Dear Velocity channel...

Hellooo there people from the TeeVee who will never read this, I would like to provide you with tips and suggestions for improving your products. Totally free of charge too. Think of the money you're saving on focus groups you are clearly not using anyway.

Now I'm just a fluffy bimbo with a fake law degree and a real license to Glam, but my credentials include being daughter of The Bob and wife of the Mr. Buffie. I do believe that qualifies me as a legitimate gearhead.

When giving someone less than positive feedback, you should begin with a compliment. So let's talk about what you're doing right. 

"Overhaulin'"

Perhaps I'm biased because I sense the same wizardry in Chip Foose that my dad and husband share.

This show has a wonderful premise, mischievous fun with 'the mark.' Shop 'drama' is limited to unexpected issues with the vehicle. Not trumped up soap opera theatrics between bearded apes in bowling shirts.

The end result never fails to bring a smile during the reveal. Good vibes, "Overhaulin'" brings them.

"Wheeler Dealers"

British accents. Moving on...

"What's My Car Worth?"

Informative. No petty fake bickering or tantrums. Interesting and unique cars and only a few annoying American style awful yodeling auctions along with proper, fun to watch, British style auctions. 

Not a bad list, eh?

Here are some shows you're almost getting right.

"Graveyard Carz"

Mopars are in the blood. And these cars in addition to Mark's knowledge, it's gold. But the constant in-fighting? Bitch, puhleeze. If I want to see a bunch of divas having spaztasms I'll watch "RuPaul's Drag Race." (Which I love, btw.) Sure, Mark can serve but queens shame him without even trying. Oh, and, THE SHOW DOESN'T NEED IT. Why put bad mojo in the air like that??? Stahp.

Assorted other information, how-to type shows are fine. Some are too in-your-face with the sponsored products but I understand you gotta keep the lights on. 

Good things you could be doing:

Show us films or documentaries about the people who have shaped the various automotive achievements or unique hobbiests and/or builders such as "Urban Outlaw" featuring Magnus Walker.

I realize you have a "Girls' Garage" show but it's boring and I couldn't make it through a single episode. Why not simply introduce more women into your existing lineup? What's wrong with throwing a touch more girlie appeal up in there? You can only stand to increase your advertiser base. You know I'm right. Huge untapped market, friends. The boat. You're missing it. 

Things you are doing flat ass WRONG:

"Texas Car Wars"

Where do I even begin with this hot mess? Ohkay, the narrator is all 'Dukes of Hazzard' (AKA Southern accent) and he should have gone totally Tommy Lee Jones (Texas accent). Then there's the headliner fabric in the Hobby Lobby bag. Omfg, what reputable shop would ever be or remain in business without utilizing professional wholesale suppliers of automotive upholstery? Like, hi, please tell me that isn't for real. All these shops have questionable business practices at best. Why can't you make a real version of this show? I'd watch it. Good shops are out there. Find them. 

"Barrett-Jackson"

I realize you didn't start this fire but you're letting it continue to burn so shame on you all the same. This unwatchable swill has obliterated the market and nearly destroyed the shade-tree hobby for everyone but the very wealthy. Not. Cool.  If you must continue with this absurdity, I insist you replace the auctioneers with Christopher Walken, Gilbert Gottfried and Jeremy Clarkson. 

I've also noticed your lineup includes no "Top Gear." There are 14 seasons of episodes and specials from which to choose. Show them, maybe? (And no, nobody wants American Shitty Top Gear so don't even think about it.)

Well, aside from designing my own line of custom vehicles for your shows to create, that's a good start for you.

When shall I expect to see the beginnings of Glambozation on Velocity?

And lastly:

You're welcome!!! 💋😸💖

I'm still here

If someone asked me in 1990 if I would see 2015 and I was forced to give an honest answer and not some diplomatic fib, I'd have said no.

No because I didn't think I'd survive the torment another four years. No because they might have pushed me into violent, criminal acts. No because of substances or recklessness generally. 

Against my own odds, it really is 2015. And I'm still here. 

Scarred, weak at times. But better off than I ever expected to be. Better off than maybe I deserve. 

2020, 2025, the honest answer, I think definitely maybe. Perhaps hopefully.

Directions are as much a mystery as they ever were. Sometimes my ego lets me have the delusion of steering my own ship. Reality is that seas change without warning and we are all very tiny organisms in a universe so vast, many refuse to fathom because the idea of it is too frightening. 

The universe doesn't scare me, though. 

If anything, its vastness is what gives me hope that maybe there is a meaning to this life.

Small words. Simple sentences. Easy to digest.

Come gather round the gas-fueled indoor fireplace and I will try to explain this as succinctly as possible. 

If you think you understand what it is like to walk a mile in anyone else's shoes, richer, poorer, a different gender, race, size... You. Have. No. Idea. 

While you are at it, just do this thing real quick. A Google search. You're already on the Internet, hello!

Look up, however you'd like, just a few things, three at the most, about the effects of poverty, violence and ignorance on ALL of society.

