big red trucks

I get a lot of looks driving around. That's due to the fact that my Jeep Grand Cherokee is not your typical mommy's SUV.

It started this way. I mentioned something to the tune of, "I guess since my Jeep is 3 years old now you could take it off-road sometime if you want." (I'm imagining a gravel road, you understand.)

My husband was too excited to reply. Two thousand dollars and about thirty minutes later my car was tricked out to go 4-wheeling. And by the way, these trails are not exactly gravel roads. One of them is called Carnage Canyon, for crissake. But then, I didn't know about Carnage when I said that.

So now my car is a teenage boy's wet dream of a truck. The color might be girly, bright red, but the rest is all grunting, ass-scratching, back-slapping man-Jeep. It was tricked out to four-wheel on mountain trails, except now it's been retired from the trails because we built (real jeeps are built, not bought, if you didn't know) even a BIGGER jeep. Anyway, my truck has the grill guard on the front; a kind of big, black, mean looking thing that I imagine looks pretty imposing in a rear-view mirror. The engine is chipped, and it's got a special air intake for enhanced performance at high altitude that makes it rumble in the sort of way that in Kansas would say "low-rent" but in Colorado says "cool-ass off-road truck." And of course it's lifted and has big tires, and eventually (because I sense well ahead when I am losing an argument) will be even two inches higher with expensive differential lockers and long-arms. That's so you can get something called "good articulation" when you go over the big rocks.

Then I will have trouble reaching the back hatch when it is open and I will have to jump for it, I guess. That will be very cool.

Yeah, I sound like I know what I'm talking about, don't I? But actually I'm just parrotting what I've heard about a thousand times in the past year and a half.

But as I said, we get a lot of looks, my truck and I. Teenage boys, college guys, starving artist types, thirty-something dads in mini-vans. They all look at my car with something resembling lust in their eyes. My friends' husbands tell me that I drive a really cool truck. Sometimes guys in other Jeeps wave very casually to me, probably before they realize it's a woman driving. Because as my husband made that clear to me early on, it's not me they're noticing. It's definitely the car.

Case in point: Not long after my husband lovingly, orgasmically fixed up my truck, I'm driving home one nice summer evening, windows down, stereo on, engine rumbling in the way that it does. I pull up to a stop sign. Next to me are two college guys on a motorcycle. Both are looking right at me and I look away quick.

Most people think their car is an invisibility shield, even with the windows down. You can do anything in it and no one knows you are there: sing, yell at your kids, talk on the phone...and yeah, grosser stuff that I won't mention here. I used to suffer from that delusion. But guess what? People can see right through the windows of your car. Especially when they are open.

Of course, I immediately glance back to see if they are still looking. They are. Then the guy on the back of the motorcycle waves at me, grins widely, and he says "Hi."

Ok, I admit it was a little nudge to the ego. Who doesn't like that?

Then a couple of turns later, I'm again sitting in a turn lane - double left this time. A guy in a van grins at me and says "How're you doin'?"

By now it's occurred to me that someone taped a "Wave to the Loser" sign on the back of the truck, but ever the optomist, I smile back and drive on, chalking it up to the summer tan.

So of course I go home and brag to my husband about it. You know, just to let him know other guys see me too, and he's damn lucky to have me.

And he says, "Wow, people sure are noticing the truck now."

Bigger or Better

Linkwww.biggerorbetterofficialgamerules.com


For those of you not in the know there is a new game that all the cool kids are playing called Bigger or Better (see useless link above).

The idea is a sort of a scavenger hunt, you need at least two teams of people, but what you do is find the biggest, ugliest thing you got for Christmas last year (hee hee, like we got this... well, I'd better come up with a fake example since they might be reading...)

Anyway, say you've got this awful 70s dark-wood end table that you inherited from your roommate's previous roommate in college (who got it from his divorced dad, who got it in the divorce) and for some unknown reason you still have the thing. Maybe you stack your golf stuff on it in the garage, or it's covered in anemic plants in the living room, or your husband won't get rid of it because hey, it never gets rings from his beer bottles (the top is simulated wood-grain plastic laminate, after all) and it looks good in the garage next to his recliner and the drawer holds a hundred golf balls...

