Honestly, I wish I hadn't.

That looked like a woman who had never shot a gun before. Her dad loaded the rifle for her (and reloaded it, actually). Her dad worked the action every shot. She asked if it kicked which means she hadn't shot the gun prior to going out in the field. She missed how many times?! ...While using a rest and the animal standing still and broadside? And what's possibly even worse is that she seemed proud of this and thought it was okay to put this on television?

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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So instead of thinking about that and raising my blood pressure and getting a migraine, today I was thinking about one thing that consistently brings me very rare joy (besides reading powip, of course): the cinnamon roll. As I was licking that hot, sticky, sweet goodness off my fingers I realized: I would like to be a cinnamon roll. It's a complete little package of perfection. Just think:

-Cinnamon rolls are quite common, yes; but a great one is something unique and magnificent.
-The simple happiness of enjoying a great cinnamon roll is unrivaled.
-Delicious hot or cold.
-Can be eaten primly & properly but best when you don't mind getting a little dirty and just use your fingers.

And my favorite, that very best, last piece, the center in all its delicious, gooey, sugary glory. Divine.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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I hope Leslie Petersen learned the lesson that photoshopping fish just doesn't pay.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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On the card this image was only about an inch and a half high. Not something you'd pay much attention to. At least, until my dad said, "But that's a walleye. And she has fly-fishing waders on. You don't fly fish for walleye. And who holds a fish by the tail?"

Then I looked at it. "She's not holding it by the tail--she's not holding it at all. There are no fingers going around the tail." Pause. "That's not even a real fish! That's a clipart fish just imposed on her hand!"

So I guess Leslie Petersen thinks the people of Wyoming are stupid...and we might be, though she is the one using the incorrect "insure" (should be "ensure") on her campaign materials.

But what do I know. I'm just a dumb hick. A dumb hick who won't be voting for Leslie Petersen or her fake fish.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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It was getting a ton of comments and tweets and was noticed by Important People. Dan was so excited because with all the increased traffic, new visitors were reading his stuff, seeing what a genius he is and he was getting noticed and donations and he'd finally hit the big time. Jimmie Bise wanted to interview me on his podcast and I just remember thinking, "But I'm just a stupid girl. I hope he doesn't ask me any hard questions."

Unfortunately, I have no idea what I wrote in that post that was so brilliant and life-changing.

To paraphrase Tenacious D: the peculiar thing is this, my friends...that post I blogged on that fateful night wasn't actually anything like this post. This is just a tribute.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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I grew up at a beer distributorship. I was able to run most aspects of it by the time I was 18. By the time we sold the distributorship, I was handling the marketing, the tech, the office, and ran two presell routes. One of the classes I had to take in massage school was Business; there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part. My classmates said, "With your business experience, shouldn't this class be extra easy for you?" I said, "No. Because one thing I learned actually running a business is that business theory is stupid." (Possibly interesting side note: of everyone in my class, I am the only one who started a business.) In my first year, when business was close to nonexistent, a friend of mine said, "See. Maybe you should have paid more attention in business class." (I'll leave it to you to guess whether we are still friends.)

But my problem, the cause for my crappiness, isn't something I could have learned in class.

My tragic business flaw is my insistence on perfection.

Right now I work two jobs: I'm a massage therapist and I detail cars. Both are doomed. Doooooomed, I tell you!

When I first started detailing to make extra money (I say "extra" but really, it was to make ANY money at all) my mom drove me nuts. We have a checklist for each car, and a certain price and a certain per hour wage we try for. Long after I thought a car was "finished" my mom would still be nitpicking, fixing this or that, vacuuming this one last time, polishing just this one little thing. This meant the customer was getting more than what they agreed to pay for and we were also making less as a result. But now I do the same damn thing. I hate to let a car go that isn't "perfect." Shitbox cars ruin my day because they are either ruined beyond help, so no matter how much work you do they still look like crap...or you'd have to work on them for days which means I'd make about $5/hour (or even less). Or we could charge $500, which would give our customers a heart attack.

Today we finished a 1989 Jeep Cherokee that we actually started last night. Between the two of us, we had at least 10 hours into it. Scrubbing. Steaming. Vacuuming. Extracting. Over. And. Over. We finally had to make ourselves quit because we were so tired of the stupid thing and so angry because while it looked "better" it still looked like crap. Now, here's where Shitty Businesswoman comes in: even though we had way more time into it than a "standard" vehicle, we were so disgusted with the result that we ended up knocking $20 off the bill.

I might be even worse when it comes to my massage practice. More than once I've felt a session just wasn't up to my standards and so gave the client a $10 discount. Sometimes it's not even the quality of the session-maybe it's a customer service issue like I'm running a few minutes late or the session has to be paused because a different customer comes in (to ask questions, buy product, or pick up a car from our detailing shop next door) and I'm the only person in the building. And if I'm not giving discounts because something went wrong, I'm giving them because something went right. I'm constantly doing free or half-price sessions for my regular clients as a perk for their continued business.

It's not that I don't believe what I do has value--I do believe an hour massage is worth $50. Even so, if I were in my clients' shoes, just because a massage is worth $50 doesn't make it easier to pay that every week or two. But by sympathizing so much with their perspective, instead of making "a living" I'm not even making ends meet.

Due to several recent experiences (one of which almost ended a bloodbath at my optometrist's office) I've ended up talking with people about the death of customer service. How it seems to be something no one cares about anymore, as if these people are "entitled" to my money and I should be happy to hand it to them regardless of how poorly they treat me. These conversations end up with one of us saying, sadly, "Guess one thing they aren't teaching in business classes these days is the importance of customer service."

Hmm. Maybe there's something I could learn in business class after all.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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(Before I continue: this is a person I've known for a million years so I simply told him in my professional opinion, no, that would not make his sciatic nerve feel better at all.)

I should probably be offended. Instead I'm kind of fascinated. Why would he think my boob would fix anything? Why would he think that I would think that it would? Hell, what if I had done it? What if it really DID heal him?! Is it possible that men have been right all these years and boobs really are magical?

Magical or not, I won't be adding Boob Therapy to my brochures.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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I thought about writing something about hunting--lessons I've learned, little pieces of advice, crazy stories. But I'm very superstitious and I don't feel comfortable acting like a hunting know-it-all with season looming. Hubris and the inevitable downfall and all that, you know.

So if any of you would like to do my job for me offer suggestions regarding something I could write in the meantime that you would possibly read, that would be super. Otherwise I'll just keep daydreaming about October and hope I have something to offer you all by Halloween.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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Mom: I love this song.

Me: Me too. But then again, I like pervy songs.

Mom: What's pervy about it? The "so sexy when you're working on your knees" part?

Me: Well, yeah. Unless she lays tile for a living.

Mom: Or does tires & wheels.

*witchy cackling*

I'm telling you people...detailing is where it's at. You don't know what you're missing.

Falahime

Falahime Blah blah blah, Wyoming, blah blah, massage therapist, details cars, used to sell beer, blah blah, hunts big game. That’s about all there is to me; I’m pretty simple.

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