Yes, shocking, I know. Experienes different than our own may yet affect our own experiences. Can you imagine the concept?! (Ohkay, I'll stop being sarcastic.)

Really though. Could all the OLD, RICH, RELIGIOUS, WHITE MEN please shut the fuck up about how it is to be poor, black, gay, female or speak with an accent?! Honestly, just shut up. Not because you need to just shut up but because you need to LISTEN for a change. 

There. I'm done. That's all for today.

Stuck

I joke that I should rename this blog 'Where bad moods go to die.' And I should. And it is. 

Today will officially be over in a few hours. Tomorrow, a new one begins. All I can do is wake up in the morning, put my feet on the ground and stomp at the obstacles as hard as I can. Those that fall will fall. Those that don't, well, I stomped as hard as I could. 

The moment I thought my tool bitch days were over...

Wrong! So wrong. What was I even thinking?

Sure, I'm excited the old Dodge is running again. It makes Mr. Buffie happy and we share a love for horsepower. But seriously, I am ready to retire from Tool Bitch status for good. 

When dad was here, he and Mr. B were under the car, fixing (sort of) a transmission fluid leak. And I make the big dumb mistake of wandering into the garage. One 'hey, hand me a 7/16 shallow socket' turns into a sweaty, mosquito-infested two hours of 'I need a rubber mallet' and 'can you find that wrench I just had,' 'you need to hold the light here for a second (or ten minutes).'

And in spite of my insistence that Tool Bitch was done with their greasy grossness, my protests were ignored. Instead the two of them gang up on me, threatening to make me eat thank-you-drive-thru for dinner and trying to imply that working on a car that hasn't been driven in four years is somehow a favor to me. No, no. I need no favors. I have three other vehicles I can drive, thanks. 

I did eventually get a real dinner. But I smelled like old fuel and I wasn't too happy about it. Daddy's little gear head may like her internal combustion engines, but she's paid her dues being elbow-deep in cleaning solvent, with a wire brush, scrubbing gunk of all manner of sharp and awkward to hold objects when she could have been inside an air conditioned house happily playing Barbie with her Siamese cat. 

I guess I'm always going to be Tool Bitch. It's time to accept my station in life on that front. But can I get a goo-proof suit and an air-filtration mask, both in pink please? I think I've earned it by now.

Wellbutrin Aggression

A few months, weeks, months, something ago, Mr. Buffie was chirping in my lobes that I'm emotional and bitchy even though I practically walk around with a Cymbalta drip.

Two, maybe three visits ago, I told the shrink he was on my case and she was like, fuck all, you don't seem as bad as you have been. Her mouth didn't say 'fuck all' but her eyes did. Cymbalta is a tricky med and she needed time to research a cocktail companion for it that wouldn't side-effect me into zombification or kill me with serotonin syndrome.

Welcome to Wellbutrin.

First few weeks, eh, don't really notice much. A bit more energy maybe. Definitely more manic, which I seriously don't like. But something new has cropped up. Wellbutrin aggression.

If all my family and friends were to make lists of the top 100 most aggressive people they knew, I don't think I'd make it onto a single person's list. That probably isn't the case so much these days.

I've always been a snot. Maybe even a brat. I'm an only child. That's what we do. It's who we are. What are parents going to do if there are no other kids around whose needs must be met? We onlys can hardly be blamed for it if we got all the things, all the attention, all the time.

Now if you're feeling sorry for Mr. Buffie, fucking stop it.

He knew immediately that I am a princess. How? I told him. I'm a princess. Oh, you want to date me? Well, jump through these flaming hoops first, prove you are employed, housed, vehicular'd and worthy, then I'll discuss it with my parents and consider it.

Snotty? Yes. Aggressive? Not even. More like matter-of-fact, simple, silly.

Lately though. Tonight for example, on the way home from some local Italian place that isn't going to last until Halloween, he told me that dad is thinking of upgrading his still practically new Mercedes. RAGE! I saw red. I actually screamed. Mr. B knew WHY I was mad but he couldn't figure out how I arrived at /that much/ mad.  (Daddy and I are close but our relationship, especially when it comes to money, is complicated.)

Next time I see my dad, he better hope he's not in anything newer than 2010 or made in Germany or I am going to beat him with a tire iron and take away his wallet.

And there's a dickhead in our neighborhood who has been severely butthurt for the past six months about the retiree across the road who parks his POS Suburban in the street because there's not enough room for it in his driveway between his boat trailer and his wife's little econocrap. And their garage is too full of old people crap for the boat trailer or the wife's car to fit in there.

What does dickhead do? He or she hoooonks every time they drive by. Morning, noon and night. It's a blue Ford Explorer. They drove by at 9:47 tonight.

You, whoever you are reading my shitty blog, anyway you know I have fibromyalgia which means I don't sleep well. And the retiree is a nice man who likes to go fishing at 4 a.m. but otherwise, he keeps to himself, doesn't hurt anyone. Next door to us is a quiet, young family with a special-needs toddler in addition to a baby. Across the street is a woman recovering from a heart attack. Across the corner street is an older, single woman who keeps her house and lawn perfect and doesn't bother a soul.

