Notes From A New Job.

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!

_\,,/

Psychic Powers.

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.

"The shit you been through..."

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.

Look.

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.

Knight in shining whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Fourth First-Date-Anniversary, Baby!

More later... _\,,/

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

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!

When my sick sense of humor looks back.

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... _\,,/

Because it made me feel young.

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... _\,,/

Eight Slappin' Pistons!

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.

:)

Drag Strip Report

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...

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. _\,,/

Back.

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. _\,,/

Alert Neighbors Know My Ratios.

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!!

I Wish I Had a Picture

Ah, magical Valentine's Day! Have I mentioned how thankful I am for a third Valentine's Day that's truly a happy one?

Looking back, the two V-Day's before I met Clay were both spent at The Starbird Show with The Twenty, which is good fun, but I was struggling with stupid stuff both of those years -- one when the guy I had serious feelings for showed up with someone else, and one when the guy I was spending time with (but lacking serious feelings for) was out of town for the weekend. Seriously, if you're drivin' across four states to see "your sister" while I'm stoppin' by your house to feed your cats, I am not your girlfriend, and I'll be spending a little time with the guy who sent me flowers at school on Valentine's Day my senior year. Even if we're only buddies and it's romantically meaningless, hey, at least he's here.

Over the years, I've had some frighteningly sad Valentine's Days, and some amazingly lovely ones as well. At least two were first dates with guys I met on AOL. I spent one in Shidler Oklahoma (howdy Go0gle!), where the scenery was beautiful, the food was good, the Grandma was a sweetheart, but the snuggling was a no-no and I slept alone in the guest bedroom while date boy slept on the couch. I got dumped on one, and there was one where I was trying to put off dumping someone right before Valentine's Day. I still kinda feel bad about that, especially since he said "Something's not right..." at dinner and I spilled my guts that very second. It was not pretty, and I'm sure the folks who were in the Prattville Mazzio's that Monday Valentine's night are still talking about it too. I never did tell him that I'd had a truly incredible Valentine's Date the Saturday Night before. All in all, I guess my nice ones, decent ones, and mediocre ones have outweighed the bad ones...

Possibly due to flippin' through an elementary school yearbook last night and also possibly due to reading a post from The Redneck Diva this morning which mentioned that elementary school tradition, "The Valentine Box," I got to thinkin' about all those grade school Valentine's Day Parties. The antique-y television made from a styrofoam cooler sounds like a very cool idea, I don't think I ever saw anybody make one like that. Truth-be-told, I remember very little about other people's boxes, and I can't recall a single one except for the mailbox with a Barbie Doll in a cute red dress standing beside it.

The ones I remember most are the ones My Mom made; and there were at least three, maybe more, that were nearly the same with variations of red, pink, and purple. They all got started with this blonde-haired plastic doll...

I know, I know, there's at least one reader who's sighing deeply and thinkin' about that time he "read a few thousand words to find a cat lickin' a blanket," but stay with me, y'all, this is a whole different babydoll.

She was a little under two feet tall, and somewhere between cartoony and realistic, and she stood (or sat) in the traditional pose of the Barbies who don't have elbows. She didn't have winky eyes, she didn't drink or pee or make any sound, her hair was her main selling point; she was "Sue And Her Beauty Salon." She came with her own perfectly sized pink & purple plastic chair with all the little holders for her hair goodies -- everything from brushes and curlers to a real (ish) battery-powered blowdrier. "Sue" was the perfect size for Mom's Valentine Box idea; and I still have no idea where she came up with it -- could've been a magazine, could've been those birthday cakes, I'm not sure.

My Mom, even though she had me at 36 and was older than most of the other moms, was pretty damn cool. With sewing and crafty experience, My Mom took her Smokey-n-The Bandit Trans-Am (or later, her '79 Mustang Indy Pace Car, or her flood-rebuilder Honda Accord) through the drive-thru at KFC each of those three years to spend fifty cents (or later, a dollar or two) and buy a big red & white cardboard bucket; just like chicken comes in, only brand-new and chicken-free so as not to be all greazy.

She also bought rolls and rolls of streamers, the crinkly crepe-paper kind, and sat with a needle and thread gathering yards and yards of crepe-paper into ruffles to cover the entire chicken bucket. She cut the middle out of a tube sock to perfectly fit the doll much like a tube top, which she carefully embellished with more smaller strips of gathered crepe-paper, including ruffled straps and a pretend zipper down the back; and once that was secured to the doll (with only minimal glue, because hey, we don't keep our clothes on with glue), the bucket was turned up-side-down with a hole cut in the bottom for the doll to stand in, bringing together the perfect "Southern Belle" ensemble, complete with a slot for Valentines to be dropped into her skirt.

