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!

Grief is a funny thing

[Kanye West - Stronger]

This post will have no rhythm to it, or purpose or point. This post will not be clean and groomed. This post will be raw emotion, flooding out of my fingers as fast as they can move. This post is a catharsis, for god DAMN do I need to get this out of my system before I go insane.

Here at Straight from the Snark's Mouth, I try to post things that you, my loyal readers, want to see. I try to leave out the drama and bullshit of my day-to-day life and bring you only the best possible content: shooting, art, baby-related awesomeness.

Tonight, though, I will do something I don't often do: I will remind my readers that this is my blog, started for my use. This blog is an outlet for my frustrations and anger, my happiness and joy, and though I don't often show it to you, great big Internets, it is still there. I try to word things nicely when I do talk about that drama and bullshit, so you won't think, “Oh, another emo moment from the mind of a self-centered young woman.”

Well, you can kiss my ass. If I want to vent, I'm going to vent. And so I shall.

I really shouldn't be so callous, I know. But I'm reeling from the sudden and unexpected death of a friend. His funeral was Saturday, and the Redhead and I, along with a group of about twenty of our friends, piled into every available vehicle we had and convoyed up to the city for our final good-byes.

It was a beautiful service, though many of us did not like the preacher that delivered the eulogy. He was trying too hard to push the message of accepting Jesus, but I suppose that is his job. And were I standing in his shoes, and looking out at the mismatched crowd there to bid final farewell to Luc, I probably would have done the same thing.

You could tell who was family in the chapel: clean and shaved, wearing somber dress and suit to show mourning, as proper. And then, scattered around those sharp-dressed mourners, were the friends that wept for the loss of Luc: the friends that he drank with, he smoked with. The friends that he practiced every last bit of debauchery alongside. We were not dressed as somberly as his family. No, we were dressed the way Luc would have wanted us to dress. Fuck fancy clothes, he would have said. Come as you are.

So we did.

We arrived, the contingent from Warrensburg, in a dozen cars and small trucks in various stages of falling the fuck apart, and stepped into the bright sunlight to the disapproving stares from family that did not know us. Band t-shirts, Tripp pants, leather and chains, spikes and tattoos bared for all the world to see. And tears streaming down every face as we grieved just as much for Luc as his family did. I wore an Iced Earth t-shirt that I met Luc in, and Redhead wore an Ozzfest t-shirt that Luc had given him. And even the most callous and unforgiving grudges were set aside as we wept together.

[Trapt – Headstrong]

We were relieved to see that Luc would not be laid to rest in a monkey suit. Never would his girlfriend, his partner, and mother to his children, Jen, allow such a thing to happen. No, he was delivered to the afterlife in jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather vest he so often wore, with his tattooed knuckles crossed and one of his many gothic crosses resting in his palms. The preacher told stories of Luc in his youth, and I, having only known him for a couple of years, was surprised to hear some of the things he said. We were reminded not to weep for him, for he was in a better place and free of the worries and strife that so plagued all of us, but such words mean little when you see his beautiful four-year-old daughter, Lillian, crying because she knows her daddy is dead and she'll never see him again.

Luc was the go-to man for parties. He threw the loudest, proudest parties in town, and was well-known for the trouble that was caused at them. People had drank, smoke, fought, and fucked at these parties, while Luc stood back and cheered everybody on. He was the king of Warrensburg's debauchery. Of course, he also tried to convince every female he met to sleep with him, and I was no exception. Most of the time, introductions to Luc ended up sounding something along the lines of “Nice tits, wanna fuck?”

And his death was so sudden, so out of the blue, that we were left gasping. Crass though he may have been, he was our friend and he cared about all of us in his own unique way. None of us doubted this, and as RC walked down the aisle, his t-shirt clutched in one fist to be laid in the open casket, we all were reminded that the feeling was mutual.

[Sick Puppies – Riptide]

And then, as the service came to a close and we all stepped out in the suffocating afternoon heat, sweat pouring down our backs and our faces as no less than a dozen men helped to carry the casket to the mausoleum he would be enshrined in forever, we huddled together under the shade offered by the trees lining the cemetery. We clung to each other for reassurance and comfort, tears streaming down our faces with no shame. That is the only time, I think, that many of us would see each other cry.

As they slid the wide casket, for Luc was not a small man, into the opening in the mausoleum for him, we all passed it in a single-file line. Hugging Jen and the kids, shaking hands with Luc's mother, and resting a hand on the end of the casket for a moment. Uncle Face laid down dog tags that they had made for Luc: he had earned the right to be a Hemp Knight. Jonathan pressed his forehead against the casket and wept. Another man removed his fedora and set it in the shadows.

