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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

No Club.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Nothing.

I don't have one.

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

How to waste ten dollars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was that a drip?

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

A leash.

With a dog.

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

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

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

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

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

Your fannypack probably smells like vinegar & water.

Competency. Huh?

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

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

Now, my part of the story begins.

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, nothing is ever at all easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once upon a time...

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

Once upon a time...

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

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

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

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

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

More later.

_\,,/

Roar!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow...

So...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_\,,/

What were they thinking?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debbie Does Current Events.

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... _\,,/

Bullet List.

That one-n-only TV show that I actually care enough about to make time to watch every week has turned up in the re-runs on weekend cable, and sometimes it really gets me thinkin' about things.

There's a scene in a bathroom where two highschool girls are sneakin' a smoke and discussing the importance of popularity related to the coming future. I never smoked, wasn't particularly popular, and don't remember ever having such discussions with anyone in highschool, but... What really grabbed me about that scene was how one girl desperately needed the popularity and would do just about anything to get it; the other told her something to the effect of "I'm going on to bigger and better things, this isn't all there is for me."

Looking back, I may not have consciously known it then, but somehow, on some level, I guess teenage me (previous "shooter" reference here) must've figured out that something bigger and better was coming and that the school system and what went on there wasn't all there was. Somewhere between that, the Baptist upbringing, "Thou shall not kill," knowledge of the Death Penalty, and possibly the lack of small guns in my house, I got outta there without shooting up the place.

Don't get me wrong, I still had a list in my head of people I'd like to put holes in, or at least bruises on. I carried a half-size spiral notebook with a Parker Vector Rollerball pen (which I still Love) clipped in the spirals, it was always with me in case I needed to vent -- one particular bit of that venting involved a very descriptively written piece about goin' batshit with a baseball bat on someone I'd managed to corner in her back yard. Getting a good hard beating in seemed far more satisfying than pulling a trigger; and I guess I'd think the same way now, 'cause there's not much of anything more satisfying that pickin' up a lug wrench and takin' bash after bash at a windshield. Anyhow... I was kinda proud of the odd grin it elicited from my best friend, the only person I ever let read anything from my little notebook -- I was definitely not proud of the shock it put on My Mom when she snuck a peek. That's called "learning the hard way," and after that, I was a lot more careful where I left my little notebook.

For all the rotten things that were yelled at me.

That guy who kicked the shit out of my shin with his damn cowboy boot.

The principal I talked to about the incident who said I needed to "be a little more thick-skinned about things like that."

That girl who was so relentlessly mean to me, and then the following year, didn't recognize me and started in on telling me what a horrible bitch Debbie was. She found me on MySpace a couple years after the ten-year reunion and couldn't figure out why I "didn't like her very much when we were in school."

That guy who asked "what'cha listenin' to?" and then took the CD out of my DiscMan so he could pretend to read the top while he scratched the back.

That guy who would not leave me the hell alone in that Math class.

That guy who would not leave me the hell alone in that Art class.

That teacher who sent me to the principal's office for standing up to that guy who would not leave me the hell alone in Art class.

That teacher who said he liked my shorts and would give me an A if I'd wear 'em every day.

I could've been a school shooter way before school shootings were all over the news...

Some of it finally came to a stop after one afternoon in tenth grade. I was in my truck waiting for traffic to clear so I could back out and leave when one of those guys stopped right behind me and just stayed put even though the other cars were moving on out of the parking lot. He just stayed right there, with the passenger door of his shiny burgundy Cutlass Supreme lined up with the back bumper of my truck. I could see him in the mirror, just sittin' there starin' at me. I wouldn't dare back my truck into anybody's car, certain things are sacred regardless of ownership, but hey, it was a gravel parking lot back then...

