHO, the schweeet green Ford that I'd pushed easily past 125MPH, left hand around a spoke of the wheel, right hand on the gearshift; flyin' up US75 coming home the night before, just to remind myself that I was still me and still here.

I closed the car door and put my seatbelt on, then I hit the remote and watched my mirrors as the garage door rolled up. There was sunshine, but it wasn't the same anymore... I pulled my black Coach bag, the one I still refuse to sell or give away, out of the passenger seat and into my lap; and I took out the other piece of my bridal set. I figured I'd about as well wear both rings since there wasn't going to be a wedding anyway.

I don't really remember the drive to Dave's sister's house, but I do remember sliding into the shotgun seat of that buttery new Lincoln Towncar, and I vividly remember going to the airport to pick up his parents. I remember taking them back to the hospital to see him, even though it had been nearly 24 hours. I remember how his dad held my hand and told me he'd help me keep racing if he could. None of his family helped me with anything but learning how the worst comes out in people sometimes, but that's a whole different post.

A hospital employee, possibly a social worker, met us in the main lobby, out front where everything's pretty with polished wood and well-kept flowers. We chatted a bit while we waited for Dave's sister to make her way back in from parking the car; yes, I've been here before, I used to work here. No, I don't think there's anyone from my old floor I'd like to see, I'm pretty sure none of 'em give a shit about me, so no, don't call up there...

I had already decided I wasn't going back in -- I'd gone back into that little room in the ER more times than I could count, and everyone close to me told me that he would only look worse and it would only be harder on me, so my mind was made up, I wasn't going in this time.

She led us through a maze of hallways, some familiar, some not; and the further we went, the less "well decorated" the building was. We took an elevator down to the basement and around turn after turn, past the laundry, past the bulletin board with the job postings on it, around corner after corner, back toward the employee parking garage, and into the cafeteria.

The Cafeteria. We went through the exit door past the steamy conveyor belt where a few people were leaving their trays, around the cashier stands, and past that turntable where the special of the day was displayed plate-by-plate... When I was working, the "Margarita Chicken" was one of my favorites. We followed the social worker across the cafeteria and over to the wall near where the fruit and cereal are, and she opened a door into another small hallway where she said "here we are."

I stayed in the hallway with his aunt, and she held me while his parents and his sister went in. I got back in the car. I took a few phone calls. I answered questions at the funeral home, yes, we'll have music, no I don't want to leave him laid out for people to gawk at. That night, we had salty fried chicken from some place in Southeast Tulsa; the containers were unmarked, but it was good, and it was the first thing I'd had to eat since lunch the day before, before everything changed.

Late that night on the blue tweed couch, I stared up at the ceiling in the spill from the TV, and in a rare break from wondering what the hell I was going to do, it hit me. The Cafeteria.

The morgue was right next to the cafeteria.

They didn't show us that part in the employee tour. I'll bet nobody knows the dead folks are right on the other side of that wall. Somebody's probably standin' there right this minute tryin' to decide between corn flakes or bran flakes, somebody's probably reachin' for an apple or an orange, and I'll bet they have no idea who's just mere feet away, lying cold in the very next room.

Looking back, it's one of those situations that's hell when you're in it, but almost humorous when looked back on.

Oh bullshit, who am I kidding, there's no "almost" to the humorous there. In a sick-ish sort of way, it is kinda funny, and I've no doubt Dave would see the humor in it as well.

When people ask about the hearse, and say things like "You know it's had dead people in it, right?" With a couple drinks in me, I just might say something like "So? So have my hands, how'bout that?"

Look for the humor, Love for the loving, 'cause ya never know what's lurking around the next corner.

Or just on the other side of that wall.

More later... _\,,/

Actual Conversations.

2009-03-03T12:51:00.001-08:00

It took me several years to give in to the phrase "flip-flops."

So, this afternoon, I'm standin' by the fireplace when My Mom walks up behind me and says "Do you wear thongs?"

I owned one pair of thong undies in college. I only wore 'em one day and they bugged me so bad I ditched 'em at lunchtime and went back to class with nothin' but jeans. The fact that I got rid of 'em by tossing them over a cable that ran between the floor joists in boyfriend-at-the-time's bedroom (which was in his mother's basement) is neither here nor there.

Mom asked if I wear thongs.

A quick flip of the mental rolodex shows a few places this question is likely to lead; the moral connotations of my underwear, the size of my ass, or something do do with my feet.

I know how these things usually go, and like any smart game show contestant, I picked the safest category. "I'll take footwear for a hundred, Alex!"

So I said "No, not unless I'm just steppin' into 'em to dash out to the car or something."

It was an honest answer. I've never been a fan of thongs or flip-flops, in the footwear or underwear departments. I keep a few pairs of the footwear variety around just in case I need to step into 'em real quick instead of putting real shoes on, but much like sweats or pajama pants, I pretty much refuse to wear 'em out in public. I'll wear 'em if I'm just dashing out to be out in the yard for a while, or if I'm going to the drive-thru and guaranteed to not have to get out of my car, but that's it. Of the footwear variety, I have three pairs; plain blue, orange with loofah-ish soles, and a pair with Tasmanian Devils on surfboards on 'em. It's not that I'm a Tasmanian Devil fan, I was just trying to find some that fit my odd feet -- but none of 'em do. Of the underwear variety, I have none, unless that pair from the basement is stuck in a box somewhere with all the stuff that he brought back after the break-up. I may have some chance of finding "flip flops" to fit my feet someday; but I seriously doubt I'll ever convince my ass to deal with "thongs."

Straight-faced, Mom's reply was "You'd run out to the car in your underwear?"

It's always about my ass.

More later... _\,,/

On getting me to wear a coat...

2009-03-02T09:01:00.000-08:00

Knitting in or with a group is a totally new thing for me, and I'm not sure if I would've been willing to just walk right into any group and sit down amongst people I didn't already know. That's the main reason I got so excited when my Librarian called to tell me that there was going to be a start-up at the library -- I've known her for a while, so it would be less like walking into a room full of strangers. I was also thankful to have my very own friend there with me for that first day, and we had a lovely time. I had fun with the girls from the library, and I met a few new people too.

I love the knitting... I just love it, it's everything I'd hoped it would be a few years back when I got the bug to want to learn how to do it. I get a big kick out of the "I made that!" phenomenon, and handing a hand-knitted gift to someone is a warm-fuzzy feeling that's hard to beat. I'm as proud as I can be every time I see My Mom wear either one of her scarves, the loom-knitted one or the hand-knitted one, and she wears 'em with or without a coat; something I've never really felt like I could pull off.

The Boobie Scarf came from an auction for Breast Cancer Awareness, and it is the first hand-knit item I have ever owned; which means I'll always think of Robin as my mentor in the world of knitting. That scarf is one factor that convinces me to wear my coat, because I'm not a real big fan of wearing my heavier coats and it just doesn't seem like a scarf goes with a nylon joggin' jacket or polar fleece pullover. My orange Boobie Scarf usually stays laced under the hood or tucked into the sleeve of my Tulsa Speedway top ten coat from 2004, which is almost always in the back seat of whatever I'm driving. I don't like to drive with it on because I feel all bound-up like my arms don't move like they should; if I'm in the shotgun seat, I'll still take it off and just cover up with it. It's that amazing scarf that makes me put the coat back on to get out of the car -- possibly partly due to the fact that it's got shocking little Boobies all over it, and mostly because it's a real, hand-knitted, fuzzy, real-wool scarf.

I learned what I know about knitting from books and the internet. I've never really had another person sit down with me and show me anything about knitting, but I've learned a LOT from videos on the 'net. It took me several re-readings of the pattern to finally decide I could do it, but I've knit three of those scarves now. A white one just to prove to myself that I could, a raisin-y purple-ish one that went to a Physical Therapist who works in a Cancer Center, and a deep red variegated one that was a special request. I actually got to watch the deep red go from the gift bag to the new owner's neck, and if that don't make ya wanna go knit some more, I don't know what will!

I finished that last Boobie Scarf just a little while before this little Knitting Group got started.

This past Saturday, it was cold, so I pulled that coat out of the back seat and put it on before I made my way across the parking lot and into the library.

What better place to show off the lovely hand-knitted item that made me oh-so-desperately want to learn to knit?

Eh, what better place to watch a little more of how some people work...

Our awesome Librarian was out of town, so there were only three of us there.

It was the same one who asked me what a lightsaber was. The same one who told me that tying knots was uncouth under any circumstances. The one who really, really reminds me of a guy I used to spend a little time with but just had to get away from.

She says it's Obscene.

I'm not about to try and argue about it with her, it'd be too strange -- so just like I did with that guy she reminds me so much of, I'll just listen politely and hold my own ground and that'll be that. I stood my ground with him until he threatened to get out of the truck and take off walkin'. I'm not hiding my scarf for anyone.

Obscene? My already raging fire appreciates her gift of a lit match.

I just might have to abandon flannel and wear sleeveless shirts in the cold just so I can keep wearing that coat every chance I get.

My oldest brother says he wants a sweater with Boobies all over it. He's a fireman, and he participates in the Relay For Life every year with a whole group of firemen who all wear Kilts.

I need to track down some bright red yarn so maybe I can get started on a Boobie Sweater next weekend. Heh.

More later... _\,,/

Crazy, but not that crazy.

2009-02-18T12:07:00.000-08:00

I know, it's nuts of me, but every time somebody mentions MySp@ce (or FaceB@ok), I go back and look through mine.

When Mom called to tell me that Neighbor Phil had said something about HR Managers checking "social networking sites" for photos of potential new hires, I even thought about taking down that one picture that has a beer bottle in it; but since the bottle is obviously in front of Clay, and it's one of very few really good pictures of us together, I left it there. Yes, we were at a bar, and yes, there may have been some sort of a glass not visible in the picture; but we were there to see a friend's band play and not to show off any titties, so I left it up. Out of three hundred and some, that one's the only picture that has alcohol in it.

This morning, there was a story in the newspaper about this wanna-be "gangsta." The story mentioned his MySp@ce page and pointed out that lovely default picture where he's posing with a gun.

Not that I'm "passing judgement" or anything, this is just my opinion: that wanna-be gangsta's page kinda puts out a message that reads a little bit like "Hello, I'm a Dumbass!"

In the interest of avoiding the dumbass factor, and because I almost always do this, I opened up my page and clicked through trying to look at it like a stranger would look at it, to try and see what my page says about me.

I'm never sure, but I like to think mine says most of the things my readers here already know -- I'm somewhere around 30, I'm wordy and reasonably educated, and not particularly interested in discussing politics. I've lived in the same area all my life and I love my little hometown. I work with my family. I'm not a very serious TV watcher, but I'm a big fan of PBS. I love obscure music, I race on the dirt, I love cars. I'm a little on the "butch" side but I Love a man. I knit, I read, I write, I proofread compulsively. Melted cheese makes me smile.

Oh, and one more thing, I almost always have a camera with me and I take a lot of pictures.

I've uploaded 359 of 'em to my MySp@ce account.

Three hundred and fifty nine. Wow.

So, I went through those 359 files (yes, again) just to see what all shows up in my pictures. Two are gif, the rest are jpg. In spite of my OCD-ish tendencies, I didn't count how many times I myself appear, but I did count Clay 34 times. Race cars make 63 appearances. Twelve pictures feature trucks, 36 of the ambulance, fourteen of various hearses. Keep in mind, I'm counting picture-by-picture, a shot with fourteen hearses and one ambulance counts as one picture... All together, there are 118 with vehicles. Twenty eight pictures have cats in 'em, including my Hannah kitty and the late ShadowCat, friends' cats, irresistible LOLCats, and one adorable grey kitty who belonged to an old boyfriend. One American Eskimo dog, one Chihuahua with cheeseburgers entitled "Warm, Cheesy Feets," and one teeny-tiny English Bulldog Puppy. Three frogs; one tree, one Kermit, and one teeny-tiny one. Sixty three pictures have birds, including baby parakeets from egg to fuzzy feathers to full-grown. Eight shots of Mom, seven shots of Dad, two with my brothers and me, one with one brother and me, three of the late Dave. There is one picture of Santa Claus holding a gift and kneeling down in front of Baby Jesus.

You'll see me in racing t-shirts, band t-shirts, motorcycle shop t-shirts, a couple polo shirts, a couple button-up shirts, a bit of flannel, some polar fleece, a flag uniform, a band uniform, a prom dress, and looking over one bare shoulder that may or may not involve a sleeveless top. You'll see all manners of hair; with clips, with ponytails, with sunglasses, with chopsticks, with clips. You'll see me holding all sorts of things; bottled water, Diet Dew, Diet Dr. Pepper, a five-gallon fuel jug, several baby animals, a camera, a screwdriver, a curtain rod, a leather handbag, a roll of masking tape, a can of paint, knitting needles, yarn, race car trading cards, the fender of a Kawasaki ATV, a flag on a five-foot pole, a 350-turbo bellhousing, baby animals, steering wheels...

You'll see all sorts of sick humor picked and chosen from various corners of the internet, a '72 Pantera, a sunflower, My Mom with a beehive, and me in a hot pink fur Bunny suit with my arm around a guy who looks a lot like Willie Nelson.

Somewhere I have a digital shot of me with a bartender in Oklahoma City who looked a lot like Freddy Fender, I keep thinkin' if I run onto that again I'll upload it too.

See?

I'm crazy-fun, not crazy-shooting-spree.

Wanna be my friend? http://www.myspace.com/twentycarlo

More later... _\,,/

Saturday Afternoon Salute...

2009-02-09T13:21:00.001-08:00

A Salute To My Grandma...
Originally uploaded by TwentyCarlo

Saturday afternoon, Clay got the new taillight put in and we took the Towncar out for it's first little ride around. Aside from discovering the intermittent lack of brake lights, we had a lovely time.

After a quick spray at the car wash, we drove out to the edge of Skiatook for what we'd presume to be this car's first unloaded trip to a cemetery.

I have no idea what kind of traffic any given cemetery sees in any given day; everything from minivans to motorcycles, everybody stops by for their own reasons in their own time.

Don't look at me like that. We weren't just full-out obviously taking pictures, we didn't have any half-naked goth chicks sprawled on a casket hangin' halfway out of the back. Oh shit, I said naked goth chicks, here comes Go0gle...

We were respectable about it; that's why there's only this one picture that I took with my phone; and it's not like we just pulled into some random cemetery somewhere -- My Grandma is buried there, along with a few other members of her side of the family.

I'm quite sure Grandma wouldn't mind... She might even see the humor in the situation and decide to ride along...

My Grandma answered phones for the wrecker service way back in the day, and she was "car people" just like the rest of us, even after she and Grandpa split. My Dad was her oldest, and she was always warm & kind, even to all of us took-in kids.

The holidays were always big at Grandma's place; out in the yard when it was warm, back in the garage when it was cold. Easter was always a big cook-out with egg hunting, and Christmas was huge.

I remember one Easter, I guess I was in College or right around there; I remember several of those odd years of wondering if I really fit in or not. I was standing on the porch with My Mom when Grandma called me over. "Turn around a minute," she said, and I wondered if I had something on my skirt. "I had to see closer, you've got SEAMS!" Grandma grinned, "I had no idea they still made stockings like that! Where'd you find 'em?" I sat down beside her to chat about Frederick's Of Hollywood and watch my aunts shoot me funny looks. To this very day, I remember that moment every time I walk by that store, and when I smile to myself, she's on my mind.