So one night when your husband is out with the guys you take this table (probably with a couple of friends and definitely a bottle of wine) to some stranger's house and you ring the doorbell and say, "Got anything bigger or better?"

And they trade you the table for a puce dorm-size refrigerater. Then you take the fridge (it's good if someone on your team has a mini-van) and you go somewhere else and they give you a... ok, a puce fridge would be hard to top, actually. But you get the drift.

It's how my friend got her cool antique piano. No really, that part's not fiction.

So, honey, if you're reading... I'm thinking I'll start next weekend's game with "the man." Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.

The whole idea got me remembering a scavenger hunt in college when one of the items was tarter sauce. We went through the drive-through at Long John Silver's (a defunct fast food fish chain, though for some reason now it sounds more like a strip club) and we asked for a fish sandwich with tarter sauce on the side, but could you please hold the sandwich.

And they said; no lie, they actually said, "Would you like fries with that?"

Good times.

links

Linkhttp://www.shaunofthedeadmovie.com/splash.html


So I have the code for a link, and the spot for a link shows up, but it doesn't work yet. Hmmm. And my husband used to think I'd be a good programmer. Of course that was fifteen years ago. He didn't know me so well then.

Just a plug for the movie Shaun of the Dead (see nonworking link above)-
HI-larious! Really. If you don't laugh at this film you were born without a sense of humor. For those of you who've had the pleasure- the best scene of the whole film is in the get-n-go... when he slips on the blood...Am I right?

Granny the Vampire Slayer

Link



Like many of us, Granny likes to leave her doors open sometimes to let the cross breeze through. The problem is that she doesn't have screens on her doors. (Why doesn't she have screens on her doors? She just doesn't, all right? The story would never work if she did.) Anyway, with the house open to the elements, occassionally Granny gets unexpected visitors. One time Granny was sitting on the sofa and a cat walked in the back door.

"Eek!" said Granny.

The cat didn't reply. It didn't even look at Granny. It just continued on its way to the front door, where it made a serene exit, never to be seen again.

Granny's never had a squirrel. Squirrels make a terrible mess, so the rumor goes. Granny sincerely hopes she never gets a squirrel, though they are fun to watch when they are outside.

But sometimes birds come to call. They like to hang out on the branches of the chandelier. If Granny turns out all the lights, draws all the shades, leaves the doors propped open, and goes on to bed; well, they are almost always gone by morning.

Except for one. This bird stayed.

How did Granny know? Well, it flew around her bed one night. Not that she could see it, mind you. Granny doesn't sleep with a nightlight. And she couldn't hear it because it was deathly silent. But she could sort of feel it there above her bed, moving a little bit of air on its nighttime foray around her room.

During the next day when the sun shone in the windows all sparkly-like, Granny turned on all the lights and looked for the bird. No bird on the top of the drapes, no bird in the light fixture over the dining room table, no bird on any of the headboards.

Must have flown out, Granny thought. And that night she went on to bed with the house locked up tight.

But that night something again moved in the air over her bed.

Now Granny isn't easily frightened. Easily startled perhaps, but not frightened. So she got up again, opened the doors, and went on back to bed. The next day she checked again in all the usual places. Double-checked. No bird.

It's finally gone, Granny thought.

After the third night with a bird flying overbed, and after the third day of looking and finding no bird, Granny began to get annoyed. Where in hay was it?

Dusk was just falling, and Granny was watching tv in her flannel robe and nightgown (even though it was warm enough to have the doors open, Granny gets chilly easily) when something... something, but she didn't know what, made her look up. Granny's family room has a vaulted ceiling with dark beams. Very attractive, actually, in a seventies sort of way.

There was a dark lump on one of the beams. Granny squinted. Was that a...

"Bat!" said Granny. "Eek!"

"Eek!" said the bat.

"Get out!" said Granny.

"Eek!" said the bat (which means No! in bat langauge.) The bat held its ground on the beam.

"What did you do then?" I asked Granny as she told me the story.

