Auto Erotic

I have been to a variety of live entertainment events, but this was the first time I have ever been to a burn out contest. The church that I frequent holds an annual car show and tire burn, but I have never quite fully comprehended it's appeal before today. Yes, my church is unorthodox in sponsoring such an event, but they want to reach out to those who would not normal feel welcomed in a house of worship. No bingo players or potluck eaters here. Nothing conventional about this place. Or the people who were in attendance.

It was a beautiful dog day afternoon. I was styling in my new marimekko tee shirt and had worn my biker boots to fit in with the crowd. Hubby and I took our sons and a couple spare neibhoorhood boys and hit the place full of ethuseasim. The kids soon left us to shop the vendors and admire the rows of gleaming cars and motorcycles . Hubby and I ate pork chops on a stick and danced to some blues rock music the band played from the roof of the church. Ok, I danced around my husband, as he stood there trying not to look embarrassed.

It was worth going to just to people watch. It is a different caliber of people who attend car shows. Lots of middle aged women squeezed into too tight of jeans and dirty leather halter tops. Men with mullets wearing faded tee shirts that read, "Have a good day, fuck someone!" or better yet, "Show me your tits bitch." I watched one befuddled man, carrying a twenty once beer stagger between rows of cars until he came to the front doors of the church, where he proceeded to sway his way inside, still holding his beverage. He immediately came back out and looked up to read the name of the church on the huge sign over the building. Shaking his head, he set his bottle gently in the large sand ashtray on the side of the door and entered again. His beer was safe until he came back out to finish it.

We were front and center on the bleachers when the tire burn out started. A special slab of concrete had been poured for the event and the concrete barriers kept us all safe. For two and a half hours, contestants from all over the states lined up their vehicles for their chance to strut their stuff. The fire truck stood close by, as one by one, the took their turn on the strip.Holding their front brakes on, the revved their engines, causing their back tires to spin and smoke. The more smoke they created, the louder we cheered, and if they managed to blow their tires we roared. "Mom, are you ok? You look kinda sunburned. Oops! Sorry Mom, didn't mean to drop my sticky icy on yah. It will wash out. Does your nose feel like it is coated in hot rubber too? I gotta pee. The loud rumbling of the engines cause my bladder to vibrate. Take me now." "There, K2, the bathrooms are right in there. I'm going to look at this tricked out jeep while you go. Be right here when you come out." I am looking at the car of my dreams. a jacked up red jeep CJ7 customized. I walk by too close and hit its chromed side mirror and bend it slightly ascrew. I frantically try to straighten it before it's owner spots me raping his car. Proud car owners are very peticular about people touching their babies. "Kay!" I hear a male voice close by my ear. No one calls me by this shorten form of my name. It is to intimate, too public, I am momentarily at loss. "Hey Kay, do you like what you see?" It is Bills voice. Only he ever called me that. I do not want to turn to face him. I cannot wait to spin and get a look at him. "Bill! You know what I like. " The juvenile little girl inside me could not resist. She prayed he could not see her soul shaking on the inside. We had both shared a common love of jeeps. And of each other. I should of known such a beautiful automobile would belong to him. "Been a long time. How are you doing?" Right now I am so utterly wonderful, I can not tell you what I am doing here or where I parked. Shut up with the small talk. Just let me look at you before you profess you undying love to me. "Wonderful. I'm wonderful. And it looks like you are doing good too eh?" Go ahead, give me the signal. One motion and I hop in this car with you and we drive off into the sunset. Give me a reason. "Still got your red wrangler?" The one we laid across the hood on, watching the stars and drinking champane from each other lips? The one you would sneak over and polish for me before you left a flower on my seat? "No, I drive a Cherokee wagon now."I cried as I watched that wrangler pull out of my driveway for the last time. Same as I cried after telling you goodbye. "Mom, here I am. Let's go see the smoke." "Is this one yours?" "Yes, one of them."That is what fleeting across his face? Surprise? Disappointment? Envy?I do not think to make introductions. I just stand and grin as K2 tugs my hand impatiently and takes off a cross the parking lot towards the bleachers. "I have to get back to my family now." Oh shit. I forgot I have one. If my legs work, I will try to tear myself away, but right now I am memorizing your handsome face and your words to relive at every available moment. "Well, it was sure good to see you again Kay." My tongue is paralyzed. I have nothing to say. I have a world to tell him. "Your still as beautiful as ever." I smile and wave and turn to run a catch up with my son. "Who was that man Mom?" "An old friend." "Did I ever meet him before?" "No, I knew him before you were born." "Did you know you got meat stuck in between your front teeth?" "Where's our seats, I need to sit down." The contest was won by a large 2003 pickup owned by a local pizza delivery owner/driver who blew his tire and burned with his hazard lights blinking and his pizza sign lit up as he spun. I bet that pizza man dreams of this day every day he works.
The grand finale was a monster truck that crushed a line of cars for Jesus. It was driving by an older man who resembled a member of ZZ Top in a jumpsuit. He stood on the danced across the roofs of the cars he was about to demolish with his mike in hand, thanking the good Lord for the cars he was about to crush, I let out a gaffaw of delight. I'm not sure of the correlation between the son of God and pulverising junkers with an oversized truck, my head was back in the smoky clouds, at that point, but I'm sure it was profound.

