Home Alone

Here as of late, I've been spending a lot more time at the house with the baby. And with me cooped up with the baby all day, every day (because there is no way I am subjecting him and myself to the murderous heat of August in the midwest), by the time Redhead gets home, I can imagine that I'm... A handful, to say the least.

This recipe for disaster is assisted with the fact that Redhead has decided to quit smoking. Not purely for health reasons, but also there's a really big awesome shiny he wants to get, but whateva.

Either way, if he wants to quit smoking, I applaud him his intentions. It's commendable. It's not an easy thing to do. A person who is nic-fitting is one of the most agitated bodies to deal with. Last time I tried to quit, a friend made the mistake of taunting me with his, after I had gone without so much as a drag for two days. I tried to rip his adams' apple out.

So, me being cooped up all day (something I am not accustomed to by a long shot) plus him sitting on the proverbial pins and needles that is fighting any addiction, equals a lot of time spent apart, mostly me home alone.

I no longer have internet at home. Of course, in turn, I now feel the urge to blog more than ever. Love the irony there!

So, I'm bored a lot. A soul can only watch the same movies so many times, and read the same books as well. Going a wee bit stir-crazy. But reacquiring my iTouch has helped, let me tell you. I know some other bloggers may frown on it, bt I finally have a soundtrack to play in the background of my life again. It gets my blood pumping and gets me moving a lot more. It's helping me to get things done around the house when I can put my headphones in, turn the volume up, and block out the world.

Yes, finding the motivation is hard for me. We might discuss this later. Don't know yet.

The main gist of where I was going with this was simple: I have a lot more time to think, and unlike with the computer, I always have the iTouch with me. So when a train of thought crosses my mind, I can blog it. And since this town is full of WiFi hotspots (the perk of living in a college town), I can easily type up a blogpost that strikes my fancy and publish it.

Yes, I bet you loyal readers have enjoyed the recent upswing of posts here at SFTSM! And JayG can quit bitching at me every time he sees me in the GBC about how little I post!

More and more this little niche in the internet has become a source for me to vent to. My musings and ponderings are being posted for the world at large to see, rather than things people may find interesting or relevent to others.

This is my journal, laid open for all to see. You guys will probably start seeing more of the snarky mistress you admire, and the things in her life that make her words bite so.

I like to tell stories. I was an avid reader growing up, drawn towards elegant words and fantasy worlds. I read Jane Eyre when I was in the sixth grade, fer fucks' sake. I fill my spare moments these days with old classics; I'm particularly drawn towards 18th century literature. And it shows with how I write here.

Just imagine how my words will flow once I have read the complete Lord of the Rings series, a feat I started some years ago and was never able to finish, thanks to my unpleasant ex, who stole it from me when he and I parted ways on less than pleasant terms.

So, that influences how I think and how I write. If you want a real twist, throw in my addiction for music. Now THERE is an interesting topic!

I always play music. Always. The iTouch either has headphones plugged into my ears, or it's settled in my docking station, providing background noise for myself and Little Idjit to go through our day with. And it's never just one style of music. I have a main playlist that goes from Metallica to Ray Charles to Tech N9ne to Tim McGraw. Yes, I am a freak like that. And believe it or not, that influences my thought process, too.

Sigh... This post really has no real direction to it. Just thoughts as they come into my head. Expect to see a lot more of that, too. Bounce from topic to topic. What do you expect, I have the attention span of a gnat!

Well Then!

I'm wondering how this is going to work out.

The only working laptop currently in my possession belongs to a friend (who is currently a guest of the state - in rehab). Well, he gets out on the 2nd, and he'll be wanting his machine back.

This boy, though I love him to death, he's a dear friend... Is a fuckin idiot. He is more destructive in the way of computers than anyone I know. Kind of reminds me of my little brother.

He bought the laptop new and within six months had taken it into the shop no less than four times, covered under warranty, of course.

Well, he also screwed with the power cord. Apparently in all his bending and twisting, he broke one of the connections in the actual plug-in part. Forgive my lack of technical talk, I don't know what the actual name of the piece is.

Well, I have positioned and twisted and taped in every way I know how to, just to make the connection and charge the battery. Nothing doing with the little (read:none) tools I have.

So Pet Alcoholic's laptop is down due to lack of being able to charge the battery. I have done everything in my power to fix the damages it came to me in.

In other news, I have managed to power up my Toshiba, which until now lay dormant thanks to hard drive failure. I found an Ubunto disk, courtesy of Marko, and have booted it from the disk.

Hey, at least I have a way to charge my iTouch, right? Right!

Owwie

No blog for you right now. I haven't been sleeping well, and apparently last night I slept with my arm curled under me, and now I can't straighten it out.

Come back later, maybe I'll have something worth reading then.

Sweaty Musings

(Not like that, you filthy perverts! Get your minds out of the gutter!)

No, this post is some brain vomit. With my beloved Mira out of commission, and me in limbo until I have found the perfect chariot to pique my interests, I am, regrettably, on foot until further notice.