Christmas with Grandma was always huge, every variety of table, covered with party plastic and snacky goodness, and surrounded by every variety of chair, from dining room chairs to lawn chairs, to picnic tables with benches, all in the garage with the tree in one corner, and Santa came every year with a big sack of toys. Even after I'd outgrown "Santa" as a guy who came down the chimney at home, I was still just stunned by the idea of this Santa who came to Grandma's every Christmas Eve with toys for all of us. I got a Barbie every year, and there were never any repeats, and even though I knew it was a guy in a suit, I wondered where they found this guy who'd bring everybody toys and how he knew which Barbie Dolls I already had at home.

I was sixteen or seventeen when I was finally "let in on the secret." Yes, it was a guy in a suit, but Grandma left the bag in her laundry room for Moms and Dads to sneak the toys into so Santa could pick it up on his way in -- that's how there weren't any doubles, My Mom did the shopping. I also realized that's how I got a teddy bear the one year my folks were split and Mom didn't come.

One of my greatest moments with My Grandma happened in late 2001 or early 2002, out on the Keystone Expressway somewhere between Tulsa and Sand Springs, doin' sixty five or seventy in her electric-blue Ford Contour. We'd been to a doctor appointment, then had lunch downtown at The Interurban before heading out to the Pharmacy. That was the first and only time I've ever been to The Interurban; I can't remember what I had for lunch, but I remember vividly that it was the first and only time I've ever stepped into a ladies' room and heard Southern Culture On The Skids playin' through the overhead speakers. Once we were back in the car, I opened my purse to get out my Rio (remember the MP3 player before there was an iPod?) and share a little music, and Grandma asked me about the fake sunflower that was sticking out.

The wedding flowers sparked a discussion that still makes me smile; My Grandma was the only person in my family who seemed excited about the idea of me having an actual wedding. She kept our picture on the coffee table, even though she had to fish it back out from underneath the table every time my aunt or my cousin had been there and tried to move it out of sight. She knew I was always fascinated with that big strange bottle of wine that she had a shelf made special for; so she gave it to me when we moved her in with Dad. She gave me a really thick sewing book and told me to just try it and don't be so afraid of that blue velvet. She also cried with me when David died; I still have a rather large quantity of those fake sunflowers -- they're almost everywhere and it seems like one ends up in almost every car.

Someday, there'll be at least one fake sunflower at a wedding...

Until then, here's to you, Grandma Ruth, we'll remember you with Chicken & Dumplings, and Wacky Cake, and maybe even Margaritas on the patio at Pepper's Grill in Utica Square!

A joke from way back.

2009-02-02T08:37:00.000-08:00

Thursday, our printer started making odd noises and trying to scoot itself across the counter, so after quite a bit of blowing, brushing, pecking, thumping, and dropping, we gave in and decided to replace it.

Friday night after dinner, I went shoppin'. I got a new printer that was just almost the same as the dead one for about three bucks less than a new ink cartridge, so I was a satisfied customer. I know that most folks wouldn't take kindly to shoppin' for work at nine-something on a Friday night, but this is a family business, which means that if something isn't going right at work and it might come anywhere close to being my fault, well, I'm gonna hear about it at the dinner table or on the weekends or on the phone at night. Since I'm right at home with the concept of comparison shopping and totally unafraid to pick things up and place them in my shoppin' basket, I knew I could fix the problem.

Saturday morning, I drove back into Sperry for "Knitting Buddies" at the library (which was lovely), then had lunch (yum!) with my Librarian and several ladies from the group (also lovely), and then came here to get the new printer going.

Getting the new printer working really seemed like no problem, and after I'd printed a couple pages with it, I figured it was ready to go, so I turned everything off and went on about my day.

Here's my sign, I'm stupid. I just thought that since the old one had been turned ON 24-7 ever since it came outta the box, that might have contributed to it's early demise, so I turned the new one OFF for the weekend.

When I got here this morning, HoMeSkOoL dAd said it "wouldn't print and wouldn't do anything."

--

I remember a joke from a book by Larry Wilde from way back...

(this is a paraphrase from memory, not to be a quote of any sort)

So this Polak carries a chainsaw into a chainsaw store, and demands a refund. He's sweaty and tired and angry, and he says, "You sell me this saw yesterday, you say it cut down forty trees an hour, I been in the woods all day and ain't made it through the first tree yet! This saw's defective, I want my money back!"

So the salesman takes the saw and says, "Here, lemme have a look," he pulls the rope and the chainsaw roars to life.

The Polak jumps, wide-eyed, "What the hell was that noise?"

--

When I asked "Did ya turn it on?" I was met with a blank stare.

"I never had to turn the old one on..."

So, while I'm in here e-mailing back and forth with Scott and trying to get this monthly close-out to print on the new printer instead of the now-disconnected old printer without disappearing into the ether, HoMeSkOoL dAd and the kids are apparently out on the yard, having built a ramp, trying to "jump" cars.

I shopped on my own weekend time and brought in the new printer to replace the dead one. My Mom was notably short-tempered and preemptively nasty with me about this on the phone last night, so I was trying to get here a little early this morning in hopes of helping alleviate that nastiness. Apparently, it's my fault that somebody didn't know that the damn thing had to be TURNED ON in order to print. Apparently, it's my fault that the publishing company who makes this software did not leave us any sort of provision for re-printing documents in the event of a printer malfunction. It must be my fault that the PC has grown slower and slower with all that p@rn that SOMEBODY loves so much, since "that cable internet thing" is "supposed to make it faster." Since it's taken as "nasty" on my part if I try to explain that faster internet does not automatically make a sluggish PC speed up, that's probably my fault too. I usually get here at 9:00, today I was here about ten minutes early. The printer window shows he tried to print the close-out at 8:47, a whole three minutes before I got here ten minutes early. I'm sure that'll my fault as well. I might've been comin' through the door just as he clicked "print" if I hadn't had to wait behind that street sweeper just as I came into town, so it's probably my fault that the County decided to clean up all that sand from the ice storm too.

I guess what bugs me most is that even though I know that I am neither God nor Bill Gates and therefore cannot will the PC to function, I may be the only one who knows this. The documents that I have printed on the new printer since I got here are fine, but that means nothing if the document that SOMEBODY else tried to print isn't here. What? You think there's a chance SOMEBODY other than me screwed up before I got here? Oooooh, Nooooooooo, there's no way that could happen!

Is it 5:00 yet?

Quick one for Friday afternoon.

2009-01-30T14:14:00.000-08:00

So, I'm standin' here workin' the counter and bein' real thankful for the fantastic new heater that's keepin' my lower half super-toasty when I hear an unfamiliar voice yelling out in the shop.

"Heyyyyyyyy! Hey-ey-heyyyy!"

What the...

So, I head toward the door that connects the lobby to the shop, and see someone I don't know.

What the hell?

If you're looking at the outside of an automotive-related business (that you or your family does not own), and you see a person-size walk-in door with an "OPEN" sign on it next to a ten-feet-wide, twenty-feet-tall truck-size garage door that says "NO ADMITTANCE," which one would you want to walk in through?

Is it just me, or does it seem a little invasive to just go walkin' in through that truck-size door just 'cause it happens to be open? Is it just me, or does it seem like there might be some odd chance of getting run over by a truck or fork lift driven by someone who didn't realize you were there 'cause hey, they usually don't let just anybody in there?

I used to joke about people callin' someplace like CompUSA when their dishwasher quit... Now I realize, it's not a joke, it's completely real and totally serious, they probably are. Some of them may even be putting their garbage out in front of Bus Stop signs and wondering where the hell that Garbage Truck is and why the trash is still there.

So, Mr. Walk-In comes through the door that separates the Lobby from the Shop, and asks about something for a Chevy Cavalier. When I tell him we handle Ford parts, he looks me right in the eyes and says "Oh, Ford parts..." pauses for a second, and right about the time I notice the apron, he asks "So how'bout a Dodge Caravan?"

I'm not bullshitting.

After he made his way out (back through the damn shop and through that "NO ADMITTANCE" door), I got to thinkin' about the apron...

Apparently he was from that scary little restaurant whose kitchen screen door faces our far South gate.

So... If I were to walk right over there and blunder through that screen door into that restaurant kitchen and say something like "Y'all got any sausage? Can I get a pizza?" I wonder what would happen...

I'm betting it wouldn't be "We don't make pizza here." They'd probably just chase my ass outta there.

Maybe CompUSA has some pizza!

Heh heh...

Hilarity, Anyone?

2009-01-14T13:39:00.000-08:00

I got a kick outta this post.

That's all for now...

More later. _\,,/

Good Monday Morning!

2009-01-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

Holy crap... It really does feel so good feelin' good again. Geah, lemme check the calendar and see just how long this long strange week has been. Okay, it was longer than a week.

The day before Christmas Eve was a Tuesday, I drove into Tulsa and Clay and I went across the highway to that chain restaurant named after a pepper. We're cheese-eaters, so we had that lovely melty skillet of Chorizo-con-Queso with chips. Right about that time I started feelin' like I wasn't at my best, and nothing really sounded good, so I decided I'd better eat light -- a bowl of soup that they called "Chicken Enchilada" with a side of mashed potatoes because I figured I'd better get something besides just soup.

Bad idea.

Faced with soup named after one of my favorite things from most any Mexican restaurant, I really went downhill. It just didn't taste good, didn't look good, and I ended up asking for a container to take the rest with me; which may have been a bad idea, because the smell wasn't exactly doin' me any favors either. I really felt like I might speeyack, and I ended up askin' Clay to drive back to the house even though it was probably less than a mile.

Christmas Eve, I coughed. I didn't bake cookies, I didn't make Green Bean Casserole, I didn't go to dinner with the folks, I just stayed home and coughed. Christmas Day I loaded up and went to Mom's house, where I coughed my way through a very lovely Christmas Dinner that would've been a dream come true had it not been for all the coughing and hacking. I'm not kiddin', Christmas Dinner was freakin' awesome, everything Christmas Dinner ought to be and I enjoyed every second of sittin' at the table with Clay and My Mom and My Dad, it was great. Except for all the damn coughing.

The day after Christmas I coughed and sneezed. When the sneezing stopped, I was still coughing, and My Mom was coughing too. She ended up in the hospital with it that Monday, and none of us could go up there 'cause my brother and My Dad and I were all still coughing too. I coughed through all sorts of stuff, including a nice dinner get-together with several other coughing victims, and an interesting learning experience with plumbing, which I already wrote about here.

Shortly before New Year's Eve, my brother went to his doctor and ended up with prescriptions for antibiotics and cough medicine. My Dad went to his doctor and ended up with prescriptions for antibiotics and an inhaler. I coughed and coughed through New Year's Eve, which we really didn't observe except that I was up getting a drink of water and while I was coughing, I noticed that it was 11:57 so I said "Happy New Year" as I dragged my ass back into bed.

The day after New Year's was a Friday, and since I'd suffered through the Holiday, I really didn't want to suffer through the weekend, so I called my doctor.

Currently (soon to change), my doctor is a clinic associated with a university, which means it's often easy to get an appointment the same day; I called around 8:45, they got me in at 3:15. Since it's a clinic run by a university, there are many, many doctors there, and it's about like drawing a name out of a hat.

I got Chris Rock.

My whole family caught the same cold, My Mom was in the hospital getting IV antibiotics, My Dad and my brother were both on antibiotics. Dr. Chris Rock listened to me cough, did not seem overly concerned, and told me to go get some Dextromethorphan. Robitussin. Yes, seriously.

At first it almost helped, but it didn't make the whole weekend. By Monday Morning, my ass was really draggin' my tracks out, but I struggled outta bed and into the shower and headed out to work anyway. As I backed the car out of the driveway, I wondered if maybe I was sicker than I thought. The coughing hadn't subsided and the Robitussin wasn't helping. By the time I got to the first stop sign, I wondered if I was really at my best to be driving; out on the highway, I really wondered if I ought to be driving.

I made it to work okay, thankfully, but before lunch time, I'd already nodded off twice in a grubby ol' chair that I ordinarily wouldn't want to touch, let alone sit in.

When I called to check on My Mom, she told me to just take a damn credit card and go to Urgent Care.

If you're Go0gling for that, for Urgent Care in Owasso, over there just off 169 just East of 129th, I'll tell ya this: Dr. Nielson, Judy Nielson is an angel, she's just the best and I was very, very impressed. Like that joke about the tombstone, "I told you I was sick," I was just glad to hear somebody acknowledge that yes, I really was sick, and I really did need some pharmaceutical help to get over it and get better. Finally, I got some prescriptions -- with a genuine diagnosis of Pneumonia, I left with antibiotics, steroids, high-octane cough medicine, and an inhaler. Robitussin, my ass.

Just as soon as I could get those prescriptions filled and grab some snacks, I went straight to the house and did not come out again 'til Thursday evening. Once I'd taken a couple pills out of each pack and got a couple really good streaks of sleep out of that lovely narcotic cough medicine, I was in a whole different world. I got a *lot* of laundry done, accomplished a notable bit of knitting, and read most of a book as well, and things were good. Thursday evening I stopped by the shop to pick up the mail and get some chicken for dinner and that was the first time I came outside all week.

Today, I was ever so thankful to just feel good when I got up to come to work!

Aaaahhhhh...

So very thankful!

But I could still enjoy a few days to just stay in the house.

More later. _\,,/

Invisible Bruises?

2008-12-30T11:11:00.000-08:00

I guess yesterday's post was a little longer than they've been lately. It felt good to just keep typing, so I did.

When I finally made it to bed, I slept quite well and made it to work on time in spite of being up later than usual. This morning at work, it seemed like I might've had a bump or a sore spot below my right shoulder, but I feel pretty good and I'm especially glad to be getting rid of this cough & cold mess.

At lunch time, I left here in the parts truck to drop an intake off on my way to pick up sandwiches. The parts truck has a stock, small half-ton-pickup steering wheel, which is probably about the same diameter, but a much smaller grip than the one on the Excursion. Combined with the lack of "nifty accessory" steering wheel cover (from The Salvation Army), it's also not quite as soft.

Against the stiffer, smaller steering wheel, something didn't feel quite right.

I can't see any discoloration, but I'm pretty sure I have pipe-wrench-shaped bruises in my hands.

While that was on my mind, at highway speed, I got to thinkin' I couldn't exactly remember if I'd put that pipe wrench back where I got it from. Did I lay it back on the bench in the garage?? What did I do with it?

When I put the parts truck in park, I discovered the pipe wrench layin' on the back bumper of the Excursion.

Whups.

Oh well, at least it stayed put!

_\,,/

Delta-Delta-Delta, I tried to help-ya-help-ya-help-ya.

2008-12-29T18:44:00.000-08:00

But I couldn't. Maybe it was a knock-off.

Clay and I met in July of '05, and when his birthday came around in December, had been fighting a faucet that just wouldn't quite turn off. I did a little research, peeked into the cabinet under the sink, and thought "noooooo problem, I can fix that." Along with fulfilling that specific request for a white cake with white frosting, I got him a set of towels and a new faucet for the hall bathroom.

Just as I'd suspected, removing the old faucet and installing the new one was certainly no problem. I was pretty proud of myself for that one, even though I couldn't talk Clay into letting me get him a single-knob Delta faucet like we have here at home.

Shortly after I shared that story with My Mom, the faucet in her bathroom developed a drip that turned into a stream. Before I could try & get my hands on it, Mom hit the shutoff and scrubbed at the parts she could see with an old toothbrush, supposedly fixing her problem.

