March 29, 2012

Million Dollar Idea

I have this goldmine of an idea.  It came from a whole lot of thoughts all bumping and grinding around in my head, and I have no idea who the babby daddy is.


I tend to let my daydreams off their leash when I drive.  And I don't mean in a distracted, might cause an accident sort of way.   I mean that I can let my kinetic needs be met by going through the motions of driving while I allow my creative and curious mind ooze all over my mental playground.  I can multitask quite well and have been able to do it since I was little.  It drove my 6th grade teacher crazy.

One day while out shifting from the shoulder, it occurred to me that it seems ironic that, top of mind, the majority of people I know who drive a manual transmission are women.  I mean, if you follow the stereotypes, women are terrible drivers, and men are the ones who care about performance and control over their car.  Perhaps it's the sampling of women that I know that skews things, but I still found that interesting.

That led in to how I truly miss my 6 speed when I have to leave it at the shop, or let someone borrow it for a while and I'm stuck with an automatic.  Every single time, I manage to find a way to nearly give myself whiplash by stomping on the brake like it was the clutch.  And every single time, I seem to find a new way to cuss my left foot.  Now, my right hand plastered to the gear shift isn't as big a deal unless you get a cop right out of the academy who's a stickler for adding a rider of "Hands not at 10 and 2" to your speeding ticket.  This progression of thoughts meandered towards how I like driving, but not my job.  Don't get me wrong, it pays the bills, and I've been there a good long time.  It's just.  Well, I don't want to be a phone jockey my entire life.  But, when I think about what I want to do for a living, I kinda come up blank.

If there were actually a lightbulb over my head, it would have lit up at that moment.  Hey!  I like driving, and I can drive a manual, how about teaching people to drive them?  I have a background in instructing people from my teaching HTML classes in college, and from my time on a help desk.  So, I got this idea that I could do that for some side cash.  Only, that idea got bigger than teaching people a little on my own car.  It turned into a whole business with a small fleet of sports cars and women instructors.  Because, you know, who wouldn't want to learn to drive a manual on a sports car?  Well, that and you're more likely to find a manual on a sporty car.  Apparently, Americans equate stick shifts with either base models, or luxury.  Those who want a middle of the road option are left with foreign cars to choose from.  But, I'm going with sports cars are fun to drive as a business model.  I mean, really.  Tell me that you'd be able to get all lathered up over a ford focus.  I rest my case.

Now, here's my favorite part.  A good name or title will always help to sell an idea.  Since my thoughts had been along the lines of my knowing more women who drive manuals, and that the car business has historically paired women and cars together to increase sales, it seemed logical to do the same here.  And you know me, I love a good double entendre.  Thus, Chicks with Sticks was born.  Yup, all women instructors, teaching people to drive manuals on hot cars.  Genius, right?  The sticking point is that I have yet to find a way to get this dream of mine out of my head, and onto the streets.  Maybe someday.  In the mean time, if anyone out there has a ridiculous amount of money they'd like to throw at the project, call me.

March 26, 2012

Fish Out of Water

So, The Beau has a trip planned this weekend to go back to the homestead and scatter his dad’s ashes.  His whole family, or the majority of it, is planning on being there.  For reasons too stupid to mention, his kids won’t be able to go with him as he’d planned, so he extended the offer to join him on a roadtrip to me.  After that instant where “Wait, what?  Me?  Meet the *entire* family?  We’re to that point already?  Oh lord, this won’t end well.  Somebody better watch the news.  How much is in the bail fund?”  all collided in my head like a small thermonuclear device, I decided this was the one thing a day that scares me that I’m going to say yes to.

It’s March, 2012, I’m 34 years old, and this is the first time I’ve been in the situation where I’m going to meet the parents of the person I’m dating where they didn’t live in the same town.  As a matter of fact, they live in a small town out in western Nebraska that’s a little more than a half mile in area and has a population of 523.  According to the census, it’s a village.  I don’t know about you, but that word doesn’t exactly conjure indoor plumbing and silverware.  Ok, I’m exaggerating, but the smallest town I have ever been in for any amount of time was Carlisle, PA, and that made me a little claustrophobic.  It’s at least a borough!  