It figures that I would suddenly find myself prevailing upon the Heel-Toe Express for transportation during the hottest weeks of the year. And, true to my goddess-like status (in my own mind, at least), I have singed the ears of anyone within a half mile radius with my curses, swears, and general wishings of ill will upon the wench that is responsible for my current lack of transportation.

So let's talk about car shopping, shall we? Fine way to pass the time.

Now, bear one thing in mind: I utterly loathe car shopping. I won't be getting enough from the wench's insurance to go to a dealership, so this limits me to private sales with individuals. And the process of haggling prices for the huge mechanical steeds is well... Enough to try the patience of a saint. You can imagine what it does with me.

Now, in the KCMO Criagslist, there are plenty of little rusted out beaters for under two grand I could purchase. But no, you all ought to know by now that I would never lower myself to that. And with a baby less than two years old to carry with me? Never! No, I need something reliable, and with working heat and AC to combat the vicious weather that the midwest offers.

Now. That being said, there are still several cars of that variety for a low price. But I am going to share with you, faithful reader of my snark, the reason why I have such particular standards for my own set of wheels.

Several years ago, when I was 17, I was in a relationship with an older gentleman of a less than savory disposition. He was fond of his illegal vices, and even fonder of having a well-subdued girl a home. Thanks to those illegal vices, we moved quite often in the year and a half I lived with him; he was unable to hold a job for more than a couple weeks at a time.

We also went through several vehicles, starting with a beautiful F150 that was my pride and joy. I loved that truck, loved it more than anything, especially more than the beastly excuse for a man I was with. His mother had signed it over to him, and he was to pay off the remaining balance to the dealership. Needless to say, the truck was repossessed, and I was bitter and heartbroken over the loss of what little joy I had. Then we started to get car after car, each bought for a measely few hundred bucks, never paying more than a thousand for any of them.

First there was the Jimmy, a mid-80s monstrosity with a transmission in such horrid shape it wouldn't get over about 20 mph. It overheated every few miles, thanks to rear-ending a tank of an old Ford truck, which punched a hole in the radiator. The passenger door didn't open and the window didn't roll down either. There was no radio or AC, and it made some of the most god-awful noises. Everything was rusted and twisted with age and improper care, and every day I saw that delapidated excuse for a vehicle, I inwardly wept. My father had taught me to be proud of myself, and it was hard to do in both that relationship, and that Jimmy, limping down the streets and alleyways the way it did.

There were several other cars that followed the Jimmy: a 94 Lumina, a 92 Escort wagon... They were not as bad, when compared to the heap that was charitably called a car, the Jimmy, but they still were bought and sold within two months. The thought of a title for any of them was laughable, and insurance, though legally required, was never purchased.

These were the first vehicles of my youth, when all my peers at school boasted beautiful trucks or sports cars that their doting parents or grandparents had bought them.

Shortly after I turned 18, I bit off the pride my father had instilled in me and moved back into his house, tail tucked between my legs, and was rewarded with the keys to his van. And oh, what a beautiful mistress that big beast was! Green and gold on the outside, with silvery-blue cloth seats and lush carpeting inside. Wood panels and accent lights added to the allure, and a wheelchair lift and automatic doors that swung out at the push of a button on a remote control.

I became my father's driver, for that was one thing I enjoyed above any other: driving. He paid my insurance and kept the gas tank filled, and at a moment's notice would yell for me to start the van, for he needed some fresh air. He taught me to harness the power of that massive thing, and to compensate her shortcomings.

I still saw the friends I had graduated high school with out and about the town, both with my father and on my own. And they would titter at the massive beast I rode, parked next to their little Honda Civics and Nissan... Whatever they were... that responded to the lightest touch and would fly down the pavement.

I was not bitter, though. I consoled myself happily with the knowledge that, while they could turn on a dime and sprint, my big green beast would outlast any of them. And sure enough, she did: a four cylinder engine can only do so much when matched up against the raw power in a V8. And when they would get into an accident, finding themselves with nothing but a totaled heap that used to be a car, my Econoline would take a beating and purr for more.

Now, with a vehicle history such as that to remind me what I left behind, now maybe you can understand why I refuse to settle for nothing less than the best my money can buy, in both looks and performance. I don't want another rusted-out ride as a constant reminder of a dark spot in my youth; nay, I want something that shines in the sun and roars with the challenge of meeting her rider's requests whenever my foot touches the gas pedal.

It's a bit poetic.

O God My Life

Well, faithful readers on the Intarwebz, as the saying goes, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

This is very true.

Let me tell you a little story. When I bought my Mitsubishi, I paid the car insurance up for six months. I had a big financial aid check from the University that gave me enough to buy the car, pay the insurance up in advance, and get it tagged and refistered. She was mine, she was beautiful, she was street legal, and that is all that mattered.

Well. That six months of insurance ran out on the 26th of July, and I with no way to pay my car insurance. But shortly afterwards, I found a job. Imagine that! Granted, due to circumstances beyond my control it did not last more than a week. Doesn't matter though, because I had enough hours on that one paycheck to pay my insurance.

