Touring-A Weird Life unto Itself

Dear Readers:
I haven’t talked about touring (as an entertainer coach driver for bands) in awhile. Sometimes, I like to forget that part of my life.

Biceps and I have the occasional rendezvous, but it’s nothing like packing up your life for two months, riding around the country seeing what most never get to see, stressing out over mountain passes and sudden snowstorms, babysitting lead singers that you used to idolize, and watching girls disrespect themselves so that they can have a story to tell later on.

It’s a weird and isolating life.

With a flipped schedule from most normal humans, you get to see cities when they are at their quietest. Often, the only people you talk to throughout the day are other bus drivers (which isn’t always a bonus), the checker at the Flying J and your hubby (if you are lucky and his bus hasn’t broken down somewhere).

Biceps sent me an article found in Spin magazine highlighting the life of a tour bus driver. The article said that they are only 12 female tour bus drivers in the U.S.. I don’t know if I was counted or not, but even if there are 13 of us-we are quite the minority.

Throw in the fact that I wear a dress when I drive, change the oil in the generator and do my pre-trip inspection, I am in the smallest of minorities.

I both love(d) the life and hate(d) the touring life. But with time, you tend to forget the worst and focus on the best.

I loved spending Thanksgiving in a Chinese restaurant in a deserted downtown with only Biceps and a styrofoam container of Mu Gu Gai Pan. Depressing at first, I soon realized we had never spent a Thanksgiving alone, just him and I. It became pretty romantic even if we were eating off of plastic forks.

I loved being invited to the home of one of our coastal living crew members and then promptly being stuffed full of fresh caught crab, corn, potatoes, beer and death-by-chocolate desserts.

I loved seeing the weird stuff in cities that make me laugh outloud. I’ve seen enough cathedrals, city halls and monuments to last a lifetime.

And I loved being so bored on long drives that Biceps and I began to name the bug splatter on the windshield, come up with personalities for each of them and write their obituaries.

And isolation isn’t always bad. Enjoying sunrises and hot cups of coffee on deserted city streets with your best friend is calming.

I can handle the drunk lead singers, dragging my luggage through gravel parking lots, a snow goose breaking my windshield on the last day of tour and waylaying me at a truck stop for two days in Canada, having my anniversary outside of a bait shop, all because I was on the adventure with my best friend.

Touring is a weird life unto itself, but at least I was with my weirdo husband and I (think) loved every minute of it.

I want to date him so hard.

Biceps and I have been rather busy for several weeks. It seems as though we are two ships passing in the night. Something’s gotta give.

I promised a “death till I part” and I meant it. Plus, there isn’t a single soul out there better suited for me, more willing to put up with my weirdness and more good looking than this specimen.

He even looks good eating pizza. Shoot, he looks good even when he doesn’t look good.

I think it’s time for me to take the bull by the horns, plan a date and quit waiting for him to have the time to do so. The man is working his buns off to provide a roof over my head.

When God blesses you with such amazing handsomeness, it’s no time to stand idly by. I’m thinking we need to Netflix a Rick Steve’s-the Amalfi Coast episode possibly, mix up some bruschetta and light some candles.

You know what I mean.

Why leave it up to him to plan all the romantic shin-digs? It’s time to get in the driver’s seat. Vroom.

Did you know? Get to know Potholes….

You may be a relatively new reader here at Potholes and Pantyhose. Or, you may have suffered with me through the Iweb times. Or, you may be here for the first time and wondered what the heck you were doing here.

You may have decided you wanted to create me…

…married me, grew up with me, go to church with me or have never met me (much to your benefit, I’m sure). But, here you are, reading about me, learning who this weirdo is, as if I matter.

But, there are a few things you may not know about me or my life. And, maybe after this post, wished you didn’t know. Just in case you want to feel a little more normal today, did you know that:

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The sound of a crow cawing makes me sad.

Click on the “Photo Source” to hear the sound for yourself. You be the judge. Happy or sad?

My husband has an altar ego on myspace (of all ridiculous places) named “KrunkTymeK“.

We had a house that blew up.

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If attending a large function, I tend to color coordinate people-meaning I rearrange people in my mind so that they “match” their surroundings. Thus the reason I tend to sit on the first or second row in order to not be distracted by my freakishness.

I am licensed to drive one of these, and did so for David Copperfield (yes, the magician with gigantic eyebows), the Flaming Lips and other “famous” people. They all still have morning breath just like the rest of us.

We were told that Cowboy was a “Cowgirl” until we went to get “her” fixed. God rest his/her soul.

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I almost died choking on one of these when I was a stupid kid.

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And last, but certainly not least, clowns freak me out for obvious reasons. I mean, seriously. Come on.

Small Town Coffee Time

I grew up in a rather small town. The Dutch Maid grocery store tripled as a gas station and a post office. After morning farm chores were finished, the old men used to gather at the Daylight Donuts-without changing their boots. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of confectionary sugar, burnt coffee and cow dung.

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There were no “salons” or “spas” in my hometown. I had my hair cut by a man named Noel at his shop that still sported a swirling red, blue and white barber pole.

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We waved at everyone driving by-especially if we were on a rural road.
And a newcomer was easily recognized for the lack of the “two-finger-lift-while-still-holding-the-steering-wheel” wave.

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That said, Biceps grew up in a town roughly 4% of the size of my town. They have one hanging stoplight-recently switched from a flashing yellow to a full-on green, yellow and red.

Image Credit: David Friedman/Getty Images
The video store doubles as the town’s tanning headquarters. And there is still no place with Wi-fi when one certain blogger goes to visit. (me).

I miss my small town-I even miss Bicep’s small town. Just a short drive outside of Tulsa, I find a bit of that flavor once again in Muskogee. Biceps began the Fire Academy today and I decided to accompany him on his adventure.

I packed up the laptop, some snacks and threw on my comfy-but-cute shoes. The only free Wi-fi in Muskogee happens to be at McDonald’s-which is also the only coffee shop open before 10am.

After setting up camp in the corner on a hard plastic bench, I noticed a peculiar amount of gray hairs infiltrating the burger joint. This was their coffee shop.

And they knew I didn’t belong. It might have been that I asked for a ‘tall’ cup of coffee. They felt the need to protect their turf, slowly adding me to their circle, to make sure I was on the up and up.

“What’s a pretty girl doing here all alone at this time of day?,” one asks over his shoulder, as if I was at a bar at 2am.
“You look like Cher,” another states on his way to the bathroom.
“Well, Cowboy, what’re ya doing today?”, the first one asks of his buddy who just walked in. “See that girl over there. She’s working hard.”
“I suppose I ought to head to the library,” Cowboy responds, nodding in my direction. “I have a couple overdue books I ought to pay for. I remember the fines used to be a penny a day. Now, they’re probably a dollar. She is working hard. We shouldn’t bother her.”
“Mh-hm,” said my Cher complimenter.
“We don’t want to bother you while yer working so hard on your laptop,” said another. “But did you know that they threw my newspaper away yesterday when I left it for just a minute?” (I did not see the need for this information.)
“They don’t speak English. So he just bought another one,” said Cowboy.

And on and on it went. I couldn’t quit smiling, laughing and being just a bit nostalgic for home. The only thing missing was cow poop on their boots and donuts in hand.