I gave him a little time and he still didn't move, so I put it in first gear and eased the clutch out ever-so-slowly to creep up against the concrete bumper; then I pushed the clutch back in. I waited just a little bit longer and that smartass was still sittin' there staring at me. Cars had cleared out and the space straight across from me was empty -- so I revved it up just a little and let the clutch out just a little harder than was really necessary. I don't know if he had the windows down or not, but he was gone pretty quick once the spray of gravel started. I pushed the clutch back in and let it idle down; not one to quit halfway through things, I let the clutch out a little easier and drove on over the concrete parking curb anyway.

I guess it's that concept of certain things having their own degree of a sacred nature that kept me from doing any real damage... Much like the difference between wedging a truck bumper into a car door or just flinging a few rocks; I chose to fantasize about getting a few whacks in with a baseball bat instead of carrying a gun to school to blow somebody away. I like how Ron White explains the Death Penalty; "If you kill somebody here, we will kill you back."

Through the magic of FaceBook, I've seen that several of the people from my own personal "Bullet List" are actually still alive, and out of all of 'em, that girl who found me on MySpace is the only one who's on any of my "Friends Lists" now -- partly because when she found me, I wasn't interested in putting forth the effort of a long hearty "Fah-Q" type of e-mail, and partly because I thought maybe neither of us was the same girl we were in seventh grade. Maybe someday she and I might discuss it all a little more at-length. Maybe. The rest of 'em can suck it just like Alex Trebek.

All the times I dreamed of just getting away from all of it, those dreams came true with College, where everything was different and I didn't think about beating the life out of people anymore.

Where was I going with all this?

Well, I really don't understand why there's so much concern over this guy getting a "fair trial," especially when he didn't even consider what would be "fair" to any of these people who didn't even do anything to him personally.

I say let him stay (guarded, of course) in the hospital until all of the injured victims are well healed and back on their feet. When they're good and ready, then let each victim, each person he shot, each person who lost a loved one in that shooting, let each and every one of them line up and take a few whacks at him with a baseball bat.

Then put a bullet through some minor artery so he can die nice and slow.

We salute you, Fort Hood, and pray for you in your time of need.

Happy Veterans Day.

Maybe those new pills are pretty good...

I had my "yearly" Dr. Appointment a couple weeks ago, and as appointments go, it went quite well. I got another different Dr., as is common practice with the "Clinic" that my insurance company let me pick. She was great, and the student she had with her was alright too -- So, I certainly hope that since the "Clinic" is affiliated with a University, that this Doctor is a Professor and not a high-level student who's about to graduate; that's how much I liked her in that one appointment, and it's not just because I got to skip the, ahem, smear this time.

I freaked out a little bit when my lab results came back -- My cholesterol is just a teensy bit (20 points) high, my triglycerides are a good bit high. When I talked to the new Dr. on the phone, she said she was pretty sure it was a genetic thing and not solely from what I eat, and she said all the right things to calm me down about it too. I had to go back for a liver function test (praying) so I can start a prescription to lower 'em and avoid the risk of problems for the next fifty or sixty years. That's what she said... And I could just kiss her for not tellin' me it's all because of my fat ass.

The thing that really made me love this new Dr. was that she didn't doubt me when I told her I had started taking "the pill" to level-out my hormones but I was not active, and she listened without making faces when I told her that I wasn't as able to fight the urge to be a psycho during the white pill week.

So, I got switched. She gave me the big long pill pack, the one that has three months of pink pills for every one week of white pills. I have two friends who have mentioned taking this variety of pill; one mentioned that it "keeps the crazy to a minimum," and the other is uncommonly happy with the decreased number of white pills -- and hey, I like both of those options! This morning I took my third hot pink pill outta that pack; last night, I got an, uhm, urge while watching a nature show about fig wasps. Getting my urges back to a little higher frequency is kinda nice too, and I have noooo problem takin' care of 'em myself... (Okay, I'll stop before I get into T-M-I territory.)

Today, I took one of those phone calls without lashing out too, so maybe I'll be able to laugh 'em off more like I used to.

Alone on the counter, I switched my lovely morsel of Red Velvet Cake to my left hand so my right hand would be free to look up parts with the ten-key, I picked up a phone and stuck it between my shoulder and my left ear to answer as I hit F9 to clear the computer screen. An older dude on the other end asked for one of the guys.

