Wendy's Blog

So I was cruising down the freeway this morning at my usual Batmobile speed, trying to break the sound barrier, when a light bulb popped over my cranium. What we rat race members need to do, is officially assign an appropriate name for each lane on the bustling highways and byways of America. It appears that people like me, who actually have to BE somewhere at a pre-designated time, are being held back by the folk who just can’t seem to find the gas pedal. Or the idiots yakking on their phones, having arm-flailing conversations with their passengers, while simultaneously stuffing an Egg McMuffin into their overheated jaws. Not to mention the yahoos going around the world to the left, who haven’t turned their blinkers off since 1983; a phenomenon observed by Jerry Seinfeld as “an eventual left”. And so, good people of the USA, here are some of my profound suggestions for lane names; movie-related, of course:

The Office Space: “It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I just don’t care”. This lane is reserved for those who really DO have to be at work, but just can’t seem to muster up the enthusiasm to go faster than 57 mph……in the fast lane.

The Clueless: “Why would I listen to you anyway? You’re a virgin who can’t drive”. This lane would actually be equipped like a car wash; the automobile is on tracks, so no steering is required. Thus, leaving both hands free for mascara and lip-gloss application, cell phone text messaging, and best-girlfriend socialization.

The What’s Up, Doc?: “Well, there’s not much to see, really, we’re inside a Chinese dragon”. For those knuckleheads who couldn’t find their way in OR out of a Chinese dragon, forgetting their exit until the very last minute, and veering through 3 lanes of cranky commuters in 5 seconds flat.

The Blues Brothers: “It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses”. Strictly for professionals, an 85 mph and over lane, where people, literally, drive like they’re on a “mission from God”.

The Forrest Gump: “Stupid is, as stupid does.” Either they just fell off the proverbial turnip truck, can’t speak in complete sentences, or are truly plain stupid. For all the boneheads who can’t seem to grasp the term, “merge”, I present this lane idea. If you can’t get your tired ass over long enough to let in at least ONE oncoming car, you get sucked into the vortex of a massive underground tube, shot into the bowels of a gigantic shrimp boat, and are forced to eat boxes of bad Russell Stover chocolates for eternity.

I am so in love with my family, it’s sickening. Here I am, in my cousin’s old childhood bedroom, staring at faded photographs, and not even recognizing myself. Pathetic. But, time rolls on, and I can’t be expected to look as good in a bikini, cut off shorts, and halter-tops as I did when I was 12. Which would be WHY I haven’t worn ANY of those since I was 12. When I was in about 6th or 7th grade, I was asked to write an essay about my favorite place. I chose my aunt and uncle’s house up in Redding, where the summers are hotter than blazes, and the Sacramento River plugs along with rafters cruising across her surface. http://www.ci.redding.ca.us/ But more importantly, it’s where I spent some of my favorite vacations as a kid, frying my skin to a crisp, feeding mallards, and swimming, swimming, swimming, until my toes were completely pruned.

Continue reading “REDDING REVISITED”

So before I begin the REAL blogging, here’s an idea that’s been floating around in my mind for weeks. Just because we’re SO sick of them both, I think Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise should dump their respective fiance’s, get married, have Carl’s Jr. burgers for the reception, jump on that Top Gun motorcycle, and ride off into the sunset. Or better yet, how about careening off the planet altogether? Are you people as TIRED of them as I am? All the smiling, preening, gushing, and couch-jumping-rolling-on-wet-cars escapades have made me want to channel George Costanza’s father “SERENITY NOW! And now, back to our regularly scheduled banter.

I think a lot of you will be hopping out of your socks when I reveal this tasty tidbit: Jethro lives. That’s right, for everyone who’s ever wondered what happened to Elly May’s cousin, listen up. He’s alive and well and I actually conversed with him at the IHBA Boat Drags a couple weekends ago. http://www.ihbaracing.com/ Well, I wouldn’t call it conversing; it was more like him babbling and me watching him bob and weave. His real name was Paul, but his pals did right by assigning him a “Beverly Hillbillies” nickname. http://www.timvp.com/beverlyh.htmlWith a cigar hole in his Salvation Army shorts, a tattered cowboy hat, 47 beers in his gut, a drunken Southern drawl, and the biggest, ugliest boots this side of the Rockies, he made his namesake proud. Git ‘er done!

You know, living in Fresno may not sound like a thrill a minute, but you’d be surprised at all the extracurricular activities one can find. For example, the boat races in Chowchilla, where streamlined machines scream across the water at speeds of 230 mph in under 6 seconds, and the noise is SO deafening, you think your eyeballs are going to pop right out of your sun-soaked head. http://www.ci.chowchilla.ca.us/ And you think that would be scary enough, but it’s not. It’s not watching the drivers’ helmets bobble under the pressure, or their lips peel back from their teeth, or that probable injury-or-death-by-impact lurks just seconds down the stretch. Nope, not even that. The most horrific, terrifying, run-for-your-life, blood curdling, excruciating-to-watch scene has got to be… well… the people. That’s right, the freaky human speed addicts. I’m talkin’ nipple rings, tattoos, plastic chin piercings, poster children for dental floss, fat chicks in pink sausage casings, cleavage for days, and bimbos teetering about on “sensible” 4 inch heels. You have to be one brave bombshell to strap on those babies, keep your balance for hours in the dirt, all the while trying to protect your precious pedicure. Brave, or really stupid, I can’t decide.

However, in all good conscience, I must give kudos to a few gals in the crowd, who deserve some honorable mention:

The woman wearing her “sensible” cork heels, and the shortest denim skirt I have ever seen in my entire life. That tiny piece of material defied all means of gravity, and almost gave new meaning to the term, “bottoms up”.