My folks bought this house in February of '78, I wasn't quite two years old. It may be because they're all I ever remember having, but I just really like these one-knob Delta faucets. Straight toward the mirror for warm water, tilt to the right for colder, to the left for hotter, they're just nice & easy.

Nice & easy was a phrase I read several times when I stared reading about repairing them as well, but since Mom's wasn't malfunctioning anymore, I figured it was best to leave it alone. I read a bit about the "cartridge faucets" and it sounded easy enough, so I filed the information away for later.

Supposedly the house was less than a year old when we moved here, but either way, it's over thirty years old. My Mom says the lady who lived across the street told her about watching the guy build the house himself, and about how he didn't exactly have an easy time of it. When my bathroom faucet developed a leak like Mom had described in hers, I discovered just how little that guy thought ahead. My bathroom has two sinks, separated by about three feet of countertop on top of a set of drawers.

That morning that I rinsed out my contact lens case and then couldn't get the sink to turn off, I thought it would be no problem to just reach into the cabinet underneath, shut off the water, and deal with it after work. I opened the cabinet and there were no shutoff valves, just supply lines going into the wood where the drawers were. Same thing on the other side under the other sink. Shit. After taking out three of the four drawers, I finally found the valves, and the "T"s, just below the top edge of the bottom drawer. So, there'll be no shutting off one sink to just use the other. The first valve my hand landed on happened to be the hot one, and when I turned it, the leaking stopped. Hey, I can do without hot water for a little while 'til I can get that faucet fixed -- no problem.

I left it that way for a few weeks, and while Clay and I were fighting with his tub faucet over the weekend, I thought maybe I'd go home and fix my sink faucet. I'd looked at the parts a time or two in my several trips to the big blue store right around the corner from Clay's house, I got to thinkin' I could do it, no problem, and then tell Clay about how easy it was to fix the Delta faucet, so hey, we should get these!

Just in case you're sick of seeing "no problem" here, I'm about to get to the part where the problems start.

Sunday night when I got home, I took a close look at my faucet. I pulled the handle off (much easier than that tub handle at Clay's house) and checked it out just to see what I could see. I got a good look at the shaft stickin' up there, and sure enough, it looked like one of the ones I'd seen hanging on the rack. I pulled the drawer back out and turned the hot valve back on just to see what happened, and sure enough, it ran and ran, the leak was still there. When I shut it off, it still dripped. Shit. Problem. I tied a towel around it so the drips would be quieter, and I went to bed.

At work Monday, I did a little research on the internet. As amazing of a source of information as it can be, I ran into a few dead ends while trying to figure out this faucet. Information Super Cul-De-Sac. I couldn't find anything that looked exactly like my faucet (probably due to that whole 1978 thing), but still, everything I read said it should just be easy (easy as the half a chocolate pie that I had for dinner before I got started) to just take the top off and put a new ball in and then put the handle back on and everything will be just fine.

Monday evening, I ended up leaving work early to come home and be here alone due to this chest-cold-of-the-damned that we've all passed around. A chance to fix my sink without anybody here to bug me about what the hell do I think I'm doing: schweeet. Except that maybe I need my ass kicked for wading off into that mess...

I came home and went straight in there to try and get the chrome top off (like on the website) so I could take the parts with me to match 'em up. That chrome top, which even had ridges in it just like a jar lid, would not move. I tried with my hands, I tried with the rubber grippy-thingy, I tried with a pipe wrench over a towel, I tried with the pipe wrench over the rubber grippy-thingy. It would, not. fucking. move.

I decided that since nobody sees that bathroom but me, and if I do inherit the house someday, I'll want to remodel that end anyway, I figured it couldn't be so bad to just stick that pipe wrench on there and get that bitch apart. It really didn't want to move. I tried one last time, pipe wrench in my right hand, left shoulder braced against the door frame, and I thought I saw a little movement...

I was tired of fighting it, and I figured there had to be an easier way, there had to be some trick to it. I was once the woman behind the Handyman Connection Craftsman Of The Year, seriously, I was always the one standing there saying "Waaaaaaiiiiitttt, just stop and look, there's got to be some way to do it without tearing it up!"

Attempting to heed my own words, I pulled out the digital camera and took good close pictures of what I had. I put the camera in my purse and hopped in the truck to head to Owasso's big blue store for some parts and possibly some knowledge. Maybe if I could look at the new parts, I'd see something that would make my cartoon lightbulb come on, maybe there would be a book there with some tips in it.

The book shelves didn't have anything close to my faucet, but the parts aisle did! I found the ball with a shaft that matched mine, and next to it, a set of washers and o-rings with an odd little wrench that looked like it would fit right into those odd little gaps just inside my chrome top! Yay! At the big blue home improvement store's self-checkout, I spent twenty dollars and seventy nine cents. I got back in the truck feeling like I'd finally figured something out, so I headed for Owasso's landmark chicken joint to pick myself up some sinful, guilty, salty, lovely, one-of-a-kind, magical, deep-fried chicken dinner on the way home. Larry's was closed though, so I came on back home and had Christmas chocolate pie for dinner. I would've reheated some ham, but I was in a hurry to get back to the bathroom and try out my new (supposed) knowledge and my nifty new tool.

Sure enough, the tool fit right into the gaps, and a little plastic ring unscrewed from around the top of the ball; but the shaft still wouldn't come out. The tiny little sheet of instructions in the package (which only mentioned kitchen sinks, not bathroom sinks) showed a cartoony hand unscrewing the chrome top, so I gave it another shot. Encouraged by what I'd read, I really leaned my weight back on the pipe wrench; carefully aimed toward the door frame so that if I fell, I'd end up on the side toward the bed instead of on my ass in the shower on top of a broken glass shower door.

Nothing happened. I took the wrench off and checked the "chrome finish," which I'd say was officially fucked at this point. Hey, since it's already shot, might as well try one more time -- if it's supposed to come off, it oughtta move. I positioned the wrench semi-carefully and leaned back one more time. Something gave, the chrome top turned about an eighth of a turn, and then the whole faucet shifted in the sink and something clanked in the cabinet below.

About that time, I was starting to get irritated, but I wasn't going to let the faucet win. I started this, I was going to finish it, one way or another. I repositioned the wrench one more time, and tried to hold the faucet by the spout with my other hand. When I pulled on the wrench, I felt the aerator move against my fingers. Hmmmm... Maybe if I take that aerator off, it'll free something up and this chrome top will twist the rest of the way off... So I did, and then I put the wrench back on one more time. The chrome top moved only a teensy bit more, and I could feel myself getting madder.

Refusing to give up, refusing to call anyone for help, refusing to do the extreme cleaning that would be required to let anyone else into my bathroom to help, I decided I had to fix it, one way or another. Tapping didn't loosen it, that only caused another clank underneath, so I decided I'd just yank that bitch outta there and get a new one tomorrow. I emptied out the cabinet, putting all the spare shampoo into the other cabinet, and wiggled under there with some wrenches to get the faucet out.

What the hell were these people thinkin' when they built this house? Where every other faucet I'd seen in stores while I shopped for Clay's gifty one had lines that connected directly onto the bottom of the faucet, this one did not. The clanks I'd heard were big washers on small bolts that held the faucet down on the sink. The faucet itself had copper lines that came down about six inches down from the faucet, then connected to the supply lines from there. When I finally pushed it up outta there, it seemed like I could see a lot of plastic up there.

Surely Delta, praised on every corner of the internet, exalted by homebuilders, loved by my family for thirty years, wouldn't do that. Surely Delta wouldn't make 'em that way.

I wiggled my body back out of the cabinet and stood up to grab the dead faucet out of the sink and was stunned by what I saw. Those little copper lines coming directly out of the faucet had twisted like a rope -- that was the give that I felt when I pulled on the pipe wrench, it was the whole inside of the faucet turning and pulling and twisting up those copper lines.

By the time I carried it from the far end of the house through the garage and out to the driveway to toss it in the back of the truck, my irritation had progressed to anger; but only slightly at myself for believing what I'd read on the internet. "Oh, this is how it works, it'll be easy, it'll be so fast and so simple!"

BULLSHIT!

After calmly smiling into my own eyes in the mirror as I picked up the wrenches, after walking unhurried through the house, after refusing to slam the laundry room door on my way out, the anger got the best of me. Yeah, the anger won, but the faucet did not. I threw it to the sidewalk, hard, and that was so satisfying, I picked it up and did it again. And I picked it up and did it again. A few plastic parts had disappeared into the grass and when I picked it up that fourth time, I saw two screws that went up from the bottom right in the middle. Surely those weren't what kept that chrome top from coming off...

I came back inside for my keys and popped the tailgate of the Excursion so I could fish out a screwdriver and get at 'em. One came right out, one was obscured by part of the copper rope, but I was able to bash it out of the way with the pipe wrench and take it out too. Nothing changed.

I ended up on my knees in the driveway, lit by the glow of the Excursion's dome lights, holding onto one of the copper lines and repeatedly bashing the faucet into the concrete again and again and again. 'Twas so very satisfying.

Tomorrow, I'll toss it somewhere; possibly the dumpster, but most likely the creek.

I'll take my unopened part and my carefully opened tool back to the store and see if I can get my money back on 'em. Depending on the ease of the return process, I'll buy a new faucet -- there if it's easy, somewhere else if it's not.

Everything'll be just fine, no problem.

Seriously. No. Fucking. Problem. No problem next time, okay?

That just can't be a Delta. Delta wouldn't do that.

It must've been a knock-off.

More later... _\,,/

Complete and total Wow.

2008-12-22T17:30:00.000-08:00

Have y'all seen this? It's the newest subscription in my Go0gle Reader.

http://shut-up-and-pedal.blogspot.com/

I heard about it on NPR today, and I was fascinated.

I can't imagine riding a bicycle all the way across the Northern United States, all the way from Pacific to Atlantic.

Amazing. Just amazing.

It's an incredible story with beautiful pictures and all sorts of wonderful expierences, now go read about it! You'll be stunned!

More Later... _\,,/

Is this crazy, or is it just me?

2008-12-18T13:05:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, a body shop called us up and ordered a tailgate for a Chevy Truck.

Amazingly enough, we had one. It was black, and it was really nice, and it had all it's parts, the handle, the latches, the inside panel, the trim, and everything. It was so nice, looked like it had been oh-so-carefully lifted very gently from the back of a really nice truck, probably wrapped in a blanket and laid carefully into the back of a minivan or something like that. It was that niiiiii-iiiii-iiiice.

We delivered it, sans blanket and minivan, but nonetheless, a nice, shiny, black tailgate.

A few weeks later, the body shop calls back. They don't need it anymore. They ask for a refund. They ask us to come pick it up.

When we get there, it's been totally taken apart. The metal shell has been sanded down to the primer and sprayed white around the edges and all of the other removable parts are gone. When we call back, it takes 'em forever to root through their stuff and find all the pieces and send 'em back here.

Even though the tailgate we got back was far, far from the quality of the tailgate we sent to 'em, they don't take kindly to the thought of paying a restocking fee.

Grrrr...

Now, fast-forward, it's several months later. The same body shop calls, now they specifically ask for a black tailgate for a Chevy truck.

"Well, I've got that one that was black when y'all got it the last time..."

--

"If we couldn't laugh, we'd just all go insane."

--

_\,,/ More later.

For Dogs and Short People.

2008-12-15T20:50:00.000-08:00

Last night when the sleet started, I decided I probably should hurry up and head home before it got any worse. I left Clay's house a little after nine, and the sleet was starting to show white on the ground.

Somewhere between growing up in the car business and racing several seasons on the dirt, I've learned to enjoy the feel of knowing what the car is doing. When it comes right down to it, I'll mostly avoid being out when the roads are icy; but there comes a time when staying in is the last thing I want to do. The SHO was alright the time or two I had to get home in bad weather, most front-wheel-drive cars are okay if ya drive 'em easy, but I wasn't about to take a chance on someone else hitting me in it. That's why I'd find something else to drive for those occasions -- both of the three-quarter-ton pickups stayed put pretty good, and I never had any close calls with the big Chevy Van or the Windstar either. I can't say I really liked the big Chevy Van, but I do remember coming home in a blinding snow one night and feeling just fine about it.

The Mark 8 is my first experience with Traction Control, and since the SHO lost it's anti-lock brakes somewhere around sixty thousand miles in '98 or so, I've found the anti-lock brakes amusing as well. I've fiddled with the digital traction goodies a little bit, but when it comes right down to it, I'd rather drive with my own brain and keep it together to the point where that stuff doesn't kick in. The feel of the difference between front and rear wheel drive is an experience every driver should have. I can't help but think I've learned a good bit from the feel of the race car, but I can't say the same about that being an experience everyone should have -- mostly because we've got enough crazies out there who don't know what's goin' on, but that's a whole 'nother rant by itself. That's not where I was going with this... Back from the rabbit-chase...

When I left Clay's house, the traction control light came on just a bit at the first stoplight, so I took it easy on around to the highway entrance ramp. I got on the highway real easy and ended up behind a fairly new white GMC Pickup. There was a pet taxi in the back, and I hoped there wasn't a pet in there freezin' in the cold. I stayed behind the GMC, we did 35 or 40, and all was well. When the highway widened out to three lanes, the truck moved over one lane to the left; he was in the middle, I was on the right, the left was empty.

I was just thinking I'd go ahead and move over behind the truck when I car came flyin' up behind us. A new blue Mustang appeared quickly behind the GMC and stayed right beside me for quite a while. When wondering "what the hell?" finally got the best of me, I looked over and was stunned by what I saw.

She was sitting up super-straight, that tensed-up impatient pose often seen in heavy traffic. She was the only human in the car, but she was not alone. She had a dog in her lap. Not a little purse-poodle, but a good-sized black & white dog, like maybe a Border Collie, up in her lap and nuzzling her face.

I know it's terrible, and what I had in mind was every bit as unsafe as a dog-in-the-face, but I couldn't help it, I reached for my camera.

I wasn't fast enough. Before I could get my hand over into the shotgun seat and reach into my laptop bag, she moved on over into that left lane, passed the GMC, and was gone.

I moved over and got behind the truck again, and we took our time making our way slowly around the loop toward US75 North. As we made our way around toward the overpass near Cain's, I could see red & blue flashing lights.

Sure enough, there it was, the blue Mustang, spun out and pointin' the wrong way with the front end tore up and the driver's door against the right side wall overlooking Tulsa's landmark ballroom.

Airbags can be deadly for short-legged folks who have to sit too close. I'm sure an airbag would be undoubtedly deadly for a Border Collie who's wedged ever-so-close between his human and the steering wheel.

I've heard they're smart dogs... Maybe he figured out what was goin' on and made a dive for the back seat.

Wear your seatbelt, think about your safety and the safety and health of your pets, and most importantly, slow the fuck down out there. Traction control, anti-lock brakes, four-wheel-drive, sure, they're helpful, but they're no substitute for brains and they don't mean you can do 80 and be invincible.

More later... _\,,/

There was a time, and there is now.

2008-12-03T11:18:00.000-08:00

There is a sameness, and there is a difference. As humans, we're all the same in some ways, and we're all different in some ways.

I have a few little secrets I keep; I have a few things I'm not afraid to talk about.

One thing I'm not afraid to talk about is that I know what $40K in credit card debt looks like, and I know what it feels like to mail off that last payment and feel free from it all. It was an amazing feeling, and when I opened the envelope the following month, I took a picture of the statement where it said "Due: $0.00."

Don't look at me like that, I also know without a doubt what it was like wading into that $40K, and I'll never do it again.