So Honking Dickhead is irritating all of us with this BULLSHIT because they have to move a few feet into the other lane to go around 4 a.m. Fisherman's Suburban?! IS IT REALLY THAT MUCH OF A PROBLEM, DICKHEAD? I don't think Fisherman is getting your point, either. Because you've been doing this for a long time now and let me look out the window... Hey, there's a big white Suburban right there, legally parked in the street. Current tags, operational, fully inflated tires and all.

Wellbutrin has had enough of the honking. Wellbutrin doesn't want them to honk anymore. Wellbutrin is just about to set up camp in the driveway and shoot out their motherfucking tires if I hear one more honk within 15 miles of this whole damn town. The scope on my .22 rifle is ridiculously accurate and the high-capacity magazine will give me more than enough opportunity to perforate that mostly-plastic SUV and if tires don't send the honker a message, maybe shooting out the glass will? Maybe I'll make myself a set of stop-sticks with some gutter nails and a nice piece of wood, painted black so they don't see it at 9:47 in the p.m.

Wellbutrin aggression is just getting warmed up. My middle finger has never been so busy. Shitty drivers, you are all STILL on blast, btw. After the uninsured wonder twins made short work of Sir Hiss and my truck last fall, I remain convinced Mr. Buffie and I are the only people in Kansas City with insured vehicles. I operate my car under the assumption that no one else on the road has it. If someone so much as sneezes near Ramon, Imma be on the evening news. "Crazed suburban fat woman was jailed today after using a very large purse to beat a man..."

Those are a few examples. I feel like I should try to sleep but frankly, I'm still kind of pissed off about the Italian restaurant (I told him it was a bad idea) and my dad's pending NEEDLESS vehicle upgrade and the honking, and the people whose driving was so terrible, I was a legit 10 minutes late to work this morning, my brain is a soup of irritability, I can't even...

If you're the honking asshole in the blue Ford Explorer, I joke about shooting at your car. As a responsible gun owner, I will only shoot at you if you try to break into my house or try to steal my purse or threaten me/my family/my cats physically in some way. HOWEVER, your days of disturbing my peace are numbered. I haven't decided yet how to deal with you (law enforcement in these burbs is a joke, it's all about grabbing cash, not protecting nor serving) but when I do, let's hope for your sake I'm off the Wellbutrin.

Shit is dangerously close to getting real, f'real. I've been depressed before. I've been manic before. I've been angry before. But typically not all at the same time, not for such long periods and never at this level of intensity.

Wits end... That's where Wellbutrin Aggression lives. And I'm there.

The answer is: Mr. Buffie.

The question is: Who is the secret love-child of Jessica Simpson and Adam from Mythbusters?

But how is this possible you ask?  I'm not sure but I think it might have involved a black hole and an alternate universe.  Let that soak in for a moment...


Mr. Buffie has just discovered that Apple upgraded their earbuds.  He's listening to them on my iPhone, which is identical (except for color) to HIS iPhone.

And he's asking me if it has EQ and I'm like, I dunno, look under settings.  (He's listening to music on my Pandora app.)  So he pokes at the phone, then shows me the screen, which is my social media app folder and he says, "Where?"  "SETTINGS, on the Home screen.  Press the Home button."  He pokes at my phone a few more times.  "The HOME BUTTON!"  He looks at me, still confused.  "THE ONLY BUTTON ON THE @#$%^&*&^%$#@ PHONE!!!"  He /STILL/ didn't figure it out.

Three different wrong choices later he FINALLY, F I N A L L Y figures it out.
Then just now, he goes all Jessica Simpson on me and asks, "Are you listening to Pandora?  Is this Pandora that you have on here?"  Uhm, it says PANDORA right across the top of the app.  Is this chicken, what I have or is it fish?

But he can build a tool to repair an engineering flaw in the pulley system then repair the electric seat adjustment module in Sir Hiss in less than an hour, then change the rear brakes and fix a leaky seal on the truck and manage to have time to work my last nerve, watch endless car shows, read endless magazines and produce an hour-long news broadcast every day.

Oh wait, there's more!  He was giving ME shit a couple weeks ago for not having my email sync'd on my phone.  Because his AMERICA ONLINE EMAIL (nice one, gramps) is sync'd with HIS iPhone, so my face.  As if.  He used to carry a flip-phone with an actual rusty nail haphazardly epoxied into the antenna hole and it also had tape on it and damn, that thing is was busted. as. hell.  He didn't even have a mobile phone when we met.  I had a mobile phone AND a pager.  Yeah buddy.

Anyway, this man who lives in my house and makes loud, grouchy noises is equal parts absolute brilliant wizard and completely drooling moron and not much in between.  It's like evolution didn't happen in some parts of his genetic history.  There's still too much caveman in him or something.  And part alien.  Weirdo.

Hi.  I'm Mrs. Weirdo.