Now, The Beau tells me that I damn well better not pull any punches, and he wants me to be exactly who I am because he cares for me and not for the people in the town.  Good answer.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s reassuring to hear.  However, I know the power of my reality distortion field.  I can only imagine what mischief it will stir up when the population is much less dense.  I really hope that’s not like hooking it up to an amplifier.  I mean, I’ve seen The Lost Room.  I know what happens when you get too much weirdness in one place.  

Let’s recap.  I’m loud, opinionated, not exactly the picture of femininity, I have two tone hair, look like I was painted on the front of a WWII bomber (after the model ate a few ho-hos) and drive a yellow MINI cooper.  I don’t exactly blend in to the background, even in a city of close to a million.  Drop me into small town farming community and, well.  Have you seen To Wong Foo?  You know that town they break down in?  That was actually shot in Nebraska.  So you’re aware.  Buy your popcorn now, folks.  This weekend could easily be one for the ages. 

March 22, 2012

Teeth Throwing Elbows

I have a raging overbite, and a lower jaw full of teeth throwing elbows, jockeying for room.  I get headaches, my jaw clicks, and I was at least one orthodontist's cash cow.  The thing is, it's like this on purpose.  Well, kinda.

My headaches started when I was little.  It was to the point that eventually, Tylenol was no longer working for me.  I can't take it with much relief still to this day.  Like my adult teeth, once my baby teeth grew in, had an overbite.  In my childhood photos, my smile was mostly me biting my lower lip like I'd tasted the nectar of the gods and was trying to suck all the last remaining flavor from my skin.  These are related, trust me.

I don't remember how old I was when the idea that I needed braces surfaced.  I do remember being driven at break neck speed across town to get to the orthodontist's office before they closed for the day though.  After having molds taken of my mouth, where the gooey plaster dripped down and tangoed with my uvula, it was decided that my teeth needed some help. I was told I'd be fitted for headgear and a bite plate until my jaw had moved into a position that made braces doable.  Oh, and as an added benefit, my headaches would go away.  Hmmmm.  I might still count my age on my fingers, but something smells rotten in Denmark here.  My prepubescent self was skeptical about that.  Tell me more and convince me if you expect me to play along.  The facts and reason why this was true never came.  Instead, I got more goo in my mouth to make a mold for the plate, and two posts put on my back molars for me to attach the headgear to when I slept. 

Going to Hell on a Plate of Bacon

If you've ever heard me tell stories or seen me with my family, you know I'm adopted.  It's not something that I hide or am ashamed of.  Actually, I'm pretty fucking lucky, really.  And my folks will always be mom and dad.  I've never met my biological family, and I suspect I never will.

An interesting tidbit about them is that I'm totally a whoopsie-baby.  My mom was 21, petite, had some college education, and didn't tell a soul she was pregnant with me.  She was also adopted, but her adoption was completed in Germany, so the chances I'll find my genetic roots on her side are next to nothing.  She worked on a highway road crew the summer before I was born.  As such, and due to my related early childhood health issues, I'm pretty sure the prenatal care I got was pretty minimal.  Call it a hunch.  What I know about my father is that he was about the same age, tall, slender, had some college education and "was in a band of some sort".  . . .

I am so the product of some woman with a backstage pass and a bucket list to attend to. And you know what?  I'm proud of her for it.  Go Birth Mom!  Get yourself some famous booty.  That said, if I sound like (or even look like, if you know me) anybody famous that might have been in their early 20s and touring the midwest in the early parts of 1977, call me.  I'm curious.

March 21, 2012

Water Pressure, Aerators, & the Apparent Piss

My water pressure in my bathroom sink suddenly shit the bed a couple days ago.  It went from a dripping sink with a crap aerator, to normal water pressure, to little more than the stream from an 80 year old man with prostate issues trying to take a piss in the span of a week.  So, I shot my landlord an email about it.  It’s not a leak, so I can deal with it for a few days if I have to.  Plus, I wanted to ask about the status of a couple other things I needed to have done around my place anyway.

I got a reply back a few hours later.  He’d been talking to the maintenance guy about getting to some of the other things I’d brought up anyway, so he said that it wouldn’t be too hard to look at the sink at the same time.  Though, he mentioned that it was probably something in the aerator since we’d been working on the pipes in there and might have jarred some sediment loose.  Ok, fair enough.  I can see that being the case.  Especially since the repair guy had to beat on the shutoff valves to get them to turn.  So, at the landlord’s urging, I gave the “simple” task of unscrewing the aerator and washing out any sediment a try.  That was dumb.

