But he did drive away…

Sometimes it's hard to believe I've had this job for a whole year. It really has turned out to be a great fit for me; I have only one tiny complaint, but I'm sure that situation won't last much longer, so I won't get into it here. (Dude, I know what "Dee-Oh-Oh-See-Eee-Dee" means.)

I move trailers, and I work alone. Not a hundred percent alone; I pick them up and drop them off at staffed locations, and I sometimes encounter folks who want to "be helpers," but mostly, I work alone, and it seems to work quite well for me. I climb into the truck at 7:30 AM, I start a little earlier than the aforementioned staff; so usually at least once a day, I get to pick up my first one before anyone else arrives to start their workday.

As I've grown more experienced, gotten more practice at what I do, I've been less worn-out and grunged-over at the end of the day -- I don't get home dying to get in the shower every day like I did those first few weeks, and it's nice to be able to just take a shower in the morning because I feel better through the day that way. Sometimes on Saturdays, I'm a little less up-tight about that whole morning shower thing. Like I said, I work alone. Heh. Sometimes on Saturdays, I just get out of bed, put my bra, jeans, and shoes back on, and stumble out the door to grab breakfast on the way in; then I work the day thinking about how great it'll be to take a shower and go out to dinner with clean hair…

That's pretty much what I did last weekend; I came home Friday night still looking decent enough to go have dinner. I got up Saturday morning and went back to work with previous-day-hair and clothes, something I certainly wouldn't do if I were working in an office or going anywhere near "out in ordinary public." For what it's worth, I don't usually smell bad at the end of the first day, but at the end of the second, hoo-boy…

Anyway, the incident I can't get out of my mind happened early on a Saturday morning, so I wasn't smelly yet.

I'm almost always alone in my high-ridin' three-quarter-ton pickup, in the morning (or sometimes the night before), I get a list of places that need trailers. I show up with an empty one, find a place to park it, and unhook from it. Then I back the truck up to the full trailer; often I can get it lined up in one or two tries, sometimes I have to move the truck just a little tiny bit more to get the ball under the trailer. Even though this truck sits much higher off the ground than the half-ton I learned with, I can still feel where it needs to go, I can still keep my left foot on the ground and use my right one to work the pedals, right hand on the wheel, left hand securely on the door handle so I don't wipeout and end up on the ground if something slips or goes wrong. Nothing has gone wrong yet, with God's Grace, even though I can't sit my right hip in the seat like I did with the old Ford back in the day. After I hook onto the full trailer, I pull it away from its spot and find a place to park it, unhook, move the truck, hook the empty trailer back on, back it into the spot where the full one was, then unhook, re-hook to the full one, and haul it away.

So, among those trailer parking steps, which are less than important to this story, I was backing the ball of the truck under the hitch of the full trailer when I saw a red Monte Carlo pull into the parking lot across the street. I don't remember exactly what the business is, but it's a big metal building with a gravel lot next to a big power station, probably manufacturing of some sort, and there were not any workers there at seven-something on a Saturday morning. He drove in there at about the moment I had stopped the truck to get out and see if I'd landed in the right spot on the first try, I was in the driver's seat facing that direction with the car off to my right just a little ways, so I watched for a minute, kinda like an "alert neighbor," because the business was not open. The car stopped, the trunk popped, and the driver's door swung open. I'm not entirely sure what year the red Monte Carlo was, but it was the newer bodystyle, the front-wheel-drive variety of the last few years, not the dirt racin' kind. It had pulled straight in, with the taillights facing me, and a guy got out. He was one of those guys who's probably a small or medium, but he's wearing a 3X white T-shirt with basketball shorts and tall white socks and those velcro slides like for taking showers in places where you're scared to put your bare feet. I watched him get out and go to the trunk, he flipped a green bag over, it kinda looked like one of those enviro-friendly reusable grocery bags. He rooted around in the trunk a little more, then closed it.

I thought through a few situations where maybe I should've been a little more suspicious; the boyfriend who "met someone," the friend who asked me for a "payday loan" in spite of making about five times the money I do, the salesman who reached for my hands and arms way too many times… I got out of my truck and dashed back to peek at the ball and hitch, it wasn't quite there yet, so I backed the truck up just a bit. As i put it in park, he was walking toward me. Out of the parking lot, across a four-lane, undivided street, through the gate, down the driveway, and up to my truck. I wondered if maybe I should've stayed inside and locked the doors.