That know-it-all-guy just walked in here and asked me if I'd "already given up the monster truck."

I'll be honest, I was a teensy bit puzzled. When I think of "monster truck," I think of the big, serious, massive, six-foot-tires, jumpin' over cars Monster Trucks. Maybe something like that new commercial for washing machines where the guy drives one across the top of a row of machines. Maybe those shows they have alongside the car show every year. Maybe, possibly, something like that Suzuki Samurai with the big fat knobby tires. Maybe.

My first response was a no-brainer. "Do what?" I think "Do what?" may be the wordy replacement for "Huh?"

"Well, the white Lincoln's back out there, did ya already get rid of that silver truck?" Oh. The Excursion. Once I figured that out, I mentioned that the Mark 8 gets about twice the gas mileage so I've been switchin' off every once in a while.

His turn to make the puzzled face, he says "Oh, so you're going to have both?"

I just nodded and went back to the PC without saying anything else.

Yeah, actually, I'm gonna have all three; the SHO, the Mark 8, and the Big Silver Monster Truck, four or five if you count the Hearse and/or the ol' Outlaw Stock Camaro, and I don't really understand why people think that's so odd. It's always good to have a truck around, ain't it? Ask anybody who's ever had to try and borrow one from somebody else -- now, if I want to move something or haul something, I just pop that third-row seat out and cram whatever I want in there, whenever I want to. I don't have to wait for anybody else to make time for me, and I don't have to struggle with starting the ol' diesel Racin' Ambulance in the cold.

While I'm on that topic, that third-row seat is sooooooo much easier to deal with than the one in that Windstar that I had for a while. The third-row seat in the Excursion has wheels on it, so once it's un-latched and rocked forward, it just rolls right out -- get it to the ground and it'll roll right over into the corner of the garage. Handy. As. Can. Be.

The charge on my card for the Excursion would not even come close to a reasonable tip on that dollar amount that I mentioned earlier. It was such a cheap deal, seriously cheap, I'm talkin' cheaper than a new 17" MacBook Pro... I know my interest rates, I've planned my payments, everything'll be alright. Why'd I do it? Because I wanted to. Because I can. There was a time when I couldn't do that, but now, I can, so I did.

Don't get me wrong, it's still the first thing for sale, first for-profit offer can drive it home, I just wanna christen it with a road trip first. The SHO's been with me too long to let go, the $300 Mark 8 was a Birthday Present so selling it would be just tacky. For right now, yeah, I'm keepin' all three.

I'll talk cars with just about anybody, but that know-it-all-guy can just bite me.

Y'all wanna hear about that lady who tried to get me kicked outta the Monster Truck Rally??

;) More later... _\,,/

Disjointed Much?

2008-12-02T09:32:00.001-08:00

Yup.

--

Yesterday, I watched a dad coerce a ten year old into shaking the unholy hell out of a nearly-full bottle of Mountain Dew that had been left momentarily unattended by another adult. "Stop, stop, stop!! Put it down, here he comes!!!" So, apparently, this dad is raising a douchebag.

--

After work, I stopped by WM (sorry, figured I'd better Go0gle-proof that) on my way home to pick up some prescriptions and a teeny bit of Christmas stuff just 'cause I did not venture out into the Black Friday madness at all. I found a reasonably decent parking space and as I pulled in, I noticed a blue four-door Corvair parked in the row in front of mine. I've read a few articles, but I niether love or hate the Corvair, I could take it or leave it. Essentially, I love cars, and any car that old that's still on the road under it's own power deserves a second look.

As I was lookin' the Corvair over and thinkin' it looked pretty slick for it's age, I noticed a Saturn in the next aisle over behind it with the brake lights and back-up lights on. A lady walked by pushing a shopping cart, and there was a little girl following her a couple steps behind. I'm not good at guessing ages, but I'd say she was right around somewhere in between old enough to know better and big enough to know not to do that shit. She was head & shoulders taller than the decklid of the Saturn, and as she walked behind the car, she ducked down and stopped to hide right in the center. I watched the woman turn around and giggle a bit as the kid ducked down behind the car a second time.

I'm not anybody's mom, but if you think watching your kid duck down behind a car that has back-up lights on is funny in any way, you're raising a Darwin Award Winner.

--

My Birthday landed on Thanksgiving this year, and unlike the last time I celebrated the two together, I was not essentially alone and I did not get called an "alcoholic." We had a truly fascinating time that included Clay being handed a card and told "Happy Birthday, Hun," 'cause ya know, he looks a lot like me with that beard and everything. Heh. Later, we got a big laugh out of a brand new question, "Is he a Mennonite?"

Anyhow, wherever he had to drive that damn horse & buggy to, he did a great job birthday shoppin' -- I've waited for that CD since Junior High, and the moment that album appeared on a CD, he grabbed it.

With this birthday also arrived my first time receiving yarn as a gift! It's white and very soft with just a teensy bit of shine to it, and it'll surely turn out somethin' warm & fuzzy.

--

I got myself a nifty new purse via that popular auction site that rhymes with me-hay too. (sorry, more Go0gle-proofing there) Of course, if I said that out loud, I'd catch hell for it, so I told the folks it was also a gift from Clay -- which wasn't really a stretch since it matches the wristlet he got me a couple Christmases ago. I'm still gettin' used to it, but I really like it, I waited a long time to get my hands on a Dooney Tulip, I found a good deal, so I grabbed it. I guess that's a pattern with me... Make of it what you will.

--

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention... I put the second full tank of gas in the Excursion the Tuesday before Thanksgiving so I could do the math. Ten point seven miles a gallon, but at least I got to fill it up for a buck-fifty a gallon.

--

I should also say hello to the friendly blonde-haired family, also in a silver SUV, who were waiting behind me at the pump that night. I salute you, even though you're probably not reading this, I appreciate your warm friendliness.

When I saw the other car pull up behind me to wait, I was standing just in front of the hose, leaning against the quarter with my hands in the pockets of my favorite jeans. The pump was somewhere near thirty gallons (yeah, *gasp,* but I'm glad I knew to expect it, the tank holds 44) and I figured it was close to stopping. Since I was on the opposite side of the hose, further away from the pump, I decided I'd step over the hose so I could be on the other side when it finished.

Dumb idea. Why the hell didn't I just wait for it to stop and then put it back in the pump? Why didn't I think of the fact that if I just grabbed it from where I was standing, there would be no need for stepping over once it was back on the hanger? Am I stupid or somethin'?

So, with my hands still in my pockets, I took a quick look at the numbers on the pump, which was still running, and I put my left foot over the hose. Hands still in pockets, I put my left foot on the ground on the other side of the hose successfully. Somewhere around that time, everything went to shit. My right foot wasn't wantin' to clear the hose, the hose wasn't about to dislodge from the truck, and the more I tried, the more it hung there, so I ended up down on all-fours, or at least three out of four.

Even though I had that "s-l-o-w-m-o-t-i-o-n" feeling, I still have no idea how I got my hands out of my pockets fast enough to put 'em out and keep from bustin' my face into the concrete. I also had no idea my self-imposed reflex of guarding my left knee was powerful enough to turn me around and make the right knee, the one that had been above knee-high off the ground and tangled in the hose, hit the ground first, but apparently it did. The first thing I could see was my hands and my hair touching that nasty concrete and all I could think of was the people watching from the other car. I got up fast and I knew I'd better take control of the situation and diffuse the awkwardness myself 'cause I really did not want to deal with who-knows-how-many strangers leanin' over me askin' if I was alright.

Back on my feet, shake my hair back, little wave, big smile, "That was graceful, wasn't it?"

"Huh?" the blonde-haired guy in the silver SUV asks, "Oh, I thought you had somethin' wrong with your truck..."

They didn't see a thing. They thought I was lookin' under the back of the Excursion. All they saw was me gettin' up, so if I'd done that "cat method" and let on like "I meant to do that!" nobody would've suspected a thing... Until the security camera video turned up on some website...

--

I guess it has been a while since I posted... We went to see "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" (finally), and I thought it was a great film... I laughed and I cried -- yeah, there's naked people and porno-movie-making in it, but the love story, oh my my, I never saw anything hot about Seth Rogen until he put his hand up into the back of Elizabeth Banks' hair. I was so stunned I cried, and I loved it.

--

As if I haven't mentioned these before, I just answered a phone for a caller who asked for a '96 Dodge Fuel Pump, and when I told him we handle Ford parts, there was a long pause, then he said "Oh, well how'bout a transmission for a '91 Honda Accord?"

--

Maybe I really could write a book someday...

--

More later. _\,,/

Because it made me feel young.

2008-11-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

Sunday afternoon, Clay and I drove out toward Grand Lake for an afternoon at The Diecast Drags. Tables, tablecloths, and good food in crockpots set up in a bodyshop with the cars moved out -- at a first glance, it kinda reminded me of Christmas with Grandma way back in the day.

My Grandma never had a fully detailed-to-scale Hotwheels dragstrip though...

I'd read about this whole diecast racin' thing before, it sounded like fun -- so, in the weeks leading up to this particular race, I took to keeping an eye out for likely racers, both in my present collection and on the pegs in the stores. I rounded up a few that seemed like they'd be good for the "open package" class; the double-decker bus had to be a sure bet, and I couldn't resist that little blue '65 VW Fastback that felt heavy even in it's little cardboard package.

I'd also did a little drilling and prying and stuck some lead into a few cars too. I cut up weights from the wheel balancer, and I also used lots of split-shot sinkers. Along the way, I learned (the hard way, and not for the first time) that Super Glue is evil, nail polish remover melts Matchbox Car wheels, and the hot glue gun isn't always the best bet. I stuffed lead into a Hearse, a fertilizer truck, a new Dodge Charger, and a old-style VW Beetle. That Beetle just had a real crummy feel to it, so I didn't even waste time puttin' it on the track. The Charger wasn't much better -- one front wheel was stuck up in the inner fender and wouldn't move, but after a discussion of friction and three wheels being less friction than four, I tossed 'er in.

I didn't take very many cars with me; I thought I'd really gathered up a fleet, but once I managed to round 'em all up, there weren't that many. I ended up with one of those plastic baskets that's about as big as the bottom of a paper grocery sack and about eight inches tall -- a miniature laundry basket, full, but not crammed full. I tossed in my sinkers, glue, and paint pens just for good measure. I had the only basket in the bunch. One plastic tote, one shoebox, one Hotwheels carrying case, and several of those huge tackle boxes, the big, serious, hard-core tackle boxes. I'm talkin' about makin' Jimmy Houston proud, big, biiiiig tackle boxes.

Maybe it's part of OCD, but I'm a sucker for anything that comes in it's own "handy carrying case." The tackle box with a car in every slot and tools & glue in the bottom along with a bag of racin' quarters, oh my my, how freakin' cool is that... Heyyyyy, I think I still have a huge peach Caboodle buried way back in the very far corner of the bathroom cabinet... I could bring the "only-girl-factor" into another form of racing!

My favorite, I'd say my best of the day was the '65 VW Fastback -- built like a dragster to begin with, it had a fully detailed rollcage and a meaty little motor sittin' on it's metal frame under a metal body. The weight made it do a great job, it won several rounds, as did the double-decker bus. Impressed by the "open package" performance, I stuffed it full with as many sinkers as I could to race it again in the leaded class, where it beat out a lead-filled fertilizer truck even bigger than the one I'd brought -- mine wouldn't track straight enough.

And oh, the fun of being the only girl in the bunch... My Mom worries about it, but there was no hostility here, just good fun. I often worry about not being quick enough to think on my feet, and I often think of just the right thing to say about five minutes past the opportunity to say it. Being asked one of the most odd questions I've ever been asked as an adult was a real shocker, but I think I did alright with it.

I know I'm different, I know I often don't fit the mold, I've grown accustomed to a certain number of odd questions. I can enjoy the ones like "How did you end up in the parts business?" or "How the hell do you drive so many different cars all the time?" I grin when people see my nine earrings and ask if any of 'em hurt, and I always love the racing-related questions like "How do you get that hair into a helmet?"

Standing there between Clay and our buddy Donald, I hear a voice behind me. He's got a beer in his hand and several more in his belly, and sure enough, he's tryin' to get my attention.

"Hey... Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

Holy shit. Do I have something on my pants? Or my shirt? Am I standing funny? Am I squirming? I don't feel any need at the moment, but is there something I'm doing that makes me look like I'm in need???

I couldn't think of what else to say, so that's just about the list of questions that I asked in response.

His answers, amongst stifled laughter from the guys on either side of me, were just as odd as the original question. There was something about offering to let me take his truck (and his two kids) "around the corner" to his house to use the can, and while I was there, I could ask his wife to find his other glasses so I could bring 'em back for him. Apparently there was some drunken thought put into that which made it look like a win-win situation, he'd get his glasses, I'd get a chance to use the can -- drunken thought apparently makes it okay to ask a relative stranger if they need to go to the bathroom, and drunken thought also must've made it seem okay to turn the two kids and the truck keys over to somebody he'd just met an hour or so before.

After he finally figured out that what he'd said was quite odd, he tried to justify it with "Well hell, ya try to use somebody, and..." Gee, drunk thought makes logical conclusions? Wow... Then he tried again and asked me if I'd "watch the kids" while he was gone around the corner to get his glasses. Really?? Oh come on, it's not like he was payin' attention to 'em at all, what's the damn difference?

I never saw him leave, but I did see him stumble around with the sunglasses on well into the evening.

Along with the youthful feeling of playin' with Hotwheels, I also got the five-and-under feeling of being asked about needin' to go to the potty.

Ain't life grand?

Oh, and we're all gettin' miles and miles outta that "hey, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

I gotta remember to pick up some new drill bits so I can crack open a few more cars & get 'em ready for lead.

More later... _\,,/

Did somebody say El Charro?

2008-11-12T08:14:00.000-08:00

I know I've done these before, but I'm doin' this one now 'cause when I read it over at Redneck Diva, I was smitten by the mention of El Charro. Mmmmmm... El Charro...

Four places that I go to over and over:
Clay's house.
Hobby Lobby.
The Library.
Quicktrip.

Four people who e-mail me (regularly):
Clayton
Jason
Kathy
Scott

Four of my favorite places to eat:
El Charro (still worth the drive, even though they closed the one in Glenpool)
The Minuteman (in Prattville, seriously the only place to get pizza)
South Of The Border (my "first love" when it comes to Mexican food, 51st & Memorial)
Pepper's Grill (The Tortilla Soup is heavenly, and they cook a great steak too)

Four places I would rather be right now:
In my comfy ol' chair, with some knitting.
Across the street, gettin' the Excursion hooked up to the scanner to find that miss.
In my bed, curled up under a warm blanket.
Anyplace warmer than it is in here.

Four TV shows I watch over and over:
"One Tree Hill"
"This Old House"
Laugh if you will, but I still love those old tapes of "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman"
"Austin City Limits"

Four unusual things in the room I’m in:
A vintage "California Raisin" with a saxophone.
A tennis ball with a basketball needle stabbed into it.
Some kid's driver's license, which we fished out of a truck door.
A bottle of "Off," which I really hope I'm done with for the year.
(Hey, I'm at work, we've no shortage of unusual things here.)