I have no idea what ever happened to the doll, or her chair, or any of the lovely chicken bucket dresses.

She may be in the back of the top of a closet somewhere though, and maybe while I'm lookin' for something else, I'll run onto her.

Happy Valentine's Day Everybody!

More later... _\,,/

Ravel's Tzigane at 5:22 AM...

If a red Chevrolet turns up outta nowhere and mows me down, please let somebody know I wrote about it here first.

Nah, I shouldn't say that... The concept isn't violent, just strange.

For two nights in a row, I have had dreams involving a red S-10 Blazer. I'm pretty sure it's a two-door, and it's the older bodystyle from back when they were all square with the seal-beam headlights, probably around a '91 or 92, I think.

Night before last, I dreamed I was walking back from the post office and my brother picked me up in it; I don't know why, but I ended up sitting backwards with my knees against the passenger seat and my ass against the dash, and I was trying my best to avoid getting sick.

Last night, I dreamed I was sitting in some kind of a class (listening to an instructor and eating an ice cream sandwich) when my phone rang; only it wasn't my ring, it was Anne calling my name, and when I answered, she was calling to tell me that I had a second chance at taking a Lab quiz. I miss her so much and I was so glad to hear from her that I wasn't even sure if I gave a damn about the quiz. I picked up my stuff and left the class I was in and headed out to the car as I was talking to Anne on the phone, and when I got to the car to drive away, that's what it was, a red S-10 Blazer -- and I started it up and drove away.

I drove it through some kind of automatic car wash type of thing, and that's when I woke up needin' to pee.

When I got back to bed, I just could not get back to sleep.

I usually don't look at the clock at all until my alarm goes off, but since there's been a time or two before that I couldn't go back to sleep until after the alarm, after a little tossin' & turnin', I figured I'd check the time just to see if that would help. It was 5:22 AM, a full two hours and thirteen minutes before my "third last chance" alarm. Even after I knew I had more than two hours, I still couldn't go back to sleep.

I guess the nice part is that I wasn't stressed or anxious about it, I just fished out my iPod, put on some Classical, and said a little prayer for my long-ago friend Anne. And her husband. And their little boy. Wow, how old would he be now??

I don't really remember how we got out of touch; I know I wasn't mad about anything and I don't think she was either -- we just both got busy and got away from each other. In PTA School, we were usually busy with the same stuff at the same time, and she was a real bright spot for me when school was headed South in the proverbial handbasket. After graduation, she went on to work and I went on to racing the Outlaw Stock and running the construction company and selling a few parts; all while trying valiantly to prove to my parents that I had not wasted my time in school and I was not a total failure.

I still don't think it was a case of "I'm not cut out for this," but more of a case of "I'm not cut out to fit into this particular mold." Even though I didn't make it outta there with my degree, I still learned a lot about people (professors and peers) and how some of 'em work. I learned about "Fitting In," mainly that even if I don't fit in with those people, there are people out there who will let me in, and I don't have to feel like I'm standing on the outer edge of it all, just out there alone. Looking back, there were several times when Anne was my "way in," and when I wasn't makin' it on my own, she'd just grab my arm and take me with her. I'll never forget turnin' twenty-two with her in Arkansas at the Tattoo shop, or hangin' out with her and her mom after my first night in the race car. When I got my "kick to the curb" from the program director, it was Anne who told me, "Well hell, go back to sellin' parts, at least you're good at it." The night before David's funeral, I still wasn't sleeping and I spent most of the night sittin' on the bathroom rug talkin' on the phone with Anne.

I'd love to run into her somewhere -- I bet she'd really dig Clayton...

And surely I'll end up finding her before I end up finding a damn red S-10 Blazer.

More later. _\,,/

Disjointed Thursday!

Well, I had this nice long post in the works about how awesome it is to have friends who'll crawl under your car to try to give ya a hand even when there's a storm coming; and how great it is to have friends who'll get ya some dinner or give ya a ride somewhere; and also how great it is to have friends who'll call to see if you need to borrow a car to get home & get to work the next day. It's also great to think somebody cares enough to make that offer even when that car is a schweet little hotrod Miata... It's good to have friends like that, it really is.