Whups.

I keep a hunting knife between my seat and the console in the Mark VIII. I keep the lugwrench under my seat in the SHO. In the seat of my work truck, eh, I have two phones and that's about it. I can't use my iPhone with my work gloves on, and I'm not gonna let some jerk have a chance at stealing my iPhone anyway. I grabbed my work phone (remember flip phones?) and decide not to punch in 9-1-1 just yet; I figured I'd just be ready to flip it open. My eyes landed on the handle of the rake behind my toolbox, so I tossed the phone to my left hand and made sure my right hand landed on the rake. Not a leaf rake, but a more serious steel rake, like for gravel or heavier stuff like that.

He said the car ran out of gas and asked if I had a gas can.

I have a gas can, filled from the City's pumps, but something just seemed suspicious. I lied. "Nah man, sorry, just the ol' work truck, I don't have anything but the trailer tools." Something about the whole deal just didn't feel right.

In all honesty, I only entertain vivid fantasies of beating wrongdoers to bloody near-death; even when I have weight advantage, I most likely don't have any real skills. I'm probably not worth a shit in a scrap, except that I could most likely really keep that rake moving and spinning fast enough to keep somebody away from the sharp parts and therefore away from me. Where it'd go from there, I really don't know, but there I was, he walked up and found me behind a half-open truck door, phone in one hand, rake handle in the other, yesterday's hair may have been a little wild, and yesterday's jeans probably showed the roughness of shoving trailers that last inch or two with my knees. I am not a small woman, but I hope to think I wear it well, I carry enough weight to grab the tongue of the trailer and lean back and make it scoot over a couple inches to land on the ball. I am not exactly "stacked," I'm more of a "sturdy." I've fought hard for every crumb of self-confidence I've got, I know deep-down that I am really only "cute" to a limited target audience.

I'll never know why he stopped and dug in the trunk or why he walked all that way across that wide street to approach me, but I do know that his car was not out of gas.

After I didn't produce a gas can, he went right back across the street, jogging in those stupid velcro slides. He got in the car, drove away, and was gone.

I have no idea what just happened. Did I foil a robbery attempt? There's no cash handled at any of these worksites, unless the folks who work there are holdin' a little lunch money. There's no cash in the truck except for my own purse, which I left locked in the trunk of my car the first few weeks I had this job. Could he have been looking to see what might be easily stolen, now or later on? Could it have been a rape situation? Am I that visibly female across four lanes of street and through a yard and over to the other side of a truck? Did I maybe "not look that enticing" once he got over there close enough to see me? Did he abandon whichever idea because I am butch enough to kick his ass? Any of those ideas might seem mean-spirited because I don't know why he came over to me, but I do know that he damn sure did not need a gas can, 'cause he drove away as soon as he walked back over there and closed the car door!

I still love my job, but I think I'll start putting that hunting knife in my bag so it stays in the truck with me instead of leaving it in my car.

Debbie Does Current Events.

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

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

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

--

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

--

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

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

--

More later... _\,,/

Snow Alert.

Aaaah, Grocery Shoppah...

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

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

That being said...

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

The Tortilla Soup was pretty good.

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

--

More later... _\,,/

Through The Weeds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast food is completely different though...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really enjoyed that peanut butter sandwich.

More later... _\,,/

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!

On getting me to wear a coat...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She says it's Obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

More later... _\,,/

Disjointed Much?

Yup.

--

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

--

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

--

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

--

Maybe I really could write a book someday...

--

More later. _\,,/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whups. I guess that wasn't very smart.

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

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

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

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

Slow?

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

"How ya doin'?"

"Good, how'bout you?"

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

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

Somebody else came in. Things got a bit awkward.

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

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

"Oh, I was gettin' paper towels."

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

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

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

Fast forward to today, Monday afternoon...

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

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

The phones on the counter look like this:



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More later... _\,,/

Ever wonder what happened to...

About four years ago, I was just almost asleep in front of the TV when a familiar face appeared and jolted me completely awake. It's not that the mugshot surprised me, it was the "arson" part that was a shocker -- I knew Dave's oldest kid wasn't exactly Mister-Straight-And-Narrow, but I'd figured him for more of a drug crime kinda dude. I've followed the case, when I remember to check on it, through OSCN. The older one is still someone I wouldn't mind runnin' into somewhere -- mainly because there wasn't any bullshit between us. I can't say we were ever close, but not a day goes by that I don't think about him huggin' me, and I can still hear his voice, "My Dad really loved you." It's one of the things I carry with me just about all the time, right beside my experience with his little brother -- here's my sign, I thought we were close. That's a whole 'nuther rant though.