Four concerts I’ve been to:
Southern Culture On The Skids (twice)
Widespread Panic (twice)
Willie Nelson & Bob Dylan
The Reverend Horton Heat (three times, I think, maybe more)

Four things on my calendar:
I really should see about getting a Flu shot...
My follow-up to decide yay-or-nay on Gallbladder Surgery. (Please God, say "nay.")
Another Reverend Horton Heat Show (on Clay's Birthday)
Another Salvation Army Car Auction (also on Clay's Birthday)

Four fears:
Ladders.
Large-ish (or larger) dogs.
People who drive while drunk or high.
Early death by violent means.

Four unusual things in my purse or wallet:
Cordless test-light. (If I leave it at work, it'll come up missing like the air-powered rivet gun & heat gun did.)
A box of raisins. ("Healthy," even if I have to force myself to call them a "snack.")
Two class rings, found in crashed cars here at work. (They're on CraigsList, I'm just waitin' for e-mails.)
That Idle-air adjustment screw that I bought at last year's racer's auction and never got around to installing.

Four chores I hate doing:
The cat's water dish - it gets so nasty I use Cool-Whip bowls so I can throw it out instead of trying to wash it.
Wrestling sheets onto the worlds fattest mattress. (but it's worth it 'cause it's sooooo soft!)
Dishes, if they've sat in the sink too long or somebody tossed one in there without scraping it off first.
Dusting, because it n-e-v-e-r ends.

Four favorite animals:
Hannah Kitty.
Clay's birds, the ones who don't draw blood. ;)
Anything that's cuddly...
I might think about getting another Hedgehog one of these days...

Four speed dials on my cell phone:
My Mom
Clayton
Line 4 here at work.
My Uncle Wayne. ;)

Four places I have called home:
An old house on West Edison in Tulsa.
The top of a hill between Claremore & Owasso.
The middle of "God's Country" out North of Sand Springs.
A rock house on a dead-end street between Owasso & Sperry.

Four websites (not blogs) I visit:
Discovercard.
Arvest Bank.
The Pond. :)
Blogger.

Four people who have been in my car:
Clayton, My Dad, My Mom, and Randy, who lets me mooch his scanner every now and then. ;)

Four things I am wearing:
Levi's 550's.
Soft, fuzzy socks.
Dark grey sweatshirt.
A bra that I freakin' hate.

Four things I am looking forward to:
Getting that set of plugs in the Excursion so I can go play with it!
Turkey & Cake, 'cause my birthday is on Thanksgiving this year. ;)
Trying to figure out what to do about Christmas. (buy or knit??)
I am almost always looking forward to the weekend!

Four favorite types of candy:
Nestle Crunch (in all forms, including melted & slurped!) ;)
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Miniature Butterfingers ('cause of the chocolate ratio, heh)
Brach's "Gum-Dingers" (the red ones!)

Four sports teams you like:
The ones with motors. ;)

Four things found in your fridge:
Diet Dew
Salsa
Cheese
Miracle Whip

Four rituals (not just a task) you do every day:
Blowdrier & round brush. (I'm still amazed by how Jacy rocked my world teachin' me that)
Log onto Google Reader.
Set my alarm(s) for the next day.
Lately, I fall asleep with my iPod instead of the TV.

Four things currently within reach:
My nearly-empty Diet Dr Pepper.
The MacBook's power adapter. (it's wwaaarrrmmm!)
My phone.
My car keys.

Four things you know how to cook (not bake or grill):
Totally bitchin' top-secret lasagna.
Pretty good Tortilla Soup.
Mom's Mexi-Melt.
Helper, but only with hamburger, I refuse to touch it with chicken due to a bad experience. ;)

Since 2000...

2008-11-10T11:44:00.000-08:00

My first time in a race car was the last night of the 1999 season. A few months later, with a little cash, a little leftover Pell Grant money (shhh, don't tell), and a little help from my Discover Card, I bought the first Twenty. Shortly thereafter, I tumbled head-long into an era of my personal history that's often known as "The Dave Experience."

That first year of racing was quite interesting. Dave had a trailer, which I ended up with, but when it came to pulling that trailer, sometimes we were so close to up-a-creek it wasn't even funny. Sometimes it was Dad's ol' six-cylinder F-150, sometimes it was whatever Dave had brought home from wherever he happened to be working at the time, anything from a half-ton Chevy from a small family-owned concrete company to an enormous crew-cab International diesel from a big contractor.

In 2000, Ford came out with The Excursion; the big four-door SUV based on a single-wheel one-ton, seats for eight, Powerstroke Diesel, big enough to handle a good-size trailer... I didn't need any convincing, I wanted one. I so seriously wanted one, but the price scared the shit outta me. I knew there was nooooo way I could make the payments on something like that.

Toward the end of the 2000 racing season, Dave was makin' good money even though he had bad credit, so I finally agreed to go take a walk through the Ford dealership out in Sand Springs. I still wanted an Excursion, but I knew that since it was his money, I really had to let him have the final say. We ended up at the Chevy dealership on the other side of the fence, checkin' out an F-250 on the back row. It was less money, a long bed, and it had a big block too, so that's what we got... That black & silver truck is the reason why the second Twenty ended up with black paint, and even after we went with a fully orange paint scheme, the 20's are still orange numbers with white trim on a black background.

Here I am, years later. The big-block F-250 is long gone, to wherever good ol' trucks go when the insurance company pays 'em off. Dave's still close, but long gone to wherever good Catholic boys go when God calls 'em away from their prayin' Baptist girlfriends. The first Twenty will never see the track again, save for parts that have migrated through other cars and into the present Twenty. My Discover Card, which was with me before college and stayed with me (thankfully) even through "credit counseling," is still with me.

Saturday morning, I flicked out my Discover Card for something I'd wanted for a long time. With a salute to The Salvation Army of Tulsa, I handed the Mark 8 keys to Clay and drove home in this:

It's not perfect, but it's very, very nice for the money I spent. It's not the Powerstroke Diesel that I wanted, but it was such a deal, I really don't mind. It feels nice out on the road, it's fairly clean inside, and it's huge. It's seriously big, and I'm seriously crazy about it!

More later... _\,,/

Fifth Grade.

2008-11-05T12:47:00.000-08:00

That know-it-all guy was just here, and yes, he did ask me what I thought about the election.

I told him what I thought about a carhop gettin' pissy with me about it and I told him I wasn't discussing it.

Now, on to where I was going with the fifth graders...

What the hell did I just type there?? I am not going anywhere with fifth graders, but I did have a fascinating moment last night that made me smile. That's where I'm going, to the Northeast corner of the store.

Last night we went to Hobby Lobby in Owasso, and just as planned, I was checkin' out a basket of clearance sale yarn. I stumbled onto some that was labeled "stripes," as opposed to "variegated" like the yarn right next to it... It was a brand I've yet to knit with, but it fascinated me 'cause it was super-soft, burgundy with bits of green and smaller bits of white so it was Christmas-ish without being too red/white/green/garish. It wasn't glittery, but it had a hint of a shiny look to it. The coolest part: it was only a $1.67 a ball.

Over my shoulder, at a distance, I heard someone ask, "Do you knit?" As I looked that direction, I saw a lady on her cell phone walking through the fabric department headed toward the yarn. "Oh, so you don't knit, you crochet, okay, well, she's gotta have knitting stuff, I'll call ya later."

When she was close enough, she asked me if I knit. I was so proud to say yes, but I still worry if I'm good enough to be an "ambassador."

She told me her daughter was in fifth grade and needed to take needles and yarn to school the next day because they were all going to learn to knit!

I think she may have been a little surprised by my squeal of glee...

I hope I did okay; I told her what I knew about beginning knitters -- what I'd found as a beginner myself, anyway. Smooth, non-bumpy yarn is easiest to work with, and needles that are a little bigger than you might expect are great for learning how it all needs to go.

She picked some soft pale pink yarn and a pair of translucent needles from right there by the clearance basket, patted my shoulder, thanked me oh-so-sweetly, and hurried away.

Somewhere today, probably Owasso, there's a whole classroom full of fifth grade kids who are learning to knit!

A whole bunch of brand-new knitters!!

I'm so proud I could play a tiny part in that!!!

Blame the truck. Yeah, that's the ticket.

2008-11-04T11:27:00.000-08:00

I've got some diverse friends. I hang out with a few different groups of very different people and rarely feel uncomfortable. I like to think I can find something in common with almost anybody; I like friendly people, and it's easier to be friendly than to act all judgemental and refuse to talk to someone who might see some things a little differently.

I just like friendly people, I really do. I can usually find something to talk about with almost anybody -- cars, music, restaurants, books, sick humor. I understand that certain concepts just won't work with certain groups; a circle of Baptist women probably won't take kindly to sick humor; but my "Girls Night" crowd will probably bust out laughin' and throw a little sick humor back at me. If I can find something in common with someone, I can usually ignore the other things that might make some folks back away. If I can talk with someone about something we share; a memory, a book, an activity -- I don't really care who they vote for or who they sleep with or what color they are or if they refuse to eat meat.

Sure, I can probably say something that would piss people off, but I'd rather make 'em laugh. I don't mind answering questions or making conversation, but I'd prefer not to argue.

One night at dinner with The Girls, before the Primaries, I popped off a little something that got me a table full of shocked faces; that night, I decided I'd better be very, very careful who I shared my political views with. I was a little stunned to hear someone say "I'm a woman, of course I'm voting for Hillary!" and I was even more stunned that there were no shocked faces aimed her way. After that, I decided I should just kept quiet 'til the conversation turned to pets or crafts or food.

Sure, I have friends who are voting the same way I am, and I love to talk with 'em -- I also have friends who are not voting the same way I am, and I still love 'em just the same. I'm just not interested in arguing, so let's talk about something else. That guy who thinks he's always right about everything shows up here every now and then; I give him the ol' "smile/nod" quite a bit, especially when it comes to politics, because I just don't want to deal with it. My own Mom, who is not registered and does not vote, has been all over me about my choices for this election -- I hear enough arguments at home, I'm just not interested in dealing with them anyplace else.

Last night I heard a little teaser for a news piece about something like "what your car says about how you vote." I remembered the teaser right about the time I put my three hundred dollar Mark 8 in park at the little church where I go to vote, and I kinda wished I hadn't missed it. I waited in line behind four people; the folks who run my particular polling place have been doing their jobs for several years and they were really smooth at movin' 'em on through. There were a dozen or so people at the kiosks filling out ballots, but I was in and out in under ten minutes, even with reading through the four state questions. When I was finished, I went back out to my car, sat down in my tan leather seat, and stuck my little "I Voted" sticker on my shirt. Still wondering what my car might "say," I drove on to work while trying to make sure I didn't end up with chocolate milk on my shirt too.

This year, my little sticker has stayed put because I finally grew a brain and stuck it on my right side instead of my left where the purse handles, laptop bag strap, and seatbelt all rub like crazy. It was still there at lunchtime, when I agreed to make a run to Sonic because surely some tots won't kill me, I did have a fairly light breakfast. My car was blocked in, so I ended up heading out in My Dad's truck. Dad and I tend to share political views, but he also forgot to watch the news piece, so nobody has any idea what his truck "says" either.

At Sonic, I ordered lunch for the four of us, and since it was on special, it included four drinks. I sometimes wonder about carhop (or drive-thru worker) logic; I could see 'em handing the drinks through the window one-by-one if I had a station wagon or minivan full of people to hand 'em off to, but sometimes they're just not thinkin' about one single person taking lunch back to everybody else at work. I'm not usually unkind when it comes to tips, but no drink carrier means no tip. Today, I was impressed, 'cause when the carhop came out, she handed me the three Cokes and one Diet Dr Pepper in the cardboard carrier with the handle on top. Schweeet! A thinker! She saw the one person in the short-cab pickup takin' lunch back to three other people! I was really thinkin' I'd let her keep the change, which was better than twenty percent and over five bucks.

I sat the cardboard carrier shotgun seat to prop it against my purse so it wouldn't lean too much, and as she handed me the two sacks of burgers and tots, she saw my little sticker. As I handed over the money, she asked who I had voted for.

I have no idea what got into me. Maybe it was the boldness of chatting with a couple friends who had made the same political decisions as me. Maybe it was knowing that My Dad had voted the same as I had. Maybe it was Dad's truck. Maybe it was NPR. Who knows...

For the first time since this whole campaign got started, I gave my honest answer instead of just keepin' quiet about it.

Whups. I guess that wasn't very smart.

She just shook her head as she counted out the change, and as she put it in my hand, she said "Oh well, we can't all be perfect."

I was so shocked I had no idea how to respond, but I can tell ya one thing for sure, bein' pissy made that tip money go straight back into my purse.

Maybe I'll spend that money on something cute tonight while I'm avoiding the media frenzy that'll surely be all over television. I really don't plan on watching -- I said a little prayer and marked my ballot, that's all I can do, watching the TV won't change a thing, so I'll probably be looking through baskets of yarn or shelves of model cars instead.

Most of my friends have a pretty good idea who I voted for and would probably not act all pissy about it one way or another... If a total stranger is going to ask me a question, I think I'd rather have 'em ask me what kind of tampons I prefer.

Slow?

2008-11-03T14:06:00.000-08:00

I can't even count how many different stories I've read about cell phones in public; like the one about the guy in the bathroom who was on his phone and got mad 'cause the guy in the next stall was talking to him every time he tried to talk on the phone.

"How ya doin'?"

"Good, how'bout you?"

"Shit, I gotta call you back, some jerk in the next stall won't shut up."

Saturday afternoon as I was headed into the ladies' room at Hobby Lobby, My Mom called. I answered and headed on in there -- since there wasn't anybody else in there, I figured it'd be no big deal to just hold the phone on my shoulder and keep talking. I told Mom where I was and what I was doing just to be sure there wouldn't be any awkwardness.

Somebody else came in. Things got a bit awkward.

I didn't want to be that weird person talking on the phone in the next stall, so I was hoping Mom would just keep talking and I could just keep listening quietly as I rushed to zip my jeans and wash my hands.

Mom was saying what she wanted to say and it was working out pretty good 'til the noise from the paper towel dispenser came across the phone. Mom stopped telling her story and asked "What the hell was that noise?"

"Oh, I was gettin' paper towels."

So, now I'm that weird person talking to herself out by the sinks.

Maybe it would've been less odd if I'd just kept talking for no real reason and just sat there in the stall a while longer 'til the other person was finished and left. "Who called you from Oklahoma CIty? Well yeah, that is odd..." Heh.

I didn't really want to deal with making eye-contact with the person who heard me talking to myself about paper towels, so I dried my hands super-fast and hurried my weirdness back out to the model car aisle where I could be easily seen with a phone, as well as another human being, and just talk without worrying about it.

Fast forward to today, Monday afternoon...

I have a couple on the other side of the counter who are on their third trip here today and claim that the truck is "leakin' outta that silver thing in front of the radiator." Mmmm-kay, well, the grille is silver and in front of the radiator, but does not contain any substance that might leak out. I determine that it's the AC Condenser, they say yes, I ask the important questions to determine that it's an '89 Ford Truck, and I send somebody out to get one off the shelf. "He'll be right back," I say.

While they're waiting for him to bring that condenser down the ladder and back into the lobby, the phone rings.

The phones on the counter look like this:

(I know, my notebook is lookin' kinda raggedy, but...)

So, with only the three of us in the room, there's a ringing sound, and there's me, lifting that big, obvious receiver to my ear.

The caller says he talked to someone a couple weeks ago about an axle for an S-10 Blazer. I know it wasn't me, but since I'm the only one on the counter, I figure I'd better puzzle it out and see what I can find...

With the big ol' phone held up to my left ear, and a computer keyboard underneath my right hand, I ask "What year was it?"