"What could I do? I got my Swiffer and I knocked it down."

"No!"

"Yes. I knocked it down. Its awful little round mouth opened and it squeaked at me, but I smashed it with the Swiffer until it was D-E-A-D." (There were children present at the recounting.)

"No!" I tried to picture Granny, robe-tails flying, smashing a bat with her Swiffer. Somehow I could see it perfectly.

"Yes," said Granny.

"Why did you have to kill it?" I asked. I thought it was the thing to ask; albeit naive, since I've never faced down a bat in my jammies armed only with a Swiffer.

"Because I didn't want my obituary to read, 'Bitten by rabid bat.'"

Ten reasons why Fight Club is a chick flick

1. Brad Pitt. Well, duh.
2. There's a romantic relationship filled with angst.
3. Guys without shirts on. Lots of them.
4. Brad Pitt. Almost naked.
5. Self help classes, or a facsimile thereof.
6. Guys get turned on by it.
7. Psychological twists that involve Brad Pitt. A lot of him.
8. The chick wears clothes as interesting as Sarah Jessica Parker ever did.
9. Guys think you're cool if you like it. That can be useful.
10. Ok, I meant for there to be ten but I can't think of any other reasons besides Brad Pitt again.

Barney is up to no good

Not to incite a riot here, but am I the only one who thinks Barney sounds like a child molester? I can totally imagine him saying, "Come here, little kid. Get in my car. I've got caaaandy."

I know that he is the best friend of a lot of little people (one of mine, as well) but I worry about the possible consequences of such widespread prominence. He could easily be commandeered for subliminal advertising, or by terrorists or worse. What to do about it? I have no idea. I for one will NOT be fighting that battle with my daughter. If I shut Barney down a screaming fit will ensue the likes of which haven't been seen since that episode of Brady Bunch where Jan decides to scream long enough to get in the Book of World Records. (Oops, there's that nasty little f-word rearing its ugly head again.)

(I meant fiction. Sheez. If I mean fuck, I'll just write "fuck.")

The following strategy admittedly needs work, but perhaps we can enlist elder siblings in the effort to lessen the effects of Barney's undesirable influence. They can shame their younger brothers and sisters away from it, or lure them toward Arthur or Disney channel. "Come on, don't you want to just try Arthur? Just once. I swear you'll never go back."

Well, like I said, it needs work. Maybe I'll drop Tom Ridge an email and see what he thinks.

housekeeping issues

Thanks for the overwhelming verbal and email response to my blog. In a short time I'm getting lots of hits and I'm excited that so many of you are reading. Please email the link to your friends/coworkers if you think they'll enjoy it - You don't have to admit you know me and you can always claim that you just "found" it by accident if I say anything embarrassing, which (Attn: disclaimer ahead) I likely will. A side goal is to get dialogues going in the comments section. It can be anonymous so say whatever is on your mind. I'll join in as I see fit. Ok, ok, enough with the shameless self-promotion. I'm just practicing for when I actually sell something.

Apparently a few of you have found some pretty hard core porn sites when trying to pull up my blog. Er. Um. Not sure what to say but to advise you to type carefully. If you like that sort of thing... well, I'm happy to be of help.

To copy a link onto email (yeah, some folks still don't know how to do this, so let's try our best to be supportive): highlight the address at the top of your web page (mine for instance is http://sexscenesatstarbucks.blogspot.com) press control key and c key similtaneously (c is for Copy), then flip to your email page. Control V to copy link into your text (why V? It's one of the great mysteries of the Information Age.)

Don't forget to talk amongst yourselves...
Topic: tattoos at forty - for or against and why?

aaarghhh!

Missed Talk Like A Pirate Day AGAIN! It would have been great practice for my hubbin', who is going to be Jack Sparrow for Hallowe'en. Mark your calendars for 19 September 2005. And go to http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html to find out more.

Yes, I know the link doesn't work. I'm the writer, not the engineer. The engineer is out of town on real business - actual work stuff that makes money. I'm currently fighting the hit counter battle. I have no idea how to fix links. But it's coming...

a certain spark

Two people I've come across recently have struck me as similar. Not sure quite how, but maybe that sort of thing is best left to the reader anyway.