Y'all know about OSCN, right? 'Tis a great place to check up on people, people from your past, people you work with, people you're thinkin' about goin' out with... Now, back to my story.

Saturday afternoon while waiting for the TV news to get to the part about Town West and whether or not that was an actual tornado that tore that stuff up, I caught a glimpse of a totally unfamiliar mugshot with a name that took me back.

Back, back, way back to around middle school, to the little church where I grew up, and to one of the many Youth Pastors who seemed to never stay with our group for too long. I know it's sad to admit this, but hearing the name made me laugh out loud for all the times I'd kept my amusement to myself long enough to get home and tell My Mom about it later. There were some fun times under the direction (or mis-direction) of that particular YP and his wife... I remember washing cars with dish detergent and baby wipes and paper towels as a "fund raiser" for a trip to the Frontier City theme park. I remember the stunned response of both the Youth Pastor and his wife when the ol' church van blew a tire just as we got close to Oklahoma City.

Maybe that's part of why kids worry me to death -- I worry being remembered for the wrong stuff. There are several things I remember hearing my brothers say that have stayed with me -- kids never forget. If you blurt out something that makes you sound like a dumbass, a kid will never forget. I remember one Saturday when the YP was taking all of the boys to do some kind of boy thing and his wife was taking all of us girls (I think there were three of us then) "shopping at the mall." Mrs. YP, though not blonde, was the vocal embodiment of several classic blonde jokes, and I'll never forget her disappointment when she found out the Church's insurance wouldn't cover her -- "I thought that would be really cool, I've never driven a van before!"

We ended up taking two cars, I think, hers and her mom's, to Tulsa Promenade for our little shopping trip. Essentially, it worked out to the three of us Youth Group Girls wrangling the two kids, a baby and a toddler, while Mrs. YP and her mom did a little shopping, 'cause hey, free babysitting. I don't think any of the three of us saw it that way then because we were all just struggling over who got to hold the baby and who had to deal with the terrible-twosiness of the other boy. I'm pretty sure sixth or seventh grade is before anybody (even me) makes the decision that "kids are not for me."

I hadn't really put much thought into wondering where they went after they left that little church. We really went through the YP's there for a while -- one got married and moved to Locust Grove, one ended up somewhere in Tulsa, one went to a bigger church in Claremore... Even after discovering my Sunday School Teacher from College on Flickr (he's at a big church in Owasso now and ain't changed a bit), I never really thought too much about that particular YP until I saw the baby on the news.

That adorable baby that everybody wanted to hold ended up a burglary suspect.



That guy who robbed those people? Yeah, I held him when he was teeny-tiny, like not walkin' or talkin' yet.

I am so "not a kid anymore."

Hearse Show & Leash Law Report

Our Saturday in Joplin was a pretty nice trip for us. As the only non-hearse in the bunch, The Ambulance won "Worst In Show," the plaque is oddly pretty in it's own unique way; there's something so fascinating about black glass... The weather was lovely; sunny with just enough breeze to keep it cool. We had a great time hangin' out, checkin' out hearses, and chattin' with people. I also enjoyed smiling and waving at that poor lady in the Honda Civic who made a lap around the group of us shaking her head with her hand over her mouth as if she were trying to hide her worry and silence her "nooooooooo..."

We had dinner at an interesting little place called "Red Hot & Blues" and since I'm not a big fan of barbecue (burnout, sorry), I was glad to see the part of the sign that said "BBQ & Southern Grill." Southern Grill... Oh my my, I'd go back in a heartbeat -- that steak was excellent, and the salsa was one-of-a-kind too.

On the way home, out on the Will Rogers Turnpike, just a little ways before we could see the big McDonald's up on the bridge, we were talkin' about needin' to stretch our legs and deal with my crusty contact lenses... Right about the time I made up my mind that The Glass House was gonna be the place to stop ('cause they have milkshakes there), I found something brown and squirmy right in my lane.