The caller replies "2000." The female half of the couple also replies, "1989."

As I my right hand flips away at the ten-key portion of an older PC keyboard, I try to remember the four-digit code for S-10 Blazer. Silently, in my own head, I'm struggling with 54, 56, 65, 64, oh, there it is, 2-3-5-6, and as I manage to punch it in, I say, into the phone, "And it's an S-10 Blazer, let's see..."

The caller replies, "Yup, S-10 Blazer." From across the counter I hear a nearly frustrated voice say "No, it's a Ford Truck!"

The couple left without the condenser, because that "wasn't it." They needed "the other thing in front of the radiator, the one that had transmission fluid running out if it." Well, then that's not the condenser, that's the transmission cooler.

I'm just glad they're not sittin' here givin' me the heebie-jeebies anymore.

The guy with the S-10 Blazer is picking up the axle tomorrow, I'll have to ask him if he could hear anything in the background when we talked on the phone. Heh heh...

Sometimes it's a bitch, but sometimes it's hilarious!

More later... _\,,/

Catching up, disjointedly.

2008-10-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

I just got back from the post office, I mailed off a slightly puffy envelope to do something good for the environment. I thought it was a nifty idea, stick five plastic bags from that one particular big store (red, circles, not blue) and mail 'em off to get back a coupon for a "free reusable tote." Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure the totes sell for around a buck each.

Mailing the five plastic bags cost $1.51.

Here's my sign. I could've used those for kitty litter.

--

Maybe I should've just ordered one of these, 'cause it's hilarious, and it's not red.

--

I finally got a chance to go see Becky last night, it's been a long time. Also, I finally got to meet her Llama, Llouie.

He's extremely llovable and uncommonly cute! Also, I learned the hard way that llama burps stink like nobody's business!

--

I finally got around to washing those clearance-aisle jersey-knit sheets so I could put 'em on my freebie mattress, and they're amazing. It's a little odd pulling those queen-size pieces of stretchy-t-shirt-feelin' fabric outta the dryer, but once I wrestled 'em onto the bed, they were just incredible! Since they came from the clearance aisle, they're super-bright neon pink, and totally outside my usual realm of color choices, but really, since nobody sees my bed, I do not care one bit.

--

We're less than a week away from the election, and some sick little part of me is waiting to hear from those not-so-informed folks who, a few months ago, were under the impression that "the woman" and "the black guy" were the only two choices. This morning I heard the younger HoMeSkOoLeR telling My Mom that "if you get on the computer and look it up, his real name is 0sama Bin Laden Saddam Hussein Barack 0bama." I hope to God they're not Go0ogling that. Apparently in their particular HoMeSkOoL curriculum, you can be in eighth grade before you're even eleven years old and you never have to take a class like "Government" or "Civics," or "Social Studies." That's what they claim, anyway...

The teacher I had in public school for Social Studies in sixth grade was awesome. The teacher I had in public school for Civics in seventh grade was awesome. The professor I had in college for Government was awesome. I had a few teachers, instructors, and professors over the years who were not so awesome, but I learned a thing or two from all of 'em. I'm considering a salute to teachers post one of these days.

--

One night last week, I had a very interesting dream and thought it would make a very interesting blog post. It seemed fascinating until I finished with the hair dryer; by the time I got to the computer, it was starting to lose it's magic. I opened up a text file anyway and started typing it out, but the longer I worked with it, the dumber it seemed.

I didn't even finish typing out the whole thing and it just seemed stupid, so I decided to ditch that idea.

--

My Dad had to have another removal/biopsy of a skin-cancer-ish type of thing behind his ear. His Dr, with whom I am not particularly impressed, gave him a name of what it "might be" and suggested that he "Go0ogle it," because ya know, stereotypically, seventy-one-year-old guys are really big into Go0ogle. Between all the dictionaries and medical books we could round up, the word that the impressive Dr.'s nurse spelled out over the phone is a tumor that's commonly found in the uterus, which I'm pretty sure Dad does not have; or in the small intestine, which I'm very sure nobody has behind their ear.

--

We had a great time at Fall Duck-Nic '08, the pictures are on my Flickr.

--

I guess that's all I've got for now...

--

More later. _\,,/

A Wordy First.

2008-10-11T10:01:00.000-07:00

My first piece of writing to be published somewhere other than here is up at The DRC.

I'm kinda scared to read it clear through again 'cause I'd probably find something I missed in the fifty-gazillion re-reads I've already done; so cross yer fingers for careful proofreading and go check it out!

More Soon...

_\,,/

Wait! Don't hit delete!

2008-10-02T21:04:00.000-07:00

I'm still here, I'm just... Uhm... Processing. Yeah, that's the ticket. I can call multiple re-edit's processing, right?

I'm trying to get a story ready, but in true story-teller fashion, it's taking me several tries.

When it's done, I'll have a bit of fascinating news, it'll be pretty cool, I promise.

In the meantime, how'bout a little bit of humor?

Here ya go, it's from Magick Sandwich, and here it is!

Actual phone conversations.

2008-09-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

The caller says he's lookin' for a Chevy Truck rearend.

I tell him we handle Ford parts and don't have any of 'em around here.

He's quiet. He coughs. He breathes into the phone.

So I say it again.

"Oh, I thought you said you were gonna go get somebody."

Yeah. Week of Mondays.

About that beeping sound.

2008-09-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, that beeping sound is me backin' up. Don't worry, I'm doin' it more carefully than that drunk on that fork lift.

A faithful reader... No, wait, the most faithful reader I have, the only one who gets to see me naked, has informed me that there's a little more information out there than I suspected on this whole wax thing from my last post. I considered just deleting the post, but I figured this was a better way to go.

Clay did the homework, and found that "in a pinch," a candle apparently will work in order to "wax a rail to grind on."

So, I'm backin' off a little bit.

But not completely. I still maintain that the tiny little sloped patch of parking lot just Northwest of where I park my car is not "a rail to grind on" -- it's about a three inch rise over about an eighteen inch run, it is not a rail or a curb.

I also still maintain that the oxy/acetylene torch is a fairly specialized industrial tool, and not something for some tool to be using to melt candles into a hubcap with.

While I'm on that topic, I also maintain that a sand blasting cabinet is also a fairly specialized industrial tool, and probably not something for some tool to be letting a kid sand blast the paint off of that toy car that came with the Sonic "Wacky Pack."

The fork lift is back in park, now I'm goin' to bed.

More later... _\,,/

Same vs. Different vs. Same.

2008-09-22T09:21:00.000-07:00

Friday night while channel-surfing, Clay landed on MTV, a channel I really haven't watched in a long, long time -- so long I'm not even sure what number it is. Lately if I have the remote, I'm usually either on 249 (Comedy Central) or 810 (XM's X-Country), or flipping through the "guide" looking for something that doesn't involve screaming brides or mysterious illnesses. I also love "The Travel Channel," but I don't know where it is either, I just have to flip 'til I stumble onto it. Maybe I should take notes...

MTV, through the magic of re-runs, was showing the exact same episode of "Jackass" that first caught my eye that afternoon in 2000 or 2001, the episode with the shopping carts. Or is there more than one with the shopping carts?? Anyhow... I vividly remember ploppin' in the living room of the little white house up on Yukon Avenue for a rare moment alone in front of the TV with the cable remote. My channel-surfing came to a stop when I saw those guys shoving each other's carts over curbs and into bushes. "I'm Johnny Knoxville, welcome to Jackass!" (Huh-oh, what it that was Gooogle-bait?)

I'm that chick who's been seen more than once ooh-ing-and-aaahh-ing over Matchbox cars -- I am not ashamed to tell ya that "my inner child" is a spoiled little eight-year-old boy, or, well, a mini-van load of spoiled little eight-year-olds, there might be a girl or two in there, but they're so tomboy they fit right in playin' with the boys. I ain't afraid to tell ya there's a kid in me who thinks it might be huge fun to go sailin' down and enormous hill in (or on) whatever I can find that has wheels on it -- but there's also junior-high kid who crashed a couple bikes, the highschooler with the boogered-up knee, and the nineteen-year-old me who took a pretty good hit to the head and knows that pain is not cool...

I guess I'm just over that edge of knowing that "Hey, there's no way to steer or control a shopping cart, so I ain't doin' that!" but I can certainly get a kick out of watching other people do it!

It's stupid, it's pointless, it's semi-dangerous, but let's face it -- it's hilarious!

I can't say I'm a serious "fan" of the show, but if I'm flippin' through channels and that's what I land on, I'll usually stay. I saw the movie twice in the dollar theater and I bought the DVD out of a clearance bin. I have watched, I have laughed...

Some of the things I've seen on "Jackass" have brought me to the questions that are on my mind today.

Today is a HoMeSkOoL dAy, and the younger kid is, through the magic of re-runs, doin' some of the same nutty stuff his older brother did a while back. I still have some unanswered questions.

In all my viewings of the crazy stuff we see on "Jackass," I have seen lots of "famous" dudes playin' with skateboards, but I've yet to see any of 'em using any skateboard wax.

Wax comes in many, many different forms, produced for many, many different uses, and candles are only the beginning. The wax that melts off candles won't yank the hair off of your legs, the wax that makes a car shiny won't burn to smell like strawberries.

The strange phenomena in the air here lately is not only due to the workings of "kid logic," it's because their dad isn't interested in the difference either.

In all the times I've seen people riding skateboards, I have not ever seen anybody rubbing candles into concrete. Nobody but the HoMeSkOoLeRz, that is, who have made greazy spots on the concrete bumpers, curbs, and anywhere there's a bit of a slope in the parking lot. That big red pillar candle out of the bathroom is completely gone, turned into a brown gooey mess on the concrete.

Surely I'm not nuts... Surely the wax goes on the board, and not on the concrete, right? Surely it's not the same wax that's used for birthday candles, right?

Surely?

Well, then I guess your guess is as good as mine when it comes to figuring out why a ten-year-old was able to persuade his forty-some-year old dad to light up an oxy/acetylene torch in order to melt dozens of broken pieces of candles and Crayolas into a hubcap.

Say a little prayer that the folks at OSHA are busy catching drunks on forklifts, please.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got phones to answer...

Racing Philosophies At Work In Everyday Life...

2008-09-10T10:21:00.000-07:00

I know I've said it before, but it bears mentioning again. If you put twenty-some racers out on a track together, even if they are being careful, shit happens, it just does. For me, havin' somebody come say "Hey, sorry 'bout that," will go a long way. Be a grown-up about it, suck it up, walk over here, stick your hand out and talk to me about it. I'd much rather shake your hand and make a friend than wonder what kind of no-balls ay-hole would knock the shit outta my car and not even care enough to talk to me afterward. I might be pissed off, but I can get over it pretty quick if you'll just say something instead of leavin' me wondering if you're scared to come near me or just too stupid to know any better.

Last night we had dinner at Senor Salsa in Skiatook, and it was an excellent dinner, as it almost always is. The queso was heavenly, the chicken enchiladas were superb, and we had a lovely time. As we were getting up to leave, a friendly blonde-haired lady hurried in and came right to our table -- she asked if we had a white Lincoln.

Gah, that's never a good sign, 'cause they never say "I'm in love with your car and I want it right now! I have 150% of book value in cash and I'll give you a ride home!" I thought of about a million different things, like the burning Blazer from highschool, the black Taurus I saw come outta gear and roll across the aisle into the side of another car at "The Dirty Wal-Mart," and the grey Neon that rolled across the parking lot of Michael's and narrowly missed a pedestrian before bouncing to a stop between two other parked cars. I thought of other frightening situations I haven't ever seen first-hand; like a meteorite on the roof or a garbage truck parked halfway up on the hood or a wanna-be "gangsta" hangin' half in and half out of the car and bleeding to death from a cut to the jugular while attempting to break a window out.

Apparently the friendly blonde-haired lady and her companion, along with another couple who were also leaving the restaurant saw someone in a "red SUV" back into my car, stop, get out to look, spit on their hand and rub it, and then get back in their red SUV and drive away. They spit on their hand and rubbed it and then drove away without leaving a note or anything.

Are there any Adam Sandler fans reading this?? "Spit on your hand and stroke my car at a medium pace..."

I know, I know, shit happens, anybody might be having a bad day or driving something unfamiliar or had a fussy baby in the back seat or whatever, but come on! At least leave a note! Acknowledge! Apologize! Just say something!!

It may not be a huge scrape; hey, at least they didn't tear the whole bumper off, but still, they could've left a note or waited two minutes for us to come outside.

I've no doubt there would be a lot less anger involved if they'd just been honest about it instead of spitting, rubbing, and thinking they got away with something.

Is there no Character anymore?

I'm thinkin' that'll be the first letter they get from me -- just a picture of the scrape, with the post-it from the lady who got their tag number, and "Character means doing the right thing, even when nobody's watching."

When it comes right down to it, there's always somebody watching.

D-i-s-j-o-i-n-t-e-d.

2008-08-31T20:52:00.000-07:00

Right this minute, there are ten lovely recipes for Tortilla Soup in the bag with this computer. A couple of 'em really have me captivated, but it's still just too hot for any sort of soup. Most of them are newspaper or magazine clippings, one is hand-written, and they've all been oh-so-carefully laid into the photocopier so as to fit on standard-size paper, and then clipped together with a classy orange paperclip, and given to me in a lovely moment of well-planned kindness.

--

It's Labor Day Weekend, I got the green car thirteen years ago this weekend. Wow. Some things are the same, some things are different, some things are stunning.

--

I finally gave in and set up "Google Reader," and I like it! It's really cut down on my staring at the computer half bored and half trying to remember which bookmarks I've checked lately.

--

Right this minute, there's an older lady on TV sitting at a desk that looks a lot like a news desk. She's holding a big v!be, one of those monsters with the rotating beads and all that, right there on TV. Gah, did I say something about stunning a few lines back? This outdoes it.

--

That baby blanket that I mentioned a few posts ago is past the halfway point now, and I like how it's turning out. I wondered how the corners at the ends of the center stripe were going to work out -- they look a lot better than I thought they would. It's good to be on the downhill side, even if I do have until February.

--

This lady on TV, I'm thinkin' I like her. She's taking calls and right now, she's explaining head (I didn't use the usual verb in front of that, so the Go0glers can just think that's a car part or body part instead of an activity). She's tellin' this guy who's never done it how to go about it, bless her heart. Wow.

--

I really thought I had more to write, but now I can't remember... The TV is polluting my mind...

More later. _\,,/

Eight Slappin' Pistons!

2008-08-17T12:13:00.000-07:00

After a week of hearing forecasts of rain, we skipped Mid-Am's Friday Night races. I never thought I'd be willing to do that, but with the high fuel prices, it just ain't right to spend all that money gettin' there when the rain might come in and then we wouldn't get to race. As awesome as it would be to race on Friday nights again, that particular Friday night might've been a long one anyway, so we stayed home.

Saturday afternoon, Clay's brother came to hang out with us. He's freakin' awesome, have I mentioned that yet? I'm still stunned! Stunned by the awesomeness of it all!

The hearse runs! It starts, runs, idles, and pulls itself. It sounds so cool, so big, so American!

Next on the list: A Windshield and a few dozen cans of Krylon Flat Black.

I have more pictures and videos all done-up on their own set on My Flickr.

:)

20.762068

2008-08-14T09:02:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been rough as hell, I guess it started about a week ago, got worse on Monday and just stayed bad 'til last night. There have been times I've had that feeling that "It's me," like I'm just taking things wrong, mountains from molehills, whatever; other times, it feels like I'm stuck in the middle of a shitty situation that's not my fault.

