assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy, political commentary

Yes I Am Female, Shopping for Funky Shoes, and Men in the Women’s Locker Room

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Big meaty man hands, but what can I do?

I am not a typical female, but I never claimed to be typical.  I generally get along better with men than I do with women, because I tend not to be weepy and emotional like most women.  I also get into “manly” things like cars and heavy metal/hard rock music.   I’m more like one of the guys in a lot of ways- but I’m far from butch.  (Yes, I am very much a biological and a straight female, should anyone even think to wonder.)

In spite of my mostly logical and practical self, I do have a weakness that is well known among women.  I love shoes.  I have over 100 pairs of shoes  (that probably shouldn’t be considered a bragging point) and I have some pretty funky ones.  Sunday I was out with Steve-o as he had pretty much trashed his one regular pair of shoes, a rather distressed pair of DCs.  He had decided he just had to have a pair of the new Nike Airmax shoes but he wanted them in sort of a (ha-ha) conservative color.  He does not like bright colors and bold patterns the way that I do.

So dragging me into a shoe store is generally not a good idea, because I will find the one over-the-top shoe style, and they will inevitably have it in a size 7.  Even if they don’t, I will find a way to order it in a size 7 if I want it bad enough.

While Steve-o is mulling over the various black shoes in his size (and really having a hard time finding an Airmax shoe in his size that wasn’t neon green and/or pink or rainbow colored) I spied the ultimate pair of Nike Shox.

shox

Wanna get ’em.  Gotta have ’em.  They are on the way.

As Steve-o decided he wanted the shoes he tried on at the other store, I thought I would behave myself and not buy anything.  I didn’t- then.  I ordered them yesterday online.

He ended up with black and orange Airmax shoes.

airmax

Similar to these- fairly dude friendly.

I saw a protest on Facebook (and when isn’t there a protest on Facebook) against some health club called Planet Fitness.  Apparently men are allowed in the women’s locker room if they “identify” as women- even if they have a sausage and two meatballs. Okay… and if I “identify” as Marilyn Monroe- or Marilyn Manson should I want to be catty- does that make it so?  If my black cat Jezebel “identifies” as a dog, does that make her one?

Planet Fitness is committed to creating a non-intimidating, welcoming environment for our members. Our gender identity non-discrimination policy states that members and guests may use all gym facilities based on their sincere self-reported gender identity.

WTF- piece of politically correct drivel?!

As a woman who is really not into strange people getting off on staring at me in varying states of undress, and I am certainly not into unauthorized people touching me- male or female, this joint sounds like a place for women to avoid.

Unless of course, I want to pretend I “identify as a man,” so I can go on in the men’s locker room and enjoy the sausage show.

I bet the boys would really enjoy my old cougar ass checking out the buff young studs.  I bet that policy would change with the quickness.

As far as locker rooms go I am all about the modesty factor.  I don’t want anyone gazing at my train wreck of a body- especially women because to me that’s ultra mega creepy- so I get dressed in the cubby behind the curtain.  That way it really doesn’t matter who “identifies” as what. They can “identify” as a 1993 Ford Escort for all I care as long as I’m left out of it.  I “identify” as a woman who doesn’t want strange people -male or female- looking at my nakedness, and is against strange people-male or female- touching me.  See how easy that is?

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Here’s my latest cross stitch work in progress.  Yes, it is relevant!

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary, theology

Blessed Be the Automotive Technicians, and More Unconventional Prayers

flash me bored

Shame on me for what was running through my mind last night when Pastor was talking about how being an automotive technician must really be a calling from God.  I was giggling to myself.  Yes, it is, when you stop and really think about it, but my mind is a bit jaded from being around these guys for so many years.

I guess I never really thought of technicians as having a calling, or a sacred trust, even though I have read some of what Martin Luther wrote on vocation.  I grew up in and around automotive shops, and let’s just say the experience didn’t feel exceptionally holy.  When the name of God was mentioned, it was usually followed by the word “damn.”   Dad isn’t a particularly salty dog with language- he did try to clean it up around women, anyway, but all of his friends were.  One of them (and yes, being the geeky little creature I was, I counted) managed to use a certain four letter word that starts with the letter “f” an amazing thirteen times in one sentence.

f-bomb

Dad had a good friend who was into really primo vintage VW restorations. The man’s body work was absolutely pristine- but his private shop where he did the restoration work was completely wallpapered on the inside with nudie pictures.  They weren’t tasteful nudies, either. These were porn-star nudies in filthy poses. Worse yet, at least for me, all the nudies were women, and therefore not particularly aesthetically pleasing to me.  But it was his shop, and boys will be boys.  I’ve supervised technicians before, so I get it.  It’s like running a day care, only not nearly as cute.  Many of these “boys,” in spite of their knowledge, training, and areas of technical prowess, have an emotional maturity age of right around 12.

car-wash-fail

Until the mid 1990s or so it was common practice for parts stores and automotive suppliers to sponsor and give out promotional calendars with either completely naked women or very scantily clad ones.  Those sort of things don’t really offend me as such- what else would Dad’s buddy use to wallpaper his shop walls-but the promotional nudie calendar fell out of favor probably as a casualty to political correctness.  Sometimes women do venture back into the nether regions of an automotive shop, and we wouldn’t want to offend their virgin eyeballs, I guess.

I don’t believe in political correctness. I’m more of the type to say, “If you don’t like it, don’t look at it,” even when it applies to tasteless nudie calendars.

If you don’t like my Ronald Reagan calendar (and yes, I really do have a calendar from the Reagan Ranch) nobody said you had to look at it.   I am more tolerant than maybe I should be in some ways, but there are some battles worth fighting, and some battles that I’ll gladly concede to avoid the conflict.

don't feed the employees

Protect your chili dog.

I knew of one techie who would grab a big bag of chow (or two) from Burger King every day. He was a tiny, wiry red-headed dude (somewhat reminiscent of a 5’1″, 90# version of the Burger King, interestingly enough) who would pack down about 5,000 calories or so worth of Whoppers, fries and other delectables every lunch hour.  The pisser was that he was the transmission guy (a very busy guy, back in the days of the 700R4s and their constant meltdowns) and he never bothered to wash the ATF and/or CV grease and/or U joint lube off his hands before stuffing those Whoppers down his throat.

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Greasy burger with a side of Dexron III.  Yum.  Maybe it was the Dexron III that kept him from gaining weight.  Or maybe he’s just one of those enviable individuals who can eat like it’s the end of the world and never gain an ounce.  Bastard.

I wonder if he’s still alive.  That was back in 1993.

I have to wonder if his wife’s still alive too.  She was every bit of 6’5″ and 450#.   She wore the Suburban she drove on those days when she brought her man his Whoppers.   They would sit together and snarf Whoppers.  It would have been romantic if…nah…you can’t read anything remotely amorous in to that.

In all seriousness though, the message is that life and work are supposed to mean something and to have a purpose in this world.  Even if I don’t get what that something is.

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