At 65mph or so, I couldn't really identify it, but it was dark brown, bigger than a coon or possum, probably smaller than a deer, and had at least four violently wiggling short stocky appendages pointin' upward. I couldn't miss it, I just couldn't. I'd do my best to "brake and evade" for a horse or a big ol' rodeo bull, but anything deer-size or smaller is just gonna get hit, 'cause I ain't jerkin' the wheel in anything, especially not something that rocks and sways like an E-350 with a huge box on the back.

l hit a possum with the Mark 8 a couple weeks ago, and that was a noticeable thump. The Ambulance is a lot bigger than the Mark, and this thump, even in the bigger vehicle, was a considerably bigger thump -- my foot was resting on the hump in the floor where the left front wheel is, and I felt the smack. Clay says he felt the whole truck take a bit of a jump, I was just holdin' the wheel real tight and trying to make sure we stayed in our own lane.

Okay, since there's no tellin' what that was, we should stop and look these tires over...

I was stunned by what I found -- I've made some roadkills before, but I've never had any actual messes to clean up afterward.





Just as we pulled in and parked, there was a pickup that parked a row over that had just exited ahead of us -- there were two cowboy-lookin' dogs in the back and one jumped out to try & follow the people into the building. I could be wrong, but I think the humans might have been lookin' around for a third doggy.

Ten or fifteen years ago, I might've been freaked-out by that, but hey, I'd bet the fall from the pickup really boogered the little fella up -- by smackin' it with a front tire and then a set of duals, I'm sure I ended a horrible moment of severe misery.

That's what I'm tellin' myself, anyway.

I just hope nobody ended up risking their life to walk the median and whistle for their little buddy in hopes that he'd landed safely and not been hit yet...

Waiting around like a kid countin' down 'til Christmas...

I think my camera might be alright and maybe it was a battery issue when it started acting up... I took my not-so-functional Kodak "Value Charger" back to the store and exchanged it for an Energizer brand, and since the charger seems to function exactly as noted in the instructions, I'm quite satisfied with it. My conclusion: Kodak=good cameras, not-so-good battery chargers.

I went ahead and ordered a new camera anyway... More Megapixels, more features, three years newer, and brand-new for about half of what I spent on the last one; just as to be expected in the world of electronics. When I got my first (very first, circa 1998) digital camera, I'da never believed that in just a few years I'd be carrying a cell phone in my pocket that took higher quality pictures than that camera. I wish I could remember what I spent on that now-dead Casio digital camera, but it's probably best that I don't, I'd probably be a little sick over it. I still have it though, just in case I ever run onto someone who might be able to fix it -- there may still be pictures in there from when Tammy took it to New York City.

In following with "Brand Loyalty," I'm getting another Kodak -- and amazingly enough, I paid cash, even before my tax refund got here. That CoinStar thing (look 'em up by putting a www in front and a com on the end) was interesting to say the least. It's a pretty sweet deal -- ordinarily, it costs eight tenths of a cent for every dollar (my bank wants a penny of every dollar) for "processing," but with CoinStar, if you select a gift card from that huge online retailer named after a river, coin counting is free.

The machine itself was an interesting window of the people-watching sort -- it has a tray where the coins get dumped in, and that tray has holes in it so anything smaller in size than a dime falls through the grate instead of into the coin counter. Under that grate there were a few different kinds of screws and nails and pills and just general pocket garbage. Ah, the fascinating pocket garbage of strangers. Don't worry, it was a look-but-don't-dare-touch kinda deal.

After I'd dumped my kitty litter jug in there, I was fascinated to see the screen say "You have a lot of coins, please wait while we catch up." I'd made a pretty good guess of how much money was in there, and I wasn't too surprised when the screen said I should check the return slot because some coins might not have been accepted. I know some of 'em got tossed in the jug all grubby, like the ones I've picked up at work...

I reached into the return slot, and there was a small handful of change there, along with one single yellow pill.

Ewwwwww...

I have no idea what it was. I tossed it back into the machine immediately.

I guess that was the "bonus." Heh.

More later. _\,,/

Surely it's not just me.

I'm a bit of a wierdass when it comes to eating alone in restaurants -- I always feel like everybody in the whole place is staring at me. That's why I totally understand those folks who take a book with them to sit and eat alone in a fast-food joint -- that's usually what I do if I can talk myself into sitting down inside. Usually I take it to the car, where it feels more normal to be by myself.

It's been years since I was able to leave work and go to lunch; every day, somebody (usually that means me) goes and gets whatever and brings it back, and we all eat here. Today, it was Subw@y (in Skiatook), and that's where I saw something that stunned me.