There for a while, I wondered if I really was staying away from writing because I didn't want it to be way too many posts in a row that were just bitch-bitch-bitch.

Monday, and possibly before, I really felt like it was from me, in me, and all mine, and I could feel myself getting irritated about things that really shouldn't have that much of an effect on me. Tuesday (and yesterday) there was that damn Jeep wheel that we'd ordered a week before that hadn't showed up yet -- I got my ass chewed for "dropping the ball" on that one, 'cause ya know, I'm workin' that damn yard in South Texas that didn't see the order and never shipped the wheel. Oh, yeah, that was totally my fault, seeing as how we pay to use a computer system so that I don't have to drive to South Texas and stand there in somebody's face saying "JeepWheelJeepWheelJeepWheel" until they finally notice me and go pull a Jeep wheel off of a shelf. Yeah, totally my fault that that guy didn't see his computer screen.

Yesterday I'd pretty much decided I wasn't going to Tulsa because there was no way my attitude was anywhere near the right place for it, but I didn't want to go home either. I didn't say a word about it, but I had planned to go to Owasso (for good gas), grab something to eat, and then just go sit in the park and knit 'til I felt like going home. My Mom apparently noticed the mood I'd been in and called me about 4:45. Due to Mom's marketing skills, I went home for spaghetti and fried okra with the folks; amazingly enough, some credit was taken for the pissy-mood-situation, and lemme tell ya, that's rare.

After dinner, I alternated between knitting and napping, and then decided I go on out and put gas in my car instead of worrying about there not being any places to get any gas between home and work. In the interest of "saving gas" to be sure I didn't run out before I could get there, I turned off the compressor and rolled down the windows, and it was nice. I'll be honest, I'm usually not a big fan of rollin' the windows down -- if I can't take the whole top off, I'd rather just use the AC. The Mark 8 isn't so bad with the windows down, I don't feel like I'm gettin' blown to death and fixin' to lose both contact lenses, but it seems to cool itself out alright -- of course, we're talkin' about eighty degrees here, not a hundred and thirteen like it was a couple weeks ago.

The Big Car got 20.762068 miles per gallon on that tank of gas that I bought last week in Owasso, where they have the banner that says "100% Real Gas, No Ethanol," and I'd say that's pretty good for somethin' that big, that heavy, and that V-8 Powered.

I drove back home as the sun was setting, and I left the compressor off and the windows down just 'cause the evening air felt so good. I have no idea if it's because I managed to let go of something, or because something finally let go of me, but I felt like a fog had lifted last night, I felt much better.

This morning when I got to work, I found that the second yard had also backed out on me on that damn Jeep Wheel. I had to order it a third time from a third yard and pay fifteen dollars more for it this time, but it'll be alright 'cause nobody's bitchin' at me about it anymore.

Thankfulness? Check.

Like the song says, "Feels so good, feelin' good again."

More later... _\,,/

Finally!

2008-08-11T09:56:00.000-07:00

Rain. Finally! Rain, cooler days, much cooler nights. We needed a break from the heat so bad I can't complain about a rain-out.

Other than that, I really don't have much to say. Is it sad that I'm posting just to be sure I don't forget how to type?

This week, we'll race on Friday night, just like back-in-the-day.

More later. _\,,/

Drag Strip Report

2008-07-29T12:06:00.000-07:00

I showed up at work Monday and noticed that I forgot to scrape the numbers off the left quarter glass of the Mark 8. Whups. Oh well, between the numbers and the corresponding ass-chewin'-from-Mom, the whole thing kinda made me feel like a kid again.

My Mom asks if "that's what happened to the transmission in the SHO." No, it's not. Three or four trips down the dragstrip in 1997 is most likely not the reason it has a little slip in second gear eleven years later.

The ol' $300 Lincoln wasn't quite as quick in the quarter as I'd expected; I figured that if the SHO brought home a best time of 15.02, the Mark 8 would at least do that or better, even if I was just guessin' by the feel of 'em in highway traffic. I was wrong by at least a second, but it was still pretty cool to get back out there and make a few passes. I don't think it was faster than anything out there, but I can guarantee ya it was the cheapest thing in the bunch, and hey, that's still sayin' somethin'.

We had a great time at The Duck Drags, and I can't wait to do it again! Maybe next time I'll rent something... Heh heh...

Tired and a teensy bit sunburned in the spots that I missed with the spray-screen, I went up to the wall to shoot just a little more video as the afternoon was winding down.

I was tired, so seriously tired, but when these guys pulled up there and hit the water for a big ol' simultaneous burn-out, I forgot all about my tired achy feet:

It was more than sight, more than sound, like a tingly hum that started at my collarbones and went clear through me; I was standin' there tryin' to hold the camera still but it felt like my whole body was trying to decide between jumping, falling over, or trying to find something that would vibrate just a little longer. It was incredible, and I'm still struggling with finding words to describe it. It was a bit like the first time I started my first Outlaw Stock, which was just amazing -- and it totally surprised me, which was pretty cool 'cause it's been a while since I'd had that feeling.

Usually wordy, I still occasionally find myself at a loss for words...

The pictures that Clay and I took (and a video of my first pass of the day) are on my Flickr.

More Later. _\,,/

Disjointed and Melty...

2008-07-24T08:51:00.000-07:00

Last night at Ladies Group, the newest Melissa (who's now one of three) told us that in highschool, she was known as "Mel T' because she was one of several "Mel"s there too.

I smiled 'cause I've had several of my "Melty" feelin' moments over the last few days, and I don't think it's just 'cause it's burnin' hot around here. They're up, they're down, good, or bad, it's good to feel the power of it all, and it makes me thankful for every bit of it.

I only missed a couple Wednesday nights, but being back last night made me realize just how much I missed my group -- I've laughed and cried and cried and laughed... It's always a nice time, it's great to be amongst "my people."

Clay and I are celebrating three years, it's "Anniversary Week." When he sent that e-mail on Tuesday, I got all melty inside. It was a feeling that went clear through me and I'm not entirely sure how to put it into words.

I was standin' here this morning waiting for the webcam auction to start and My Mom walked up behind me and started playin' with my hair. I have no idea why, but that just doesn't happen very often -- and it was nice, really nice. I haven't told her about how I felt like I had that huge relief-related growth spurt right after she got the all-clear from her oncologist, but I'm sure we'll get around to chattin' about it sometime soon.

I know it's a short post, but it's much nicer than groanin' and bitchin'...

More Later. _\,,/

Actual Phone Call...

2008-07-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

A phone rings, I answer, the caller asks for a crankshaft sensor for an Oldsmobile Alero.

I tell him we deal with Ford/Lincoln/Mercury and we've never had any Aleros around here.

He says "Oh, so you only handle Ford Lincoln Mercury, Oooohhhh, okay..." There's a very slight pause, and then he says, "Do you have a hood for a 99 Dodge Durango?"

Now I'm the one who's puzzled. "No, we handle Ford parts." Maybe I should've said it slower.

I'm betting he's the same guy who waited in line in front of The Apple Store for two hours holding that broken agitator out of his washing machine and wondering why everybody around there was lookin' at him funny.

Who Says?

2008-07-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

The magical world of Computer Science has been a bit disappointing in the Salvage Biz lately... I realize I can't speak for all yards, but around here, we're wondering about that decision we made after the lightning wrecked our old Linux machine. As handy as it is to have all three machines running Windows and fully (or almost fully) networked with internet access and everything, sometimes I wonder if we'd be better off with the ol' inventory-only-and-nothing-else setup that we used to use around here.

With Windows, the daily back-up's are easier, and CDRW's are much easier to come by than the ol' "SuperDisks" or the even-more-obsolete five-inch floppies, but now that we're fully connected to the publishing company via the internet, our inventory, good, bad, and/or ugly is out there for the whole internet readership to see.

That might not be such a problem for some yards, but our inventory was a bit of a mess before the lightning bricked the Linux machine -- the two-day-long conversion process to make those files available to the new Windows system boogered it up even more, and there's just no easy way to go through and check all those numbers. We've been stumbling onto Ford part numbers with Toyota names hung on 'em, and other numbers that just seem to have come out of nowhere.

Now for the fun part... Those people who seem to want to call and talk to me like I'm the stupidest person they've ever dialed up are saying things like "Well, the internet says you have this..."

Just in case you weren't around for "Car Chat" on AOL way-back-in-the-day, here's some news for ya: The Internet can say anything, anybody can type anything that may or may not be true, and it may not be a good idea to just take anybody's word for it. Saying my car cost $300 might sound like bullshit, but it's not, so I guess that line could go either way -- but if I said that it gets 62 miles per gallon, surely you'd know that's bullshit, right?

Anybody can write anything on the internet -- "Post this comment on sixteen other videos or you'll die tonight. Bullshit. "Forward this to thirty people and a gift certificate will print out on your computer!" Bullshit. "Send to five friends and the answer to the riddle will pop up on your screen!" Bullshit. "Bill Gates is tracking this e-mail and he'll give a dollar to a dying toddler for ever address you fwd it to!" Bullshit. "Tom is checking to see who uses there MySpac3." There? THERE MySp@ce? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!!!

Link to me and I'll make a gift card pop out of your floppy drive!!

(yeah, that's bullshit too)

Back.

2008-07-06T08:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I got the most amazing night's sleep, and I woke up thinkin' I'd write about what a fascinating dream I'd had... But... I guess turning the TV on was a bad idea, 'cause now my mind is a bit polluted from Comedy Central and that wonderful dream is sooooooooo far away.

The 4th was nice, we had a great time with the folks and nobody called anybody stupid this time. Heh heh. We had a lovely, quiet hotel room with an excellent shower and a crummy bed, but isn't that always how it is? It seems like I never sleep the first night anywhere, which means if there's only one night, well, that's what ya get. By the time we got home, I was achy and sore, but it made for a great nap.

The three-hundred-dollar car got about twenty-and-a-half miles a gallon, as figured when Clay filled it up to head home. When we got back to the house, it showed a hundred and fifty-some miles and was only down a quarter of a tank. A hundred and fifty miles on the top quarter of a tank -- if it'd get six hundred miles on a tank, I'd be so happy I wouldn't know what to do.

Still waiting for the silver Matchbox Hearses to turn up, we managed to visit two Wal-Marts on this trip. I know that sounds crazy, but hey, there's other stuff we need there -- like Diet Dr Pepper, Chex Mix and cheesy popcorn. Oh, and also a remnant of fur that looks a bit like deep-pile shag carpet, and a bit like really long possum fur.

Since we were that far from home, what's another half hour... We went to Hobby Lobby in Springdale, and I was quite pleasantly surprised! The Hobby Lobby in Springdale carries a little different stock from what's on the shelves here at home in Tulsa -- I bought my first real-deal ball of sock yarn, which I grabbed even though I didn't have a coupon, I was willing to pay full-price because it was the first time I'd seen sock yarn in a store. Just as soon as I round up some US2 needles, I'll be givin' that a shot, 'cause Robin said it'd be real easy if I'd just give it a try -- so, I'll knit my first pair with this "Cotton Candy" colored yarn from Hobby Lobby, and then once I'm sure I can do it and do it right, then I'll knit a pair with that lovely soft hand-spun, hand-dyed beautiful yarn from Robin's last Boob-Ha-Ha Auction. I am so not worthy of that yarn, it's so pretty, I don't even want to unwind it from its fluffy ball.

I really shouldn't be trying to write while the TV is on...

What else was I going to say?

Oh well... It'll come back to me... Maybe.

More later. _\,,/

Disjointed?

2008-07-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, it's been a while. There just hasn't been much of anything to write about, I guess.

--

The McD's just North of here finally got some English-speakers on staff, but apparently they can't count to three.

--

Yesterday I took a call asking if we "took cars." When I asked where it was, she answered "It's out here at my house." Since I was trying to stifle the laughter, I handed the phone off and it turned out she really didn't know her address, and attempted to describe it with phrases like "out that long straight road."

--

The Mark 8 is making a "first road trip" of sorts for Independence Day; if you can call an hour and a half an actual road trip. Since last year's Fourth was blog-worthy, maybe this one will be amusing as well -- since it's billed to feature the same cast of characters. Heh.

--

My "stressful situation not to be mentioned in the blog" has calmed down considerably, and I think I'm seeing that relief-of-stress extreme-spurt-of-hair-growth much like I saw after getting away from "that college experience not to be mentioned on the 'net." It's kinda nice; being relieved and havin' my hair suddenly grow out a bit -- but I'm probably still in need of a trim.

--

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine announced a pregnancy via a MySpac3 bulletin, so I pulled some yarn out of the "stash" and started knitting that very night. Don't look at me like that -- I knew both parents in-person before I had a MySpac3. This is my first knitted baby gift that is not a sweater -- but it is the same brand/type of yarn that I used for the pink & black sweater, the one that got mailed to Corpus Christie. Come to think of it, maybe a sweater isn't the best of ideas for the Corpus Christie Bay area, but I'm told it was a hit anyway.

This blanket is from a pattern I found on the 'net, and it's my first. I'm thinkin' it might be turning out a little bit thick and stiff, but that'll be alright -- if it's too heavy for a blanket, it'll make a nice playtime mat, don't ya think?

--

I guess that's all I've got... Maybe it's the heat...

--

More later. _\,,/

Alert Neighbors Know My Ratios.

2008-06-08T13:55:00.000-07:00

How's that for a newspaper headline?

As the youngest kid in a family of "Car People," I learned to drive earlier than most and was countin' they days 'til my sixteenth birthday a couple years in advance. I mastered the manual transmission before I mastered Pre-Algebra. I remember drivin' a red VW around in the yard with one of my friends from elementary school, it must've been around fourth grade or so, 'cause we went to different schools in fifth grade and kinda lost touch.

My birthday is in November, I got my license the Monday after I turned sixteen -- tenth grade. Between getting a license and getting a diploma, I showed up at school in ten different cars. I loved the little black truck I got for my birthday, but I also loved just about any chance to park it and hop into somethin' else for a little while.

The black '91 Ranger. The orangey-red '78 Fiat (which occasionally led to walkin' with Fiat keys and a Bass Trombone, because the trunk wasn't big enough to close with the Trombone Case inside). The red Geo convertible (doin' sixty in that felt about like doin' 120 in anything else). The black Bronco II (AC-DC's "Jailbreak" always reminds me of that one). The Bandit Trans-Am (same one My Mom took me to my first day of kindergarten in). Mom's '75 GMC. Dad's red '92 F-150 (the one I crashed my first Christmas Break in college). The black & grey 80's F-150 with the high-output 351 in it. The red '87 Suzuki Samurai (which was simply too short to sling out sideways in the gravel like the Ranger would). And last but not least, the white '91 Escort 2-door that taught me the difference between Rear and Front wheel drive. Heh. Even though it's a four-cylinder and a five-speed just like the Ranger, there is no way to make it sling sideways under power, no matter how hard ya pop the clutch. Heh heh.

Time to cars, that works out to a ratio of roughly two-point-five to ten.

Ain't much changed over the years; I dearly love the SHO that I got for graduation, but I still get a real kick outta parkin' it for a bit to drive somethin' else. Mom says it keeps the miles off the "good cars," that's why her "good car" is in the garage while she's drivin' her $400 truck. When I met Clayton, I was drivin' my grandma's bright-blue '96 Ford Contour. Well, the night we met, I was drivin' a diesel Ford pickup with a race trailer hung on it, but when I parked that, I hopped back in the little car, anyway.