The several 20-something girlie-girls who courageously pranced about in the world’s teeniest, tiniest promotional bikinis and “sensible” shoes, while fearlessly standing in line at the porta-potties from hell. If only they had pockets for some hand sanitizer.

And finally, the brash broad who strutted about in a neon blue bikini top, spilling over with the most gigantic, amazing, jaw-dropping, traffic-stopping, not-jiggling-an-inch-even-if-there’s-an-earthquake “bolt-ons” I have ever seen on display. I don’t think I could tell you if she was wearing “sensible” shoes or not — and neither could anyone else.

I attended the races with the usual suspects; Flaming Ass Girl (sister Jill), her boyfriend Toxic Gas Man (Jeff), my roomie Cinderella, and their cool cohort, Gordi. While Jeff was up to his elbows in grease as part of the “Problem Child” pit crew, we wandered the grounds in search of Race Chic apparel. With cranberry vodkas in hand, and 12 inches of dust on our flip-flops, we made several contributions to the local vendors fund. Cinderella received many a wolf-whistle with her “boys” hangin’ out, Jill drank her body weight in Coors Lite, http://www.coors.com/ and I endured singed nose hairs and blistered eyes from the nitrous oxide boat fumes. Whew, talk about a head rush; I think I may have destroyed the very last of my brain cells with that stuff shooting up my nostrils.

All in all, it was quite the eventful day. I made a management decision not to return the next morning for the finals, basically because I couldn’t hear anything, sleeping ’til noon sounded much better, and my “sensible” shoes were at the cleaners. But to all of you courageous race fiends who DID go back, I salute you. It takes a lot of pluck to soldier on two days in a row. It takes a valiant effort to pace your way through the beers and cocktails. And it takes a lot of guts to stand up to the Nazis that are the Chowchilla police force, with their serious stares and rental uniforms. I’m convinced they were responsible for the rather stern roadside sign that read, NO GOLF CARTS, NO BATHING SUITS, NO THONGS. No thongs? No thongs?! Wow, I’m surprised everyone didn’t just turn around and go home.

So I turned 44 a couple weeks ago, and never in all those years have I ever heard this particular phrase; “I call you — you give me number”I SATISFY YOU. It’s okay; I’ll give you a moment to digest this. I’m absolutely certain you can only hear an offer like this at “The Brig”, which is our local neighborhood hangout; in layman’s terms, it’s a dive bar. It’s the kind of place that opens at 6:30 a.m. and closes around 2:00 a.m., but only because the law says they have to. And there really are cars and pickups and motorcycles planted in the parking lot at the crack of dawn, and still there when they sweep up the last cigarette butt.

But back to that proposal — it was, well, weird. Weird, strange, and funny all at once. I kept saying that I didn’t give out my phone number, but what I really wanted to tell this guy was that he could just find it on the bathroom wall. In any event, this offer was given to me by a very nice, but very drunk gentleman from Rhodesia, who was visiting the bar with a couple other friends. It turns out they were all substitute elementary teachers, who were hankering for some late night Saturday dance moves. Cinderella and I, as usual, were more than willing to oblige. We enjoy The Brig, not only for the atmosphere, but also for their vivacious and personable band known as “The Real Deal”. They’re comprised of a drummer with cornrow braids and beads, a guitarist with a very strange instrument (hey, get your mind out of the gutter), and a fabulous bass player who sings his heart out. Not to mention, gives Cinderella lovely foot massages and has a sexy bald head. They play absolutely everything under the sun, and have been known to take even the silliest requests such as “Brick House”, “Fast As You”, and “I Got My Hash Pipe” — my sister Jill’s personal favorite tune. Unfortunately, Flaming Ass Girl wasn’t there to participate in our boogie-woogie, disco-down, air-guitar moves. Boy, it sure was tough trying to have fun without her, but we somehow managed. Must have been the cocktails — or the pool playing — or the suave, debonair pickup lines.

And then, there are The Brig regulars. At a place like that, you MUST have some regulars. Apparently, they only show up on Friday nights, because not a single one of them could be found seated atop any barstool that particular Saturday. And the frightening thing was that we actually missed them. Yes, we missed the tall brunette with the shortest skirts this side of the Rockies, who seems to be stuck in 1985. She likes leather minis and fishnet gloves, and works her hips like there’s no tomorrow. And then there’s the “pirate” — ah yes, the pirate. He favors leather chaps, boots, a kerchief on his head, and a big gold earring. ARRRGHH. The very first time we saw him, we didn’t actually see him, as we did SMELL him. Boy, this guy is the ultimate poster child for Right Guard Extra-Strength. Whew, it was like that little cloud floating around Pig-Pen, but about a million times uglier. Plus, he has this suggestively bizarre way of dancing with his arms crossed, over his crotch, that’s really not fit to print. Hey, this is a PG13 blog. I’m not quite sure what look he’s going for, but I think it’s a cross between Johnny Depp in “Pirates of the Caribbean”, and “Captain Hook”. It’s an image, go with it. But no matter how strange or normal the crowd, we gals always seem to have a glorious time. We enjoy the funky bunch, the consistently creative band, and the bouncer with the most fabulous mullet since David Spade hit the big screen as “Joe Dirt”. I think everyone should have a place to call their own, like “Cheers”. We all need a welcoming environment, whether it be a place of worship, a place of beauty, or just a place to be ourselves. At the end of the day, don’t we all just want to be accepted? Don’t we all just want to be loved? I think we all do. And hey, if it takes a pair of Sharon Stone stiletto heels, or the mustached sneer of Captain Morgan, then go for it. You too, can be the real deal.