Packing Materials and Flashbacks.

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.

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...

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… _\,,/

McLinky Monday: Favorites

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.

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!

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?

Oh Dear.

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!

_\,,/

Oh, hai.

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.

_\,,/

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... _\,,/

Invisible Bruises?

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!

_\,,/

Did somebody say El Charro?

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. ;)

Wait! Don't hit delete!

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!