Clay's neighbor has a little boy who's about four years old or so (I say "or so" 'cause I know I'm bad at guessing ages) -- he knows what's goin' on outside his window, I'm guessin' he's the best of the best when it comes to Alert Neighbors. Friday morning, I took the SHO to the Ford dealership for that Cruise Control Recall -- when I got to Clay's house that night, the little man pointed out the window and said "Clay got his other car back!!" I love that car so much, even a preschooler knows it!

That may not seem like much, but in the light of my "time to cars ratio," he's good! Clay and I have been together for almost three years -- it'll be three in July. In those not-quite-three years, I've showed up here with a lot of cars!

My Green SHO. Grandma's blue Contour. Mom's burgundy $400 '96 Ranger. Dad's white '03 F-150 "7700." The white '92 F-250 Diesel that I used to pull the race trailer with. The Ambulance. The blue '93 Taurus Wagon from Cra!gsL!st. The green '95 Windstar with the odd-colored front end parts (and "No Bells = No Fair" on the windows). Dad's white '91 Bronco that I borrowed while it was icy (that was the night The Black Keys played in Tulsa). The burgundy Taurus that I washed in the driveway 'cause it was naaaasty inside. The red '03 Mustang that I was driving the night we went to see The Gourds. And the Mark 8, which I got right after the Mustang sold in November and drove 'til I got the SHO out Thursday evening.

Just under three years. Twelve cars. Two-point-eight to twelve. Heh.

The Mark 8 has been consistently "the other car in Clay's driveway" for a solid six months after a string of others; but a four-year-old still remembers the Green SHO.

That kid will be a "car guy" in no time at all!!

How'bout a little somethin' disjointed?

2008-06-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

After an exchange of several amusing e-mails, last night I was told I should write a book. She's the second person to tell me that in the last year or so, and she doesn't know the first person who told me the same thing. There have been a few occasions where I've bought (or borrowed, thankfully) books that made me think "Gee, if these people can write and get it published, why can't I? I've had an idea or two, but they seem to be more-of-less short-story-sized. Sometimes it seems like a marble rollin' around in a barrel.

--

I just had a call from a guy another yard who told me he thinks the government is poisoning us. He's always liked to chat a bit whenever he calls, and usually I end up listening to fun little bits about the biz or cars or whatever for a few minutes until one or the other of us has to answer another phone. Today's topic was allergies and how they've been worse over the last few years, which is probably due to toxins that have been "tested" by means of crop-duster style planes or trucks with fans.

--

I'm not going to link to it because I try to stay away from politics here, but the Editorial Cartoon in today's Tulsa World was thumbs-up. Heh.

--

Still not quite politics, I got my "Stimulus Check" (finally), and I've decided to be a rebel and put it in my savings account.

--

Still trying to stay away from politics, I finally got the new James McMurtry album, "Just Us Kids" (off iTunes because I'm to the point that buying music in stores pisses me off about as much as commercial radio). It's very interesting, and just as I suspected, I love the storytelling aspect with or without the political views. "Ruby and Carlos" was playin' when I came back from lunch and I can't help but think radio is leaving a lot of good music unplayed, and without much good reason. I left a copy of the CD in the delivery truck because hey, have I mentioned how hard commercial radio sucks? It certainly does, and if I hear that damn "Don't Even Know My Last Name" song one more time, somebody's gonna get hurt.

--

I've been thinkin' about thicker bangs a lot lately, but then there's the heat & humidity -- so I guess I'll just keep thinkin' and see if I still want to lean over the sink and hack at it when cooler weather gets here. Between gas prices and summer weather, I'd say it's almost time to get out the 30-MPG ragtop, which I'm proud to say only took two tries to start up after a long cold winter in the garage. For right now, I'm thinkin' thin-n-short will be the best way to avoid lookin' like Fonzie every time I park the car.

--

I've also been thinkin' about a few of the friends I used to have... More or less that I feel bad for tryin' to squirm away from that one particular somebody who only calls when they want somethin' I might have. What ever happened to just hangin' out or just talkin' once in a while? I try my best to not be that friend who only calls when they want something -- the last time I called was because I had an extra concert ticket and wanted to not go alone. I really don't mind trying to help fix things or helping move furniture or helping with a car something like that for people I care about; I have friends I'd do anything for because I love those times when we get to just hang out and talk or watch a movie or whatever, and I know that if I needed somebody, they'd be there for me. I miss those nights when we'd just sit on the tailgate and talk about anything and everything, I feel bad for not answering my phone, but come on, if it's the middle of a three-day weekend and you're just callin' my cell for parts, leave me alone 'til I'm back at work and call the shop. I miss my buddy, but if there's no time for me anymore, then there's no time for me to be anybody's after-hours free parts consultant.

--

Speakin' of missin'... I sure wish we could find a good Chinese buffet. I still miss "The China Cafe" that they ripped out down there on South Lewis.

--

On a lighter note, we finally sold a car today. It's the one I put on Cra!gsL!st several months ago, but we sold it through walk-in traffic, so go figure.

--

Clay just e-mailed me a link to a site sellin' Hearse parts, they have pictures of an Urn Holder to put in the back of a hearse. Maybe it's the gas thing, maybe it's 'cause I've only been to one funeral that involved ashes, but that kinda "got me," as my grandma would say. I carried ashes out of the funeral home and slid into the shotgun seat of a Suburban with 'em in my lap. I covered the box up with a flannel shirt when I dashed into Git-N-Go for a pop and a candy bar and when we got to the house, I just took 'em in -- flannel shirt and all, and that's how they stayed. They're still wrapped up in that green and tan flannel shirt right now. We'll make it to Kalispell one of these days...

--

The electricity keeps goin' nuts 'cause the wind is blowin' like nobody's business. I'm runnin' the MacBook on battery right now 'cause it's a little unnerving to look over there and see the tiny green light on the power cord go off. The PC to my right keeps trying to start itself back up every time but all of the others are just clicking every time; after the third try, I gave up on tryin' to get 'em all back on since the power will just go again in a couple minutes anyway.

--

I think I hear a big ol' piece of roof flappin' in the breeze, might oughta go take a look at that...

More later.

_\,,/

Here's To You, Dr. Frederic Baur!

2008-06-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

Wipe those salty hands on your jeans and hold your can high for Dr. Frederic Baur, the inventor of "Pringles."

Dr. Baur apparently died a while back -- sorry I'm late with this, but there was a fascinating piece on NPR this morning which reported that Dr. Baur had requested that his cremated remains be buried in a Pringles Can.

Is it sick that I wonder what flavor the can was from? Was it a brand-new can from the factory so as to avoid crumbs of flavory residue, or did the family get to pass around a fun snack in order to empty out the container for the occasion?

I'm guessing he may have chosen an original red can, but I could be wrong... I sure like the green ones, the Ranch and the Sour Cream & Onion. Honestly, I rarely buy 'em 'cause I know I'll almost never manage to put the lid back on. Much like the big bag of Cheetos, if I start in on 'em, my inner fat kid is probably gonna finish 'em off.

God bless ya, Dr. Frederic Baur, and today at lunch, I'll toast your memory with a can of Loaded Baked Potato Pringles!

Ever wonder what happened to...

2008-06-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

About four years ago, I was just almost asleep in front of the TV when a familiar face appeared and jolted me completely awake. It's not that the mugshot surprised me, it was the "arson" part that was a shocker -- I knew Dave's oldest kid wasn't exactly Mister-Straight-And-Narrow, but I'd figured him for more of a drug crime kinda dude. I've followed the case, when I remember to check on it, through OSCN. The older one is still someone I wouldn't mind runnin' into somewhere -- mainly because there wasn't any bullshit between us. I can't say we were ever close, but not a day goes by that I don't think about him huggin' me, and I can still hear his voice, "My Dad really loved you." It's one of the things I carry with me just about all the time, right beside my experience with his little brother -- here's my sign, I thought we were close. That's a whole 'nuther rant though.

Y'all know about OSCN, right? 'Tis a great place to check up on people, people from your past, people you work with, people you're thinkin' about goin' out with... Now, back to my story.

Saturday afternoon while waiting for the TV news to get to the part about Town West and whether or not that was an actual tornado that tore that stuff up, I caught a glimpse of a totally unfamiliar mugshot with a name that took me back.

Back, back, way back to around middle school, to the little church where I grew up, and to one of the many Youth Pastors who seemed to never stay with our group for too long. I know it's sad to admit this, but hearing the name made me laugh out loud for all the times I'd kept my amusement to myself long enough to get home and tell My Mom about it later. There were some fun times under the direction (or mis-direction) of that particular YP and his wife... I remember washing cars with dish detergent and baby wipes and paper towels as a "fund raiser" for a trip to the Frontier City theme park. I remember the stunned response of both the Youth Pastor and his wife when the ol' church van blew a tire just as we got close to Oklahoma City.

Maybe that's part of why kids worry me to death -- I worry being remembered for the wrong stuff. There are several things I remember hearing my brothers say that have stayed with me -- kids never forget. If you blurt out something that makes you sound like a dumbass, a kid will never forget. I remember one Saturday when the YP was taking all of the boys to do some kind of boy thing and his wife was taking all of us girls (I think there were three of us then) "shopping at the mall." Mrs. YP, though not blonde, was the vocal embodiment of several classic blonde jokes, and I'll never forget her disappointment when she found out the Church's insurance wouldn't cover her -- "I thought that would be really cool, I've never driven a van before!"

We ended up taking two cars, I think, hers and her mom's, to Tulsa Promenade for our little shopping trip. Essentially, it worked out to the three of us Youth Group Girls wrangling the two kids, a baby and a toddler, while Mrs. YP and her mom did a little shopping, 'cause hey, free babysitting. I don't think any of the three of us saw it that way then because we were all just struggling over who got to hold the baby and who had to deal with the terrible-twosiness of the other boy. I'm pretty sure sixth or seventh grade is before anybody (even me) makes the decision that "kids are not for me."

I hadn't really put much thought into wondering where they went after they left that little church. We really went through the YP's there for a while -- one got married and moved to Locust Grove, one ended up somewhere in Tulsa, one went to a bigger church in Claremore... Even after discovering my Sunday School Teacher from College on Flickr (he's at a big church in Owasso now and ain't changed a bit), I never really thought too much about that particular YP until I saw the baby on the news.

That adorable baby that everybody wanted to hold ended up a burglary suspect.

That guy who robbed those people? Yeah, I held him when he was teeny-tiny, like not walkin' or talkin' yet.

I am so "not a kid anymore."

What If?

2008-05-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I griped, today, I'm gigglin'...

My parents divorced when I was in elementary school, around second grade or so. At the time, it stressed me out a bit, but I think we all turned out alright. They've ended up being the best of best friends, and it's a pretty cool deal. They spend time together, take care of each other, and don't fight near as much as they did before the divorce.

Part of the fun of workin' the family biz is that I don't have to "be nice" and deprive myself of the fine entertainment provided by Telemarketers. Every now and then, I manage to make them hang up on me. Heh.

Before lunch, I answered to a whirl of background noise and since there were several people talking, I didn't bother with an extra "hello" or anything. After a couple seconds, a loud female voice said "They're DOWN? Well how the FUCK are we supposed to get our COMMISSION?" And then she hung up.

I could hear a lot of similar background noise when I answered this afternoon, and the voice on the other end asked for "The Owner Of The Business."

I guess I could've done a better job of withholding... Wait. Howdy, spell-check. Withholding has two H's in it? Really?? Well, I guess I did learn something today.

Anyway...

I guess I could've done a better job of withholding information, but I said "He's not in right now, is there somethin' one of the rest of us could help ya with?"

"Is his wife available?"

"What makes you think he has a wife?"

"Oh, are you his wife?"

"Noooo, but what makes you think he has one?"

"What?"

"Well what if he's Gay, he wouldn't have a wife then, would he?"

She didn't say another word, she just hung up.

He's about as far away from Gay as anyone could be, but if we ever turn up in some kind of listing for "Gay-Owned Businesses," I guess I'll know why. Heh. And next time they ask for him with his real name, I'll really have fun with 'em.

Here's To The Postal Service...

2008-05-19T12:40:00.000-07:00

No personally-rooted Mail Man jokes this time, I promise.

Oh, the joys of working in the family business...

Gawd, Friday was rough, if I'da been a mail man, I'da shot up the place, for-sure.

I guess it probably got started about Wednesday and just kept brewin' on me, but by the time I left work Friday, I was mad as hell. As soon as the car door closed, I had the radio up so loud I was waiting for my ears to bleed. When I got to Clay's house, Mom had called him because she'd called my cell phone three times and I didn't answer. Whups.

Saturday morning was slightly amusing, and included getting to hear a couple more sides of what went on Friday afternoon. Amusing but still, he left early Wednesday and Thursday, and then Friday he didn't get there 'til about two O'clock and then left again only to promptly call on the phone and throughly piss me off. I really thought he knew better than to talk to me like that -- I about halfway expect the "lemme talk to somebody else" deal from the general retail public, but come on, we're talkin' about my own brother here, and my patience was strained to begin with.

Saturday night, when all I wanted was a good night of racing to forget it all, the ol' Black Motor ate another bell housing.

Sunday afternoon, the source of my Friday frustration had the nerve to call my cell phone 'cause he was trying to get the computers working and "thuh internets says page not be displayed."

I only answered 'cause I really didn't think he'd call me and it must've been Mom or Dad, 'cause really, I'm sure he had to know I was mad Friday, and I'm sure he had to know that Mom was mad too since she hung up on him while he was bitchin' about me late Friday night.

Now, Monday, he pretends none of it happened and everything is fine.

Since he apparently has no memory of the evening, I'm wondering if maybe that was a drunk-dial late Friday night, but seriously, who drunk-dials their own Mother? Personally, I've never done any drunk-dialing, but I have a few guesses who I might call if I did. Mom or Dad is nowhere near any of those guesses. College buddies, racin' buddies, old boyfriends, ex-girlfriends-of-old-boyfriends, pizza delivery, anybody but my parents.

Just 'cause I'm all about sharing the laughter, I'll share a little more fun that's loosely connected to That two-humped animal incident that I wrote about a while back. Today, she seemed a little confused about "irritated." She asked about Mom not bein' here. (Mom's not in the office, Mom's truck is not in the parking lot, why did I have to help with drawing the conclusion that Mom is not in today?)

"Is she sick?"

"Nah, just irritated."

"What, her stomach or a rash or what?"

"No, irritated, she's pissed off and didn't want to be here today."

I really didn't want to be here today either, but I've got a broken transmission that needs to be fixed.

More later... _\,,/

One for The Ninth Of May...

2008-05-09T15:46:00.001-07:00

One for The Ninth Of May...
Originally uploaded by TwentyCarlo

I didn't forget, I probably never will.

Six years seems so long, but so short. So close, but so far away.

I've come a long way, but there'll always be a little part of my heart right there close to you; listenin' to that "Red Headed Stranger" CD and harassin' the cat, or watchin' "Born In East LA" for the nine-hundred-and-thirty-fifth time and wipin' buttery popcorn fingers on the arm of the couch, or singin' in the kitchen and makin' grilled-cheese sandwiches with gobs of Miracle Whip oozin' out.

I still have no idea how anybody could stand so much of that Miracle Whip stuff, but...

Here's to you, David Paul, you wouldn't believe the way things have changed around here... Or the way they've stayed the same.

08-27-51 ~ 05-09-02