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1984 Trans Am. Not quite mine, but as close as I could find.

She was beautiful . . . the perfect balance of flash and class . . . long and lean with just the right amount of curve.  Her voice had that low, throaty growl men are powerless to resist.  She inspired desire in all that laid eyes on her and no one could avoid looking.  She was every teenage boy’s wet dream and the answer to any male midlife crisis.

She wasn’t my first dance, but once I felt her power surging through me as the pavement was devoured by her sleek, sloping frontend, there was no going back.  She forever eclipsed the allure of the petite, foreign cuties I had boogied on down the road with before.   I sold the TR8 and let the spouse-of-the-moment have the Alfa Spider.  I stopped lusting after the 911. 

There was something about the weight of her and the way her low-profiled, 101-inch base hugged the road.  I was never happier than when I was wrapped in her butter-soft leather, Recaro seats pushing the RPMs toward redline.   She was raw power and sex appeal.  She was in-your-face with not one wit of apology about her.  All-American muscle – built-to-spec down to the factory-painted, Vette louvers on her rear window – she was special ordered by a retired cop.   He may have had her built, but she was meant for me. 

I left her behind with all my other dreams when I fled to Washington.  She was a California girl in every respect.  It’s where she belonged.  T-tops and ground effects weren’t designed for the road and weather conditions where I was going.  I needed four-wheel drive, not cross-fire fuel injection.  My heart broke as I watched her pull away ablaze in all her glory . . . seducing her new driver as she once had me.

I couldn’t replace her if I wanted to . . . she was a once in a lifetime love.  I’m good with my current little, front-wheel drive, fuel-efficient model.  It meets my needs.  Still, when I close my eyes, I can feel the wind in my hair as I would fly down the open desert highway – tops off, engine in overdrive –  behind the wheel of my ’84 Pontiac Trans Am.  Don’t call her a Firebird or I’ll have to hurt you.  Anyone even thinks firechicken and they’re going down!  And you thought I was going to be all serious and stuff.  *wink*

Written for The Mindslam Write Wednesday Prompt – If you could pick any car/truck/suv right now to have (past or 0present), what would it be & why?

Mountain View, California and Bangalore, India

I have a new blog friend, Ari. Okay I have a lot of new blog friends (hi!), but this one happens to live and work in Bangalore, the Silicon Valley of India. Mountain View, California is called the Silicon Valley and I used to live in California. We’re practical related. Anyway, I found Arindam UnPlugged one day while I was out tag surfing. I came across his post The Indian Signal Spectacle and laughed my ass off. Read it, you won’t be sorry. Besides, it helps this post make sense. Well . . . maybe not, but read it anyway.

The whole time I was reading his post I was stunned by his client, Steve from Chicago. Mr. Chicago seemed to be shocked and dismayed by the traffic customs in Ari’s metropolis. “Surely, Steve has driven or, at the very least, ridden in a car somewhere in the US of A,” was the thought that replayed in my head all the way through the post. I just hate it when people misrepresent and now find I must correct Ari’s impression of driving in America.

The first thing to strike me as odd was when the man from the windy city asked why the other drivers at a long stop light were honking their horns. Really?

This question actually came from a resident of one of the horn-honking capitals of the world? Standard hand placement on the wheel of the vehicle accommodates one to steer and one to honk. Honking is practically a national pastime. Fines up $250 for using the horn unnecessarily have been implemented, but no one seems particularly concerned and the clamor of toots and blasts continues unabated.

Steve’s next moment of amazement came as the result of a cyclist cutting between vehicles. Come on Steve, you never wanted to “clothes line” the twerp in the latex shorts and plastic helmet dodging in and out of traffic? Please.

“Steve had come in from a culture where people are accustomed to follow lane discipline.” Oh yeah, we have exceptional skills when it comes to staying in our lanes. No one ever curses some nimrod motorist straddling the line or cutting them off after flying down the median. Perhaps commuters in India have figured out how to deal with a tight squeeze, but we’re still having a little trouble with that one.