Touch of Desire

It was his hands. His paws were the one and only thing that attracted him to me that night. Everything else about him was quite unexceptional, bordering on flat out repugnant, but I burned to have his huge mitts on me. Envy is what I felt for the glass he was holding. I wanted to be fondled in its place. How dare that vessel receive his touch when I, myself was so empty. My own little world had recently disinagrated around me, and all I could think of was the pleasure his hands could give my needy body.

I was out of my element as I watched him from my stool. An awkward alien in a bar room and stranger still to intoxicants. My own glass of wine had given me a warm liquid feeling. As I stared at him over my own glasses rim, I pictured myself doing the backstroke into his arms. Save me. Comfort me. Please make me feel something other than pain. I had lost my land legs, I realized, as my legs waved below me when I slipped off my chair as he finely motioned me over.

It could have been easier had I known what I was doing. All I needed to say was simply, "touch me", and it would have saved me some valuable caressing time. He could have cradled me in the palm of his hand, or wrap me around his little finger. It didn't matter. All I wanted was his grasp.

Never Say Never

As of yet, I have not ever:

Been stung by a bee or hornet. They like me I guess.

Climbed through the little trap door in my closet ceiling leading to my attic. I have lived in this house four years now. Don't wanna know.

Had my molars pulled.

Sang in public. I would rather give a speech naked. (All those years in chorus, faked.)

Gotten my motorcycle endorsement. Cop sees a chick on a Harley and assumes she is legal.

Made a scrap book.

Driven through a big city without uttering the phrase, "Look at all those big buildings Punky!" (Going back once again to my friend Punky who knocked himself unconscious walking downtown Winnipeg while looking up at the sky scrapers and walking into a pole.)

Had my hair done without bleating like a manic rapid hyena when the stylist washes the hairy regin around the top of my ears. (One particularly sadist hag caused me to jump out of the chair, and I would not return until I had her promise I could finish rinsing myself.)

Failed to laugh at any reference to Monty Phython.

Gone to a wedding with my husband. Not sure ours even counts. There were seven of us. Eight if you count K2, who was two weeks away from being born.

Studied all night. Don't have it in me.

Wished on a falling star. When I do see a spectacular blur, I am in too much awe to think of myself.

Fly on My Wall

"I'm going to start taking good care of myself."
"Good, I've wanted that for you for sometime", I answer not looking up.
"You know, eating better, exercising everyday."
"Yup, I'm so with you there honey."
"No more pop and junk food". By the direction of his voice, I can tell his back is towards me. I hear the rustling sound of plastic unwrapping.
"Umm yeah baby." I continue reading.
"I will either run or bike with you every morning." The sound of his clothes hitting the floor as he sheds them reaches my ears.
"That will take some dedication on your part."
"I got it in me. Oho-Woah!." Snapping sounds ensue.
"Ok if you are serious, I'll take you with me."
"Oh. My. God. Where's. My. Dog. This thing totally rocks!" I hear his feet dancing on our wood floor and look up over my book. His back still to me, his near naked buttocks moving in the rhythm of a happy dance.
"Glad to see your joy there bucko."
"Get the camera. This is too kwel."
"Ok if I can show the picture to your next girl friend."
"Deal. She will have to think it is kwel too."

An eight year old becomes a manly man when he gets his first nut cup. If playing football brings him half as much fun as his athletic support does, I have succeeded as a mom. Let the games begin.