I'm The Reason I Can't Have Nice Things

If my kitchen had just one door, I would find a sign that says “Warning, cook is dangerous to herself, the general population, and the food groups the FDA holds sacred”.  Well, maybe not.  That’s a bit long, and hard to read when you’re pushing through the door with something on fire.

I don’t spend much time in the kitchen.  Well, I used to.  I lived alone before I was married, and I loved it.  When my now ex-husband moved in, I still did a fair amount of cooking, but we’d started sharing kitchen duties since I worked retail, and often times he’d be home before I was.  Then came that fateful day when I served whatever it was I had made for dinner.  The ex took a bite, smacked his lips, turned and said “You know, your cooking is always so bland.”.  Fine, fancy pants, put your chef hat on.  The KP duties are yours. It was after that meal, I didn’t cook for a very long time.  


Fast forward a year or two.  When we bought that house of ours back in 2004, I wanted to get a dog.  I’d always loved having them growing up, but my ex had never had anything other than cats before.  He was skeptical, but we agreed on a medium sized dog.  In my post-adoption, delusional state, we bought a dog kennel for her.  I thought that we’d be keeping her in it when we were at work, or were out of the house for any length of time.  Well, that plan went up in smoke.  Literally.

March 16, 2012

Stick It In A Plump One

You know, after talking with a friend of mine who's not only found himself in the bed of many a stripper, but professed his envy of my creative sex life, it occurred to me that if you wanna get laid right, you gotta fuck a plump girl.  I don't advocate this because I am one.  I advocate it because I think we're better in bed.  Here's why.

March 15, 2012

Thrifting For Speculums


 You can buy anything second hand in this town.  Anything.  The last few times I went to some of the antique and collectibles stores in my new neck of the woods, I was looking for two things.   My quest was for a desk to put my computer on, and something I could put my TV on that was a little less college dorm than a foot locker.  I managed to come back with a lamp, a new drag queen friend, and the realization that there are no limits to the things that people are willing to make a buck on selling.  

March 14, 2012

Ur In Hiatus? Oh yeah, Well Up Yours Pal!

My apologies for the hiatus.  I have a black lab mix with a bladder infection.  She has kept me busy with cleaning up accidents, taking her outside on her leash, laundry, and cussing.  She's finally on antibiotics, and here's to hoping that she starts both feeling better and gaining a little bit more control over her bodily functions here in the very near future.  Until then, I'm my bitch's bitch.

March 11, 2012

Earth said "Not in the Face!"


Apparently, earth was in the way of an epic coronal mass ejection this last week.  If you're feeling voyeuristic, watch the video.  Maybe have a towel handy.  It's a juicy one.
 
  

I can't tell, does this look more like a celestial zit exploding, or are we watching an act of heliocentric self love come to completion?  My money's on the money shot, and all this weirdness going on in the last 10 days or so is Earth reeling from getting galactic cum in its eye after specifically asking the sun for warning.  The sun, it would seem, is a douchebag.  Because it can be.

A CME can result in a geomagnetic storm, and the effects of that can include power outages, damage to satellites orbiting earth, an increase in the Northern and Southern Lights, radio transmissions disruption, and general weirdness for the human population. 

Long time readers know, I work for a help desk.  That means, we get all the calls about anything that could possibly be wrong with a computer or peripheral device.  I mean anything.  I've taken calls where the users concern was that their wallpaper was the wrong size, just like I've gotten them where a caller had a dead mouse in their CPU.  You name it, I've talked to someone about it.  And let me tell you, this last week was utter chaos.  It seemed like something was failing in a catastrophic way each and every day for the last 10 or so days.   Add in that my cell provider has seemed to have nothing but problems getting me more than 2 bars anywhere I go, and the odds of the person I'm interacting with being in a foul mood being about 75%.  I'm about ready to stand in the front yard, wave a copy of modern astronomer in the sky accusingly, and tell the sun to find a sock to use.  Enough already!

March 6, 2012

What Happens When You Ask Me "Who's Your Daddy"

I have a fellow co-worker with whom I trade conversational barbs with all the time.  I'm pretty liberal, it would seem.  He's an aging hippie, conspiracy sort, and he ribs me for looking much younger than my years.  (I'm 34, but I easily pass for someone much younger if I want to.)  I don't remember the specifics of the conversation we were having at the time.  But, what I do remember is this; it was close to quitting time, and the topic had something to do with current events from the mid-nineties.