[Nine Inch Nails – Head Like A Hole]

And then we climbed back into the ovens that were our cars, left out in the sun for three hours, and made our way home to Warrensburg, all of automatically going to the house that Luc and Jen were living in. Jen has, as far as I know, not set foot in that house for longer than it takes to get clothes and necessities for her children since she came home on her lunch break last Tuesday and found her boyfriend dead of an overdose.

Once everyone had arrived at the house, we began to celebrate Luc's memory in the only way that was proper: we drank. I was unable to beat my liver into submission, for bad weather was rolling in and I could not take Daniel to a babysitter, so I gave Redhead a hug and a kiss and wished him well, then took myself home. He crawled into bed at 6 AM the next morning.

The memory of Luc will live on in our hearts and minds, of that there is no doubt. We may not be able to see him or hear his voice now, every time we take a shot, hit the bong, light a joint, WHATEVER it is that your vice is, we will think of Luc.

Rest in peace, friend. We miss you.

Brain Vomit

You know, I was headed to the site to blog. I had a head full of random ass thoughts and planned and spewing them all here, in much the same way I do whenever anyone gives me pen and paper. I never have an organized thought system, it just sort of falls out in the order it occurs to me. It's brain vomit, it really is.

But then I actually got the the new post page, and my mind shook itself like an Etch-a-Sketch, and it's gone. So.

Brain vomit forthcoming.

Dear Internets

Have you missed me? I know you have. I'm sorry, I've been a horrible blogger and haven't put anything up in FOREVER.

And right now, I don't have any real content to speak of, but I do have something, just a lil' something.

You have raped my brain, Internets. It's a horrible thing to do.

Not for the faint of heart.

Love, Snarky.

Mother's Day

Parenting is a joy and a burden. Do I hear several 'Amen's in the crowd, as well as commiserating murmurs? Yes, I thought so.

In honor of today, Mother's Day, I bring to you a post I wrote some time back that was supposed to be a guest post on another blog, but never got around to it. Musings on my own insane crotch-spawn. Yes, I called my son a crotch spawn, get over it....

When you have your first child, everyone you know is quick to offer advice, tips, and tricks to help make that first month or so easier. Well, as easy as possible: the simplest tasks, like making a pot of coffee, become a hectic game of “beat the clock”. Will he fall back asleep while the pot is brewing? Can I steal a few minutes to down a cup? Gosh, I’m just so tired…!

All this advice is given, but no one ever really tells you the things you need to know. They all tell you, “You’re going to lose a lot of sleep,” but not a word is mentioned about just how far a human body can go on two hours of rest. You become super-human, discovering reserves of strength and energy, helping you to do dishes, try to clean house, make speedy runs to the store for more diapers or wipes. By the time you finally do get to catch a nap, you feel as if you could sleep for days. How come no one ever warned me about that?

We’ve all heard (and witnessed) the “Mother Bear Syndrome”: come between me and my child, and lives will be lost. Hearing the stories and truly living them is another matter entirely. Thank whatever deity exists, my son has never been threatened, but there have been nights early in his young life where I have woken up in a cold sweat from a nightmare of having my child taken away from me. And it wasn’t even a kidnapper that did it: Child Protective Services had deemed me unfit to raise my child and brought a foster family to my home to take him. Kidnapping may not be that common an occurrence any more, but with the way the world has turned, when it has reached the point of spanking your child gets you arrested, that particular bad dream could happen all too easily. I have never felt such a strong instinct to protect at all costs, and it can be shocking the first time you realize it has hit you too.

When you have friends who have spawned before you, they are always gushing about this milestone or that. You smile and offer congratulations, but deep down, you really don’t understand what the big deal is, am I right? That too gets flipped on its head when you bring life into this world. The first smile, or the first time your son or daughter responds to their name… It’s magical. You would willingly throw your life away to ensure happiness for this tiny pink bundle, swaddled in blankets and cute clothes. You make so many sacrifices to try and make life better for them with no guarantee that it will pay off in any way, shape or form, but then one day they look at you and their lips curve, their face lights up, and all you can feel is the instant explosion of happiness and joy: he smiled at Mommy. He knows you’re talking to him. He knows the scent of you, the sound of your voice. And suddenly, all the sleepless nights, the frantic worry, the hope you can make a better tomorrow, as cheesy and cliché as THAT might sound, all become worth it.

Parenting is by no stretch of the imagination easy, and to some people, the reward it brings may not justify the sacrifices you make. But that little smile, to those who do have children of their own to brighten their day, means more than the world.

Happy Mother's Day, folks.