I Dream of Weetabix

Growing up on the Minnesota- Canada border, the only television channel we received was channel 5, CBC, short for the Canadian Broadcast Company, out of Winnipeg. Looking back it was a good thing, having been brought up on bilingual Sesame Street and such shows as Chez Helene and Mr Dresshop. Mr Dresshop was the northern version of Mr Rodgers with his trade mark expression of "Oh Gahrue!" The only downfall, however, to this diverse programming, other than being only exposed to news from a totally separate country, was their commercials. The advertising, was similar to the American versions, I'm sure, but they taunted exotic and unavailable merchandise that could not be had here in the states. Bubbly Areo Chocolate bars, Arco coffee, and the one thing I lusted for most in life, at the age of eleven, Weetabix.

Weetabix cereal appeared to be wholesome, fun, and exotic all at the sametime, that combination very appealing to restless young diabetic. Although we lived very close to the border, my parents had never ventured the short distant across the river, figuring they had traveled all the way from Scandinavia, and did not need to go any further, especially a country that had even less Nordic population. I, on the other hand, was driven by my stomach and reckless abandon.

With the help of my cohort Valerie, I hatched a plan. I was not allowed to ride my bicycle on any paved roads, my family not only being wary of forien countries, but also tourists who might abscond with the likes of me. I could, with the prober amount of pleading, make it to Val's house, six miles to the west of me, via back roads. I lead my overly worried parents believe that is were I would spend the day. I made it to Valerie's house fine, but then with her in tow, doubled back, on our ten speeds, the fifteen miles to the town of Baudette and it's border bridge. Val would be my scape goat, my accomplise and my guise. Valerie was a quarter Chippewa Indian. With the heavy French and Native American population in the town of Rainy River, Canada, I figured we would be less likely to stand out as run always. Rainy River was considered a bad town. It was, after all ,on the wrong side of the tracks. All this planning for the taste of cereal.

We were both relieved and somewhat disappointed when all it took for us to get across the bridge was a quarter each. No proof of identification or alibi was needed. We were ecstatic if not tired as we peddled across the river into unknown territory. Our excitement soon pasted once we discovered the town of Rainy River to be smaller and even more desolate than what we had come to expect. As a matter of fact, the town had basically nothing, other than three bars and a gas station. The gas station did not even sell food stuffs we soon found out. We should have turned back at that point. But our quest and hunger was fueled by our strenuous ride.

Rainy River, did however, hold a restaurant on it's far outskirts edge. The Beef Hut was a relatively new building owned by Asian immigrants. Our plan b was to simply order a bowl of the much desired cereal at the cafe. Unfortunately, to our disappointment, after much confusion with our non English speaking server, we were brought hamburgers. Naturally there was no Weetabix on the menu. We barely had enough money to pay our bill, with the different currency rate and had to scrape up enough money by assaulting the penny dish by their cash register.

The disappointment of our unfulfilled hunger lessened once we realized, not only were we in a strange country when we were not supposed to be, but we now did not have the funds needed for the bridge fee to return home. As much as we wanted to throw down our bikes and blubber like the nieve little school girls we were, Val and I could not create a seen and be discovered in our ruse.

The adrenaline it took for the two of us to push our bikes along the dizzyingly high railroad tracks across the river and back into the states, got us most of the way back home. Val's mom, a tuperware dealer returning home from delivering plastics, spotted us on the side of the road, doubled over with leg cramps. We caught hell for being on the highway. We let our parents believe we were on our way to my house. The whole trip into Canada was never brought up.

I have since been back into Canada many times since that first time. I had just plain forgot about Weetabix.

I was in my local grocery store the other day, doing a fast power shop. I cut through the health foods isle because it always has less congestion while on my way to the bakery department. Midpoint in the isle, out of the corner of my eye, at ankle level, I glimpse a yellow and blue blur of a box, with a W in it's title. Yes I was going that fast. I grab the handle of my cart and screech to a halt, causing my pretzel rods to to slide off the top of my loaded cart (weight in motion, resistance-force in effect). "Mom!", yips Y2 in startled protest as he picks up the broken snacks, and turns to look at where I have kneeled down on the floor in front of the organic foods.