The paycheck arrived on the 15th, a Sunday, and I couldn't deposit the monies in my bank for obvious reasons. So I waited until Monday, for I was going to pay my insurance and try to get a job at one of the pizza joints here in town that were hiring.

So. Monday morning, I got up bright and early, fed the Idjit and set him in his playpen with some toys and the TV playing MASH to keep him amused while I took a shower. Scrub scrub, pay particular attention to the beautiful mane I boast, and then dry off and get dressed.

Shortly before 11, I picked up the Idjit and his diaper bag and stepped out to go to the bank and then go pay my car insurance. I had a plan, I was going to be productive!

I walked up and glanced to my left and saw... My driver's side headlight... Hanging out by the wires. And then dented sheet metal around the hinges to the driver's door. Paint scrapes all over my car, and the rear tire shoved forward, rubber treads bending around the lip of the wheel well.

Oh my god. Oh god. My car, my big blue baby!

I put Daniel back inside, in the air conditioning in his playpen, and turned the TV back on. Then I bolted back outside with a shriek of rage and sadness, my mind whirling in a panic. Someone had hit my car in the night and left, my only means of transportation now lay totaled on the street in front of my home.

I did not know what to do, so I called Redhead's mom, because she was in town, down at Hippie Sister's house. When she answered, my voice cracked and I started to cry as I told her, "I need you at the house. Somebody hit my car!"

Thank god for that woman, let me tell you. She told me to call the cops, and she grabbed my phonebook to start calling the tow truck companies here in town while I talked to the nice people with the badges and the woo-woo lights on their blue Crown Victorias.

When the nice officer arrived and started to ask me questions, Redhead's mom walked up and told us that one company had towed a car from right there at about 2 AM, back to the girl's house who was driving it.

Long story short, the cops arreated the girl. She is going to be charged with a felony hit-and-run for causing over a thousand dollars' worth of damage to my parked car. Her insurance has been most cooperative, and I was amazed that they didn't try to stiff me on the amount of damage.

My Mirage, the little blue car with bull horns on the grill, is totaled. I'm just waiting for some paperwork to come in before the insurance company to cut me a check and tow it off.

My mechanic has offered me one of his cars that he has fixed up, a nice little Chevy Blazer, and as soon as I have the money, I will be going to pick it up. Doesn't get the outstandinggas mileage the Mirage did, but i have size, power, and lower insurance premiums to make up for it.

Brain Pain

Ladies and gentlemen of the Intarwebs, the Redhead makes absolutely NO FUCKING SENSE. Ever.

For example, when talking about tattoos earlier today, he said "It's like putting your hand through a sewing machine, but there's no prize at the end."

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Internet! What the hell does that even MEAN?!?

This is why my brain always hurts. Trying to understand WHAT THE HELL he is talking about.

[Five Finger Death Punch - Bad Company]

I have an idea for a tattoo. I just don't have the skill to draw it up myself. Why don't you pull up a chair and listen to me describe it? Who knows, one of my readers might be able to do it for me. Stranger things have happened.

I am from Texas. And no matter how much shit people around me may give me about it, I am proud of that fact. Don't like it? Go fuck yourself, see how much I give a shit.

Anyway. Since I doubt I'll grow old and die in Texas, and I can't always go around with horns on my car to prove I'm from Texas in THAT way, what's the next best way?

Yes. Ink.

What I have in mind sounds... sorta simple, but really isn't, because of one thing. Let me describe it.

I want the outline of Texas on my shoulder, and I want it filled in with the Texas flag. Sounds simple, right? Not so much. Instead of a plain black outline, I want it to look like scar tissue. Burns, in particular. A Texas-shaped brand, to be perfectly specifice. Complete with the appearance of skin stretching and the shadows of burned flesh contours.

Yeahhhhh, now we're getting somewhere, aren't we? Thought so.

Anyway. Branded outline, Texas flag colors filling it in, and in the appropriate lettering (which I haven't found yet), I want it to say "Don't Mess With Texas" around it. Part above and part below, to be specific.

Anyway. That's the idea I have in my head. Let's see if I can pull it off. Who knows, I might be able to.

And when I can find the right person to draw it up, I'll get it done, and I will finally join the masses of inked freaks.

It's all about the pain. The picture is just a souvenir.

TMI Tuesday

Even though this happened on a Sunday night.... Shut up, it sounded funnier in my head!

Me: *Sitting in the kitchen, watching food simmer on the stove and texting*
Redhead: *pulls curtain to hallway aside, walks into kitchen*
Me: Hooray for PMS. Ugh.
Redhead: .... *turns around and walks out*

I've been snarling the past couple of days, and now he knows why.

In other news, now that life is less ZOMGINYOURFACEDRAMA and panic-prone, with me finding a job... usually, for most people, that would make blogging schedules LIGHTER, with LESS posts.

For me, now that I'll be able to relax with the second income, no matter how small, it means there will be MORE posts, because I'll be able to actually THINK and be WITTY.

Watch this space!