March 5, 2012

Out Of the Mouths of Babes

If by babes, you mean smokin' hot, strong, independent women that is. 

I'm picky about my ladies.  It takes certain qualities to really have me call someone a close friend.  I know that I'm not for everyone, and that my standards are probably pretty unforgiving to a large segment of the population.  Though, I don't think they're unreasonable unfair.  I want my girlfriends to have character.  I need them to be able to be their own person, to Get Shit Done in the face of adversity, and know when to hold and when to fold.  I don't care what color you are, what you drive, how much you make, or even if you like The Jersey Shore.  If, when the pressure's on, you can stay true to yourself, make your own rain, and live life on your own terms, we can be friends.

Maybe 8 months ago or so, my best friend Amy and I were screwing around, coming up with bullshit titles for ourselves.   I think I came up as Chief Instigating Officer if memory serves.  Out of that conversation came our group; the Bad Behavior Support Group.  Because, you see, we're women "behaving badly" and we need to support each other.  Out of that grew a group of some of the coolest ladies I've had the pleasure of meeting.  We share good news, bad news, the occasional catty rant, and most importantly, at least one monthly meal together.

It's not uncommon for venues to seat us far away from other patrons, and "Nobody puts baby in the corner!" is a common refrain for us.  We've timed how long it takes for us to clear entire sections of restaurants, and counted how many times we can get it done.  (For the record, 23 minutes, and 4 times at the same place and in one sitting.)  Though, we do give back.  We choose local places to eat, not chains.  If we're gonna make a scene, we're gonna make it count, dammit.

  Over Christmas, we had our holiday party at Mt Fuji Inn, complete with anatomically correct rude baked goods, booze, and a total disregard for manners.  I give you, a few of the phrases that were heard at the table:

"A revolving door of drunk."

"Isn't this better than math?"

"Fancy.  We just ate a dick here."

"I'm in a rum and frosting stupor."

"Are you an angry fucker?"

"The back door of the porn store probably saved our lives."

Classy ladies, we are.

Mini Cooper Owners' Cheat Sheet and FAQ

I am the proud owner of a 2008 Mellow Yellow Mini Cooper whom I have named Donovan.  I joke that not only is my relationship with him the longest, most stable one I’ve had, but that I like to ride him hard and put him away wet.  I’ve had people roll down their windows at stoplights, flag me in parking lots, and corner me in elevators to ask me about him.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll talk to anybody and I adore the car.  But, I thought perhaps it might save time to have a list of the questions I get asked all in one place. 

Achievement Unlocked - Met The Best Friend!

Over the weekend, the guy I’m seeing met my best friend for dinner Sunday.  It was a last minute “I’m hungry!”, “Want company?” thing, so it was pretty casual.  Over a slice and a soda, we shared some interesting conversation.  Much of it was standard getting to know you stuff, until the talk of the Great Bachelorette Hijack of 1998 came up.  As the story goes, he and several of his friends drunkenly crashed a bachelorette party, expecting to find penis shaped novelties such as straws, baked goods, and tshirts.  However, upon storming the gates, they discovered the skies had parted and a choir of devils sang as a shaft of light struck a 6 foot inflatable dildo.  Mouths agape, and hormones raging, hijinks ensued.  Namely, grabbing it, hoisting it over their collective shoulders, and running through the middle of their college town with it, all while shirtless, shoeless, and extremely drunk.  


What struck me was the hesitation to tell this story in the first place.  Now, we all know I don’t have any boundaries.  Well, ok.  A few.  As he starts to tell the story, I catch him censoring parts of it.  To which, I encouraged him to tell it how it happened.  I got the whole “Well, I didn’t know what the limits were here.”.  I tipped my head to one side, smirked and said “Darling, she’s *my* best friend.  I mean, this is the girl with whom I ended up with matching vibrators at checkout the last time we went to Doctor Johns.  During the same trip, we made friends with the cashier when she and Ashley (the cashier in question) ganged up and chased me around the store, waving frilly pink lingerie at me!” He takes a second to digest this information, and turns back to the conversation.


. . .  “So, there we were, 6 feet of inflatable cock over our shoulders, running down the main drag, trying to outrun the ladies who’d piled into their mustang, and avoid the cops.”


That’s my boy, vulgar, and quick on the uptake.  The public may never be safe again.