The first was this ninety-year-old man who tap-danced at his birthday party in a bar.

Ok, I probably need to back up. We have this mountain place in a town with this crazy bar. I won't say exactly where (this is the Internet, you know. Never know what sort of barmy sort are reading this. When I sell my first book the jig will be up as to the location of this place. Ok, I'm digressing again. Maybe I should sit on these for a day or so before I post them.)

Suffice it to say that this village is like a lot of other mountain towns. How to put it for those who've not been to Colorado? There's a certain freedom about these places. This place in particular has it, which is one of the reasons we love it so.

Anyway, back to the bar. About five people come in this bar everyday by 11 am and order their drinks (only they just have to sit down because the bartender obviously knows what they want since he has it on the bartop for them when they walk in the door) and they watch tv together and chat. It's a typical mountain bar with stuff like the requisite jackalope - extraodinarily dusty, a stuffed horse's ass mounted on the wall, and pictures of famous people who have been there. (I have to admit my skeptism about the authenticity of that bit of advertising because not many of them are signed and none of them are pictured in the bar - it only took me a year to realize this, but hey, I was drunk at the time.) On Friday and Saturday nights they have bands and it can be really hoppin'.

The point of all this blather? To create the necessary contrast. This bar shouldn't be a place where anything happens. But it does. We can go in there, order our $1.50 beers on tap (that's not happy hour, that's anytime prices) and sit back and watch what will happen. Because something will happen. It's like free, live entertainment from a low budget improv troupe.

This particular night it was the birthday party. First came in all the people dressed in plaid and stripes. White belts. Brown shoes with highwater black pants.

My friend and I exchanged glances and had the identical thought course through our tiny brains at the same time: "Well, it is the mountains."

Then came the reason for all the hoopla. In walks the oldest crone of a guy, though he was still tall and pretty bright-eyed. And he had on a tuxedo, obviously owned and obviously at least thirty years old. I was starting to catch on. This guy was tall. Even with a little bit of a stoop he was a giant; no wonder his friends were wearing high water pants in imitation of him. It would have been hard for him to find pants that fit right. So we watched this party go on for awhile, everyone having a great time, and the old guy was drinking everyone under the table, or at least doing an admirable job of keeping up.

Just about when it was going to be either time for us to leave or time to buy the guy a birthday shot, the band quit playing and after a few words and cheers, the birthday boy went to the middle of the dance floor and started to tap dance. It didn't take much encouragement.

He was good. Ok, slow. But good. He was ninety after all; and for no cover, buck-fifty beers, and a place that still allows smoking it was damn fine entertainment.

So we told him, "Happy Birthday!'

And he said, "What?" even though the band hadn't started back up yet.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

"Oh. Thank you."

The part about the other person is shorter because I don't have to set the scene except to say that she had sparkle in her hair. Still does, in fact. I probably wouldn't have noticed except she's only about 2 1/2 feet tall and 2 1/2 years old, and that I'm the one who washes said hair.

"You have sparkle in your hair," I said.

"Huh?"

"You have sparkle in your hair," I said again.

"Oh. Thank you."

I suppose to a two-year-old that is a compliment.

What do these two have in common? (guess I'm onto a theme here with these postings) I'm not sure, except that they do have something. I sense that to try to put a name on it might diminish it in some fashion. But it's good to know that it's around, even after all that shit that goes on; laundry and terrorist attacks and elections (don't get me started) and work and bad moods and whatever else annoys you. Tell your friends.

And tell your friends about my little baby blog. I'll try to post every day or so. Just be warned, much of this is fiction, sometimes forty/sixty, sometimes much more. Don't try to figure out which is which - it'll take the fun out of it. It won't always have a point either, that gets tiresome. Got to go work on the novel now. A and K are in a bad way.

Two songs or less aisle

I live one song away from virtually anywhere I want to go.