I told him that guy was out on the yard.

He asked for the other guy.

I told him that guy was running a fork lift.

He was quiet.

I tried to sound friendly, "Is there somethin' I could help ya with?"

Now, this is one of those places where "proving myself" is like a river to wade across...

He says he needs a six-hole fifteen-inch Chevy wheel.

This is a Ford yard, but I'm already ankle-deep in that river of proving myself, I'm wading across, dammit... I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I hold my right hand up with a "2" and ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is, making my right hand into a "3" and taking a nibble of cake from my left hand.

His end is still silent, save for a bit of labored breathing.

I'm pretty sure y'all can figure out where this is going. As my right hand turned into a "5," I decided to ask one more time even though I'd just about made up my mind we didn't have any mystery wheels... They're different for different years of trucks, even if it is a six-lug, it could be a metric or SAE, it could have a different offset, it could have a different size of center hole depending on whether the truck is two or four wheel drive.

After the sixth time I asked what year the truck was, he finally said "Ooooouuuuhhhhh, I dunno, somethin' around a '71..."

I tell him we don't have anything anywhere near that old around here, and we've handled mostly Ford parts for several years.

After a brief pause, he says, "Would it be better if I just came over there to talk to one of the guys?"

I was nice, and even though I forgot all about that "river of proving myself," I was nice.

I was nice.

I didn't say "Oh, fuck you very much" until I'd already hung up the phone.

Some sick little part of me hopes I'm still alone on the counter when he shows up.

Heh heh heh...

Could ya hand me a pin, please?

So, after lots and lots of listing all of the possibly entertaining/satisfying responses for that guy on the phone yesterday, the first phone I answered this morning was an oh-so-familiar voice that said the exact same thing in the exact same tone.

He wanted to talk to anybody but me.

I almost managed to hold it back. Almost.

But I lashed out. I went batshit on him, and asked him if he remembered what he was doing eight, ten, twelve years ago, 'cause I was workin' here, workin' here, workin' here. When he tried to tell me it was "about something I didn't know anything about," I told him I'd been here long enough to know what the hell was goin' on and if I was the only one on the counter, I'd just have to be the only one there was to talk to.

Maybe he could hear my inner child... Not the one who loves Knight Rider and Hotwheels and Matchbox Cars; the older one, the frustrated junior-high one who could've been a School Shooter way back before School Shootings were all over the news.

There was something strangely satisfying that I could hear in his voice as he tried frantically to smooth things over; he called me "honey" and "baby" several times, and that almost pissed me right off until I realized it wasn't the same guy who pissed me off yesterday.

Whups. They really sounded a lot alike.

My inner junior high kid put her gun back in her backpack and tried not to cry...

When he finally gave in and asked me that question he thought I wouldn't know anything about, I was able to give a perfectly reasonable, professional, realistic, totally truthful answer.

"Yes, I saw the truck you worked on for us, and yes, you sent back the wrong key with it when we picked it up."

I resisted the temptation to say "See there? I know my shit..."

Here in the real world, I do not own any small guns that might fit inside any sort of backpack.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go find a pin so I can stick the almost-empty pill pack on my shirt to be sure the whole world can see just why I'm crazy this week.

Actual phone conversation.

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

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

Caller: "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Actual Conversations.

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

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

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

Mom asked if I wear thongs.

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

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



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

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

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

It's always about my ass.

More later... _\,,/

A joke from way back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Is it 5:00 yet?

Quick one for Friday afternoon.

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

"Heyyyyyyyy! Hey-ey-heyyyy!"

What the...

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

What the hell?

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

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

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

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

I'm not bullshitting.

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

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

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

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

Maybe CompUSA has some pizza!

Heh heh...

Good Monday Morning!

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

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

Bad idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got Chris Rock.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaaahhhhh...

So very thankful!

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

More later. _\,,/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BULLSHIT!

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

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

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

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

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

Everything'll be just fine, no problem.

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

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

It must've been a knock-off.

More later... _\,,/