It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

* * *

When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

* * *

Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

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Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.

I hate grocery shopping. Hate it hate it hate it. I just posted up in Facebook that I hate grocery shopping so much, I've been using my brother's toothpaste for the past week. I had finally given up the fight and went today, because I was out of lemons.

....be patient until I get everything in here up to snuff.

I remember (ever so vaguely) when I was a kid hearing the now familiar strains of the wordless version of "Suicide Is Painless." I'd be trotting upstairs to bed or whatever and hear my dad downstairs tuning into a show that I knew was about war, but never realized was a comedy. Until about 10 years ago when they started showing episodes on the Hallmark Channel in threes or fours after 10pm. Then, I'd use it to fall asleep. But wait, it's a comedy?? Heh, it's not so bad.

And so I'm hooked. I spent WAY too much money on the full series collection (plus movie) and occasionally I'll get the hankerin' to watch it...for the bajillionth time.

I was just watching another episode this morning and it occurred to me I've discovered a few things about the show that you might not realize were there, stored in the scary parts of my brain...

• Korea looks strangely like California.
• Now I know what a "merry widow" is.
• Now I know who Adolphe Menjou is.
• Hitler had a pencil box and it was in Korea, CA being hocked by a local indigenous personnel.
• Now I know where "I'm not so drunk as you think I am" came from.
• Same for "Why don't you let that cut under your nose heal?"
• The C.O.'s office had dirty, dirty windows most of the time. In the cold, it changed to frost.
• Colonel Potter got a male horse (gelding, stallion, whatever, I didn't look that close), but after the first episode where Radar gave it to him, "he" was thereafter named "Sophie."
• Henry Blake's wife's name was originally Mildred, later Lorraine.
• Colonel Potter's wife's name was originally Mildred and stayed that way.
• Acting newbs such as John Ritter, Patrick Swayze, Alex Karras, Richard Masur, Teri Garr, Andrew "Dice" Clay, Ron Howard, and Laurence Fishburne have had guest appearances. There are likely more, but I'm only on season four and can't store all the useless info in the world. Loudon Wainwright III appeared in a handful of episodes as well, decidedly new at his gig as guitar-carrying minstrel. I'm not sure if he's gotten any better at it, I haven't heard word of him since the M*A*S*H eps. Honestly, based off his performances in M*A*S*H, I don't care either.
  
• There was a place in Chicago near the Dearborn Street Station called Adam's Ribs. But there probably wasn't.
• Surplus items from World War II were not unheard of. Beans? From 1943? In the 50's? Ish.
  

Trish got me started again...

Creative Taxation I'd Like To See In the World:

I'm a fan of air quotes, but I'd like to tax the inefficient use of them.

I'd like to tax people who pay for commercials and billboard advertisements but don't proofread them first (btw, Love, it's "voila"...there's an accent on it too, I think, but I'm too lazy to try to figure out how to Hyper-text Markup Language it).

Trish wanted to tax people who use acronyms. I was once berated by my ex-boyfriend for using acronyms in conversation. DQ, BK, McD's. Apparently my acronyms used to only involve fast food joints. I've branched out since then. I guess I'd probably be taxed for this, but you won't witness me saying "Oh em jee" in a person-to-person conversation, unless I'm using air quotes. :0)

Let's tax companies that come up with misspelled words and/or mush words together with a capital letter separating the two for their businesses and products. Xtreme, YouTube, NetFlix, Facebook, GoDaddy, Xcel Energy, Bancorp, Xtreem...Xtreem? Really?

Extreme and the various spellings of it should be taxed all to hell.

People on scooters who think it's okay to park on my sidewalk five feet from my front door.

Smart Car owners.

Manufacturers who skimp on the tips of their cotton swabs.

Companies who send their bills with extra b.s. in the envelope.

Anything "As Seen On TV."

The person who invented reality TV.

The people responsible for over-hyping global warming.

Manufacturers who sell "green" bulbs with mercury in them.

The government for playing "Over-Protective Parent."

Whoever keeps swapping out my socks for hangers.

I don't use the bathroom much at work. It's not that it's skanky or anything, I just kinda don't stop to go. Get it? So on the rare day when I have one too many Dr. Peppers or the lunch went in sideways, I'm in there, staring at the little radiator thingy on the wall near the floor and I take stock of the frequent inhabitants, i.e. spiders. I don't know what the deal is. We aren't surrounded by woods at the shop. It's in the middle of an industrial park, but the spiders that somehow get in are radioactively enhanced. The kind of spiders you see on a boat as the sun sets, or the kind that thrive in the forests. Big, meaty spiders. And for some reason, they set up shop in the floor heater of the women's bathroom.

Normally, it doesn't bother me because if I do happen to need to use the facilities, there's really never any activity. Just evidence. And once, as I was staring at the carcass of a recently departed insect, I thought to myself, "What's it like to come back in the next life as a bug?" I haven't looked into this too much, but I thought that Buddhists believe that reincarnation is a series of evolutions toward enlightenment. Meaning, you come back as a new being in each life, correcting your past karmic errors until you achieve perfection of being. I might not be correct on that, but that's how I remember it. So, coming back as a bug. You'd live, like, a day. In the grand scheme of the Universe, human lives are but a blink of a cosmic eye. Imagine the nanosecond life of an insect. Eat, poop, make more of you, die. Short, without complications, hobbies, money, likely not even enough mind to experience the shock and horror of such a brief existence.

I don't think I'd mind coming back as a bug...as long as it counted, anyway, due to its sucky nature. Dung beetles should get to knock off credit for two lives. I don't think I need to explain why.