We also have a quaint custom of communicating directly with our fellow drivers. We are passionate about it and make sure we practice every day.

This interaction can be verbal or non-verbal and conducted through the use of hand gestures, signs and, of course, the car horn. There are some media types that like to exaggerate and call it “road rage,” but it’s really just friendly conversation. Our way of letting our compatriots on the road know how we feel about their brilliant driving skills.

Yeah, driving in good, ole America is a walk in the park. Just make sure you have 911 on speed dial, your pepper spray close at hand and emergency foodstuffs in the trunk for those really bad traffic days. And please . . . don’t forget to honk if . . .

Remember Bruce Campbell in the Army of Darkness?  “Give me some sugar, baby.”  Ash used the line ad nausuem in his pursuit of Sheila.  Sure, eventually he got the girl, but remember, at one point, she turned into a horrible, screaming banshee and tried to murder him with her bare hands.  There’s a lesson in that.

Gentlemen, listen.  Women want to be seduced.  I don’t care how long you’ve been together, the female of the species is wired for it.  You know that any little, romantic gesture and we go all mushy on you.  So how is it that you haven’t figured out the things that turn us into horrible, screaming banshees?  I’ll give you a couple of clues.

There is nothing sexier than being dry humped while performing household chores or anything else for that matter.  I’m always overcome with passion when a man emulates a sex-crazed Chihuahua.  Nothing says I love you and want you like a good dry humping or more effectively activates the pleasure center in the female brain.  

I’m also particularly fond of it when my guy confuses my breasts with Harpo’s horn.  The booby honk (single or double) is among the most seductive moves in any man’s repertoire.  What foreplay would be complete without it?  Oh, and please don’t forget to enhance the moment with a verbal “honk, honk.”  We really like that.

Last, but surely not least, is what I like to call the “Junk Jiggle.”  Most common right after a shower (thank god), this dance of seduction is sure to send any woman into orgasmic bliss.  Sexy, clean man enters the room naked.  So far so good.  He then proceeds to thrust his pelvis back and forth while grinning, winking and nodding.  And they say romance is dead.

There are ways to seduce a woman that will literally make her weak in the knees and guarantee she will be yours.  Then there is the monkey with a football approach.  Sure, the monkey is cute and funny, but do you really want to bet your sex life on it?  So . . .

You want to take a ride on my slip and slide?

I don’t understand death and loss.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I’ve gone through the process any number of times and the length of my list of dead and gone is colossal.  I have had careers die.  I have had love and passion die.  I have had my trust and my heart stolen.  I have had friendships drift away.  I have had marriages end.  I have had family that I loved dearly taken away.  Gone are houses, more than a few vehicles, massive quantities of other worldly goods, innumerable pets and most of my sentimental memorabilia.  I have lost my art and my lifestyle, even my freedom for a time (no it wasn’t prison).  Most everything for one reason or another, at one time or another has left me. 

Sure, there were reasons.  It’s not like I don’t take care of or am lackadaisical with what is important and necessary.  I’m not a total loser, only a part-time one.  I’ve worked hard for what I’ve had, but there have been some nasty obstacles to overcome and it’s likely I could have made better choices at different times in my life.  I could make you weep with my tragedies, but what would the point be.  I stopped crying long ago and learned to find a way to keep living.  It’s not like there is really any other conscionable alternative.  You breathe in and out.  You place one foot in front of the other.  You put your big girl pants on and continue.

I’m certain everyone experiences loss and death during their lives.  It’s part of life.  I get it.  I just don’t understand why it has to be so friggin’ hard or why there has to be so much of it.  I mean, you work your ass off and poof!  I learned a long time ago not to hold anything too tightly.  Never get so attached to a person, place or thing that their loss will destroy you.  Not that I haven’t been devastated many times over.  I have simply learned it’s an unavoidable part of life.  Still, this last couple of years, I’m starting to feel like I’m enduring my own personal seven plagues of the Apocalypse and I gotta say, even I have my limits.  I mean . . . really?  When is enough, enough?