Now, I've got no bitch about Skiatook Subw@y, everything has been fine since they got rid of the one who made change and sandwiches with the plastic gloves on. It's been a long time since I've seen The Bread Squeezer, and everybody who's workin' there is a real sweetheart; especially Patty, 'cause she always remembers me and she'll make my sandwich the way I want it even if it's my brother who's standin' there instead of me.

I can recall several occasions, mostly in college, where I'd take a book or newspaper with me when I wasn't going to be able to eat in my car -- I vividly remember reading that cowboy novel alongside a plate from the P!zza Hut buffet or turning through the Owasso newspaper with greazy fingers from the Kay-Eff-See buffet.

Lots of places have free Wi-Fi now, I can understand taking a laptop along. I can totally understand the thought behind taking a book or magazine or possibly an !Pod. If you're graceful enough to manage a pen or pencil together with food, I can see circling a few classified ads or working a crossword or Sud0ku puzzle.

The nail clippers are just not something I'm interested in seeing at a table in a restaurant. Now, if you want to cut your nails over your sandwich and lemonade in the privacy of your own home or car, I guess that's your choice; but it seems to me that it's just not something one ought to be doing in a restaurant amongst several other people and their sandwiches.

Cutting someone else's fingernails with a big orange pair of scissors may be alright in your own privacy if y'all are close and really trust each other -- but doing it in the middle of a restaurant full of people is gross, and that's all I know to say about that.

Crunching and chewing and talking, I'm okay with; but the snipping and snapping of scissors on nail-flesh is the last thing I need to hear while I'm trying to decide what kind of cheese I want on my sandwich.

Eich.

I'd almost bet they had a little dog in a purse under their table too.

After Christmas 66% Off!

Even good girls like to show their wild side every now and then...

I dig the post-rush cheapskatefest that comes about after every Christmas -- it's a great chance to stock up on the stuff that'll keep for a year, like wrapping and ribbon and bows. I also have no complaints about half-price chocolate, and I see no shame in munching on those lovely four-boxes-for-a-buck cherry candy canes well into February or March.

This year, I put up my tree for the first time since 2001, and I thought it looked quite nice once I covered it with those two buckets of (pet-proof plastic, not glass) shiny ball ornaments that I bought during the after-Christmas sale in '01. I probably don't really need any more ornaments, but I ran onto two adorable kittens with presents, so there's no tellin' when somethin' cute will turn up.

In the course of a lovely afternoon of After-Christmas-Sale shopping, we went to one of the larger artsy-craftsy stores. I'm not going to mention the name, partly because of Go0gle, partly because I'm sure they'd be deeply offended by the admittedly sick humor of this post.

Since there wasn't a whole lot of wrapping paper left in this particular store, but there were five or six aisles full of ornaments, we were checkin' out the ones that weren't black. Seriously, who puts black ornaments on a Christmas Tree anyway??? Christmas Tree Ornaments have come a long way since the days of plain glass balls, and they fall on just about every point on the scale between "cute" and "tacky/gaudy." Every kind of cat or dog or other pet, any shape you can cover with glitter, golf bags, basketballs, a tiny sky-blue motorcoach, a "Soccer Mom" ornament with a very detailed red mini-van; you can hang anything on your tree.

The aisles were tall, and peg after peg of ornaments reached from the floor to the far edge of arm's reach. At 5'6", I've never really thought of myself as short, but I've never really thought of myself as tall either... Near the end of an aisle, I happened to look up, just above my head. I was shocked by what I saw, right there in the middle of that store that always plays their muzak out of a Hymnal, that store that closes on Sundays so that their employees "may worship or spend time with their families," right there with "Away In A Manger" playing on the overhead speakers, there it was.

Now, I'm secure in my heterosexuality, I'm not into lookin' at chicks unless I'm thinkin' "Mmm, where'd ya get those shoes?" I've heard that Scotsmen don't wear drawers under their kilts, but I'd never really put much thought into what any given ballerina wears under her tutu. I have no idea why the sight I saw jumped out at me like it did, but it did.

"Heyyyyyy, that teeny ballerina is wearin' crotchless panties!"



Who knows, maybe it's a manufacturing variation, or maybe there's somebody in the ornament factory who's got a little streak of sick humor... I checked out the other three ballerina ornaments just like this one, one had ordinary undies, and one appeared to have have a serious wedgie; which is quite likely to happen if you've got your leg up in the air a lot. I also saw a couple pink ballerinas who had scary gaping holes in that area, but we're not even goin' there 'cause I'm sure those were only a mold-point or something like that.