Profound huh? But I refer to an actual physical reality. I can barely make it through one song to Target (I usually have to make up some reason to sit in the car in my parking space and finish it) the mall sits at one song and the opening bars of another, which the stereo quitting mid-song frustrates me no end (again the sitting in the car in the parking lot- I'm beginning to wonder if I have some sort of compulsive disorder regarding music) The post office is two songs away, which can stretch to three if I combine it with going through the drive-through lane at McDonalds. We have an unusually efficient McDonalds. One and a half songs (something soothing, as in Lorena McKennet or some Bach) gets us to the hospital.

It wasn't always like this. I've lived in the same neighborhood for eight years. We bought into the neighborhood before the "amenities", investing in the unlikely assurance that we would someday drive less than a mile to, well, everything. It was in the middle of nowhere in those days.

It's always had the reputation of being "the Neighborhood". You know the type, SUVs that have never seen even a gravel road. (Yep, Jeep Grand Cherokee, thank you. But more on that later.) Kids on bikes. Golden Retrievers named Bo. Moms who don't work (oh, but they do!) and love to bitch about their kids' schedules and mountains of laundry. (Ok, I bitch too, but deep down I know 've I got it good.) Dads who mow the lawns and who practice soccer in the back yard with regulation sized nets and their four-year-olds. The advantages start early here. Car seats, swing sets, cell phones, kids walking to school. And after about four years the new mall, the Super Target, the Costco, and the Safeway all went in.

Stepford? Not quite. Perhaps Utopia, but with less pressure.

So anyway, after about four more years of living one song away from everything, I noticed. I don't know what it was, but I suddenly realized I only got through one song in the car. Damn. I like music. The thing is, I love it, but I only love the songs if I choose them. I drive my husband to drink if I'm riding in the back seat. "CD four, track twelve, honey. Now go to CD seven. No, leave it. The first three songs are good. The rest is shit, but the first three are beautiful. Oh and turn it up. Thanks, darling."

He shoots me a look in the rearview mirror.

I'm not sure whether it's because I'm back-seat-stereo-controlling, or if it's because I swore in front of the baby. He doesn't appreciate my sailing heritage.

Anyway, I noticed the music issue about the same time that I noticed the interesting checker at Target. Major tattoos, piercings, crazy hair, the works. Parents of preschoolers never dream that their child would do something like that to that little body that love created. I refer to the sort of things that a business suit would never cover up. A big Chinese character on the side of his neck. Things on his hands.

When I went through his line he asked me the same old tired question, "Do you want to save ten percent with a Target Visa?"

I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

"No thanks," I said.

"Yeah. I didn't think so," he said, making me look up. We smiled at each other.

The next time I went to Target he was out in the parking lot collecting carts.

The relationship of this checker to my music issue? I'm not sure, except I imagine that he likes music too. Maybe he's in a garage band now, barely making it, but learning something of what it takes to succeed at what you really want to do. I sincerely hope so.

the meaning of all this banter

So, my thought in doing this thing is that I am prolific enough to need another outlet. In the past 18 months - Moms count time in months if it's under two years, and then we go to years; well, most of the time. Sometime you get some hover-mother that tells you that her baby is 34 months, the same mother who thinks she's actually going to catch her kid when it falls off the jungle gym... but I digress-

Anyway, since Easter of 2003,I've written three and half books which are currently living on my laptop. They are an exclusive group; they mostly sit around, no readers invited to their little parties, and chat about how they might torment me next. For real fun they send a character out to wake me up in the middle of the night who says "HEY! What about me? You left me sitting there with a gun to my head! Get the hell up and rescue me." To which I typically mumble incoherently and roll over.

The idea is that I can ramble here and someone might want to read it but obviously that isn't so important to me since I've written about a million words - no really, a million- in the past two years and about four people have read any of them. Besides the warped ramblings (I'll try to keep these to a minimum) I'd like to post some fiction (likely equally as warped, definitely rated R)... whatever strikes my fancy.

When I find it I'd like to start with a little essay about cows.

Oh, and why is it called Sex Scenes at Starbucks? Think about it. You'll figure it out eventually.

I can't wait to see if I come up under sex in google. This could be a big responsibility.