Okay, the house burned . . . not all of it . . . what was left of the possessions went into the basement and rebuilding began.  Hey, I got a return on investment for years of insurance premiums.  The basement flooded . . . salvaged what can be saved and moved on.  I had to leave my job . . . so what, I had more time to deal with the rest of the chaos and I’ll get another.  Right?  Oh yeah, the cars that burned with the house and had to be replaced . . . was it really necessary for a tree to fly out of the sky and smash one to smithereens?  No problem, nobody was hurt.  Forget about the furnace that quit working . . . piece of cake . . . it doesn’t get THAT cold and what else are sweaters for anyway? 

It’s just stuff.  Belongings I loved and needed, but things that can be replaced to some degree . . . over time.  Fire, flood, storm, destitution and deprivation . . . did I leave anything out?  None of it is anything I’m gonna lose sleep over and the little every day disasters don’t even qualify for honorable mentions.  Would I have rather not have gone through it?  Of course . . . part-time loser, not mental defective with masochistic tendencies.  To hijack the old saying . . . been there; overcome(sic) that; got the t-shirt; and donated it to the Goodwill years ago.

I’ve got to say I’m having a bit of a problem with the pestilence.  I call it pestilence, but it’s really the black death of our generation . . . cancer.  It has struck all around me like a pharaoh’s curse.  I’ve thought perhaps it’s just that I’m getting old enough to start anticipating my friends and loved ones will start dropping like flies.  Hell, I’m not Methuselah, just your average middle-aged woman.  I’m not yet so elderly to begin a daily perusal of the obituaries to see who checked out today.  I wouldn’t think I should be partaking of that particular oldster’s pastime just yet.  Besides, it’s not the variety of health issues we expect our elders and peers to experience as youth fades.  It’s just freakin’ cancer.

I know I’m not alone in my struggle.  All you have to do is turn on the tube to see the extent of suffering in the world today.  The media frenzy is crushing with the 24-hour-a-day, play-by-play commentary of the havoc being wrought by man and mother nature . . . earthquakes, floods, tornados, hurricanes, draught, wild fires, oil spills, nuclear meltdowns, government breakdowns, stock market crashes, fiscal failure, home foreclosures, environmental devastation, starvation, terrorism, war, revolution, riots, child and drug abuse, murder and all manner of mayhem. 

We do seem to be circling the drain and I – for one – am getting pretty flippin’ tired of this crap.  Even I need a bit of down time between catastrophes and I’m better equipped to cope than most.  It is incomprehensible to me how some of the peoples of the world are managing to survive at all.  Almost everybody I know is experiencing tribulation of one sort or another.  No one’s sorrow is more or less significant than another’s.  When it happens to you, it is the worst thing you can imagine.

I’m making a formal request and sending out into the universe. 

Do you hear me higher power that I’m not sure how to address properly?  If you’re listening, I know a whole lot of us down here could use a break, so if you could/would . . . please.  I know I’d appreciate it.  We could use a hand, big time.  Anything would be a nice start.

While I’m waiting on an answer, I don’t plan to just sit on my duff.  I’m going to care for those in my charge as best I can; help others whenever and wherever I may; and try my damnedest to just breath.  To that end, I’m going to resurrect this all but abandoned blog.  Writing is precious to me and I love blogging.  I just let the calamities in my life squeeze it out.  I’m doing it for me and hope it will not be morbid and morose.  It may seem trivial to some, but there isn’t much I really have any control over these days.  This I do, so I will.

Dear Readers, I wrote this the end of September with the intent of posting it then but just kept putting it off.  I decided I had stalled long enough.  I don’t know if my higher power is working on getting us a little relief, but you all have been vital in my efforts to revive this blog.  MDR’s rebirth has exceeded my wildest imagining.  I will never be able to truly show you my appreciation, but I do . . . Thank you.