I wouldn't ordinarily buy a ballerina ornament, but hey, a ballerina showing her wild streak at 66% off of original price? Yeah-yeah-yeah!! She'll be on my tree next year, just to see if anybody notices!!!

Fel-Eez-Nah-Vee-Dahd!!!

On the Wi-Fi in the "Disaster Area."

Apparently we're in an official "Disaster Area." Home Sweet Oklahoma.

I'm very thankful to be warm (@ Clay's brother's house in Mounds), even if I'm not quite as comfy as I could be due to feelin' filthy. I guess I shouldn't be feelin' so filthy, I know there are millions of people who skip a day (or two) of showering even when there's water available, but I'm set in my habits and I just feel grungy this morning. All was well 'til the water pressure went...

At Home, My Mom has the generator off the race trailer, which is sitting on the patio and running the fridge & furnace through a big orange extension cord, but I'm not sure if the car would make it into the neighborhood.

At Clay's house, about halfway between here and home, there's water, but no heat -- and let's face it, nobody wants to try to dry off in fifty degrees.

We'll figure somethin' out when Clay gets back.

A voice from the TV just said "I was readin' this article by this doctor, well, not a medical doctor, but the kind of doctor where ya don't have to go to school..." Good gawd, it's like a horrible vacuum that'll suck the brains right out of the human skull. The news mentioned something about FEMA yesterday while I wasn't completely paying attention, then later, there was something about people calling 9-1-1 in attempts to "get a FEMA generator."

Generators... That's one more concept that makes me wonder, with all the TV-watchin' goin' on, do people not learn anything at all from the things they see? Haven't they watched the scenes in the movies and shows on the brain-sucker-box where somebody gets all "sick-of-it-all" and puts their car in the garage with a hose from the tailpipe to the window to "end-it-all?" That generator has a gas tank where you put gas, and it has a motor on it, a tiny little copy of the thing under the hood of the car; which means it has a tiny little tailpipe where it blows out the same stuff that the car blows out. If you start it up in the living room, it will kill you, and you will be on the news for it. Same goes for the Hibachi, you can't light that inside the apartment, okay? Please don't attempt to light a fire unless your place has a fireplace, common sense, though not so common, saves lives every day.

I think there should be a new category of Darwin Award for the generator-user situation, maybe the little statue could curl up on the carpet next to a generator with a space heater plugged into it, and maybe a Hibachi with a can of ravioli sittin' on it.

Oh dear, cabin fever has made me an angry bitch... Maybe FEMA will bring me a formaldehyde-infused campin' trailer to make me feel "all better."

More later... _\,,/

How Many Topics?

There are sooooooo many things I could tear to pieces here today. There's soooooo many fascinating topics flyin' about today, it would be noooooo problem for me to grab one and rip it to a million wordy pieces.

Fundamentalism. Who's teaching which kids what. Appropriate knowledge for an eleven-year-old. Cousin-fu#king. Self-esteem. Looks vs. Brains. Moral character & values. Lying about your age on MySp@ce. HoMeSkOoLiNg. Sanctity of marriage. Respect for one another.

What constitutes "Psycho" and how does that relate to quality parenting?

What's the nicest way to say "Oh My Gawd, You're A Psycho And You Married A Psycho From A Family Of Psycho's Who Shouldn't Be Responsible For Children In Any Form Or Fashion!!!"?

Alas, I do know the story behind the term "Dooce," and I know that bloggin' about it can cause some crazy shit amongst families too...

For now, I ain't touchin' it.

Just be ready, 'cause if the shit gets any deeper, I'll type 'til I'm tired.

In the meantime, if it seems like I'm giggling for no reason, it's probably related to that scene in "Coal Miner's Daughter" where Sissy Spacek says "I caint read this book, it ain't got no pichers in it!" It could also possibly be a scene involving "Cletus The Slack-Jawed Yokel" (from The Simpsons) taking certain liberties with her skull, which is disturbing and sad, but still kinda funny in a sick, disturbed, sad way.

More later... _\,,/

I Love Meat. I Just Do.

Grazin' In The Grass?

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

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

Anyway, back to where I was headed.

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



Wow.

Holy Shit.

We're feeling the feelings of the dead animals?

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

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

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

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

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

More later... _\,,/