Also part of that potential post was a rant about a family member who'd drank so much that same night that he barely knew who I was on the phone, and had no idea what I was talking about when I asked where to look for the plug to reconnect the wire that had fallen off (hence me & a friend being under the Windstar), he actually asked "What van?"

--

I was kinda in the middle of that potential post when an interesting thing happened... Three guys in a big Chevy Van showed up Tuesday afternoon and looked over a few of the cars out front. They asked if we had anything else out back, and after they'd checked out one in the back building, they noticed the ol' Velvetteen Rabbit Windstar sittin' under the awning. Amazingly enough, before I could "drive the last of the transmission out of it" and think about partin' it out, it sold. They bought five cars all together, handed over cash, and started puzzlin' over how to get 'em back to Dallas. All three guys were totally busy like a well-oiled machine, unloading chains and parts and tools out of the back of the Chevy while I was stackin' my crap out of the Windstar, and lemme tell ya, I was very glad I'd hung onto that blue plastic storage bin... Once I'd made sure I didn't leave anything in there (except the frog), they loaded it onto a tow dolly behind the big Chevy -- they bolted tow bars onto two of the others, chained 'em up in pairs, and the three guys took off with their two cars, two trucks, and two vans. It was quite a sight.

--

I mailed off my AAA Registration anyway though; still never know what I might end up runnin' around in.

--

The fun part: we just finished fixin' this fire-engine-red Mustang, it's got that bodyshop smell and it's perrrrrrrty. So when Dad said "So, how you gettin' home?" I couldn't resist. It's nice (for a 6-cylinder), and I like it, even in red. I'm holdin' out for a V-8 in black or blue or green or maybe silver. Manual or automatic, you can surprise me... It's a good feelin' car though, I think I'll add "V-8 Mustang" to the list -- whichever I find a good deal on first, New Hemi Challenger, Powerstroke Excursion, or V-8 Mustang. But I'm still keepin' the SHO. ;)

--

Last night I finished the last of the knitting on Little Miss Caroline's stripedy sweater. I really like the way it works with the stripes, it takes the guesswork out of knowing when it's long enough and it's time to stop -- it's soooooo much easier to count the stripes and match 'em up instead of trying to figure out if I've made too many rows or if I stretched it a little bit when I was measuring. Button hole placement is very easy with the stripes as well -- four stripes then make a hole is a lot easier to line up than worrying if I stretched it a bit too. The Stripes make for a lot of ends to weave in, but they're totally worth it, I like the looks of it, I'm real happy with how it turned out. So tonight, I'll be stitching seams and weaving in ends and hopefully gettin' it ready to mail!

--

It got awful freakin' cold around here, awful freakin' fast.

--

The Gourds are playin' in Tulsa this Friday (eh, I just realized that's tomorrow), and I can't wait to see 'em!!

--

The Crab is gettin' married Saturday, and I think I've finally found something to wear... I didn't want to wear "that one dress" because it's been seen way too much at other dressy events; so I spent a good part of the weekend dragging Clay (and eventually draggin' my own tracks out as well) from store to store in hopes of finding something that wasn't "totally not me." I didn't have much luck. Really, it shouldn't be that hard, I just want something dressy-ish that isn't black and doesn't look like Grandpa's pajama top. Why is everything hangin' in the stores so hurtfully ugly lately?? I tried on one dress but niether one of us liked it much at all... Finally, Monday after class I ended up at "Fashion Bug" (a store I'd never set foot in before) and I found a nifty little blue & white skirt that should look okay with a white top -- so I'm

--

Wait, I just moved my freakin' purse so you wouldn't spray gas on it while you were testing that fuel pump over there by the power converter, so why the hell are you dangling a drippy fucking fuel pump over here on top of the CPU where I moved my gawdamn purse to keep it from getting gas on it? Move it, bitch, NOW!

--

Where was I? Oh yeah, "Fashion Bug." They had quite a few pieces of the hurtfully ugly stuff like the other stores, but they also had some cute stuff too -- and a big, big clearance rack, so I picked up a handful of three dollar tops for next summer along with my new skirt; which would go with any of those tops, if only it wasn't so damn cold and I wasn't so damn pale right now.

--

We finally tried Sperry's newest dining establishment, so far I'm impressed; and it's not just the Wi-Fi that wins my vote. I'm sure there are noses wrinkling at this, but the Fried Green Beans are excellent, so excellent I didn't even touch the Ranch "dipping sauce."

--

More later... Is it time to go home yet??

_\,,/