Note:  The first smart ass that points out there are only six plagues here will immediately have a plague visited on them.  I’ve already made the arrangements.

I’ve become accustom to the laptop sounding like a 747 at take off when I power it up, but the internet beastie just sits there quietly doing whatever it does.  What possible reason could it have to electronically implode?  No stress, no strain.  It’s never been dropped on its head.  It’s never been sprayed with soda or showered with food crumbs.  It’s never been on any of the seven hour road trips bouncing around the back of the Kia shoved between boxes of vintage treasures.  Nobody ever fell asleep on it drooling into the keyboard.  Nobody ever stepped on it or kicked it across the room.  Nobody ever sent it a virus.  It just sits in the corner and works.  It is also by far the newest piece of technology I own. 

“Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage.”  Okay, push the Diagnose Connection Problems and wait.  Contact your Internet service provider . . . have they ever tried to contact my ISP or any ISP for that matter?  After 30 minutes of patiently explaining to some moron with a script that I cannot connect to the internet, I am finally transferred to an idiot that wants to remote access my computer.  Okay, I’m no freakin’ computer genius, but doesn’t my current problem prohibit that?  After 30 additional minutes of escalating frustration, the ISP monkey figures out that he can’t remote access my computer.  They are sorry, but it must be a hardware problem.  “Please hold while we transfer you to hardware support.”

Ten minutes of promotions telling me about the plethora of amazing products and services offered by my ISP and 20 minutes of explaining the problem only to degenerate to pitiful begging not to be transferred back to the moron with the script, I’m told, “Please turn the unit off and back on.”  Right, just crawl under the end table after moving the coffee table to shove the heavy-ass, over-sized, oak-framed chair-and-half out of the way.  It is, of course, now necessary to continue my troubleshooting efforts under the table as the connecting cables and cords are too short to pull the beastie out to comfortably examine it.  I soon determine there is NO on/off switch.  I am smart enough to locate an on/off switch should one exist, but convincing the yahoo on the phone of this is a monumental undertaking.  “Please unplug the unit from the power source, wait 5 minutes and plug it back in.  That will resolve the problem.  If it doesn’t, call back.”

Do I have to tell you?  After 30 minutes of not-so patiently explaining to a second moron with a script that the hardware yahoo was wrong and the plug/unplug operation failed to result in a satisfactory resolution and the idiots that want to remote access my system will be of no help, I am finally transferred to a hardware baboon.  Baboons have a greater level of expertise than the monkeys, morons, yahoos and idiots combined.  This baboon requests I locate a long, slender “poking device.”  Now “poking device” turns out to be a technical term for paperclip.  Locate the small hole in the back of the “unit” and insert the “poking device.”  This should result in resetting the “unit.” 

Hurray!  Success!  With the assistance of the ISP baboon, I have now erased the program set up I paid the Geek Squad to perform.  Why did I pay the Geeks for this service?  I paid so I would not have to fight my way through confusing instructions and hours spent on the phone with my ISP to get the beastie to perform in the manner it was advertised to.  ISP baboon assured me it is a quick, simple process I can perform myself.  No problem, just locate the now-long-gone instructions I received at the time of purchase or simply go online to get a copy.  Did I mention I had no Internet connection?

Thanks be to those kind souls that are the friends of the friends of the friends that donate their time and energy to the benefit of penniless strangers in electronic distress.  My savior is only twelve, but due to the genetic manipulation of your species by the master computer planning to take over the earth, this child was born with a knowledge of technology that four years of college and 20 years of working with the beasties has still eluded me.  I don’t know how this wonderkid did it, but I’m back and hope it will be a long, long time before I experience my next foray into the world of computer troubleshooting.   All I can say is . . . Bless the beasties and the children.

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December 2022