I could not believe that they had my elusive cereal in my very own grocery store. How long had it been here? Was it the real deal or just a bad watered down version like so many American made copies of an original? There was only one box on the shelf. I hugged that box tightly to my chest all through the check out line and home.

As I ate the entire box of nectar like weatyness, I could feel my leg muscles convulse with joy. An aura of adrenaline warmth filled my satiated body. The food was somewhat bland in my mouth, but the flavor of the memories were exquisite. What tasted so good to me now, would have only been a disapointment at the age of eleven. Yes, it was worth the trip. Now.

Such A Lovely Waste

He died in a single car crash. I just got the news. But I am done grieving Scott already. It was a process I started long ago. He taught me what love was. Not that he showed me any. He made it clear to me what it was not.

Scott was as handsome and charming as they come. And twice as evil. Son of the local sheriff, he was raised in a strict catholic family. He taught me how to hot knife hash in the front seat of a stolden car when I was fifteen. His girlfriend was cheering at the basket ball game at the time. He was older, richer, slick as a snake. My parents thought I was safe with him. I was never in more danger. I learned to always keep him at a long arms length.

I discovered later, was his older brother, the dealer, who's stash we had used. The car belonged to parish father who lived across the street from Scott. That was back when Scott was doing small time crime. After his girlfriend became pregnant and was sent off to the cities, Scott cut a deal with his dad and left town in the dark of night to avoid prosecution for an area crime spree. He spent a year working on a fishing boat in Alaska. Excitement followed him, mostly in the form of board young teenagers. He moved into my apartment for a short time in collage, right before we were evicted.

I heard he married a local girl. She would make the three hour drive every weekend with his mother to visit him in the state penitentiary. She had to love him. She was heart broken when he left her, apon his release, for their eighteen year old babysitter.

So many opportunities in his life time wasted. Or did he just grab every one he seen and let the rest of us learn from his painful mistakes. I only know he did leave many a beautiful corpse.

Two Truths And A Lie

Once, sometime ago, during an emergency visit to the E.R. in Crookston, Minnesota, for dehydration due to hyper emisis, the Dr., doing my work up, asked if I was experiencing any abdominal pain. I admited that yes, I had some, but had not noticed it previously, so the doctor probed my lower belly with his hands. Seeing me wince as he did so, and wanting to explore futher, the examining doctor pulled up my exam gown to find the cause of my belly ache. I had put my panties on sideways. One of the little leg holes was around my waist, causing my discomfort. I could hear the staff laughing all the way down the hall after that damn Dr. shared this information with his staff. Never did find out what caused my nausea.

When I was six, I was in the back seat of my parents old Buick station wagon, which my father named Dino, on account of it resembled the dinosaur from the Flintstones, during a Sunday afternoon drive. Being board beyond belief, with no radio or siblings along for entertainment, I wanted to see what would happen, if I were to open the door. It was easy for me to do so, as we were traveling at a very slow speed. As I watched the tall grass of the country ditches move past, I knew I would be safe if I just "stepped" out. I did, but rolled into the ditch at a much faster speed than I had imagined. I was ok, only a little befuddled. Unluckily for my parents though, the town cop was behind us. His lights alerted my folks to my mishalp. When the kind officer asked me what had happened, I answered, trying not to get myself into trouble, "My parents threw me outta the car, like an old duck." No citations were involved as that was way before the seatbelt ordinances.

When we moved into our first house, my fridge was a horrible olive green eyesore, circa 1970, complete with Strawberry Shortcake stickers that would not come off. When I asked my hubby for a new appliance, he told me, "No it is a beautiful running machine." I hated that ugly beast so much, I sanded it down, while hubby was at work in Green Bay, Wisconsin . I then went to the Harley store and picked up the same teal blue paint as my bike. I "customized" my fridge complete with replacing the chrome on it's handlem, and neon orange detailing along with a large Harley logo sticker complete with flames, across the freezer door. Hubby hated it, and upon coming home, offered to buy me a new appliance immediately. I would not let him do so, as in my mind I did then have a truly beautiful machine. I didn't let him replace it two years later either when it would give you a shock if you touched the metal handle while standing on a freshly washed floor. Three years later, we did get a new one after it quite running all together. (The cord had been cut.)

Two truths and a lie is a game geisha ladies would play with their courtesans back at the turn of the century. Everyone was to tell two true stories and one make up one. Wanna play?