Flying Low

I had another flying lesson this past weekend. I don't have the energy to write about it just yet because I'm still trying to recover. Nothing insanely bad happened, just another blow to my confidence. And instead of hammering on about how stressful my life has been lately (boo hoo Jocelyn), I will end with this:

Dear pilots of the world,

How do you effing do it? You guys are my heroes. Seriously, there's something in your genetic makeup that makes you far superior than anyone else. You wield a power much like Zeus wields a lightning bolt. I accept my inferiority. But like a disillusioned human, I will persist, perhaps futilely, to attain the power that you hold. My ego will lie awake and discontented until I succeed. I must try… or die trying. I cannot give up. Thank you for the inspiration.

Love,

The Jelly Logger

Thundering

Did you know that Wes and I got ourselves a brand spanking new mobile home? Actually, someone else had purchased it previously and set it up, only to have it repossessed when they fell out of escrow. Mobile homes are a commitment baby, and some people manage to get in over their heads.

Anyhoodle, you know I can’t stop talking about Rolling Thunder, and to put the icing on the cake, we decided he (or is it a she? What gender do you assign a trailer?) needed a proper sign which we could display at the entrance. So without further ado, here’s the Illustrator masterpiece I’ve created for the Thunder:

Wes wanted the lightning bolts, and I thought the “And they lived happily ever after” was equal parts humorous and exact. It might need a little more “flare”, but I think it’s a good start.

Who knew a trailer could elicit such creativity?

How Was Everybody’s Weekend?

Does that seem like a strange question to ask on a Thursday? Perhaps, but this Tuesday and Wednesday was my “weekend” and I spent it up at the ranch working on the glorious Rolling Thunder. Does real estate and pain-in-the-ass rhyme? Cause it should.

Also, do you think we could submit this project to MTV to be included on an episode of Pimp My Ride? Because Rolling Thunder’s got tires, so it’s technically a vehicle. See:

Those are tires; tires that can be reattached on a moment’s notice.

We’ve been doing some major pimping too. On the trailer that is. I had the pleasure of painting The Thunder this weekend (read: yesterday). I painted the stairs (again) and did touch up around the windowsills and doors. There’s a problem with giving a girl who meticulously grooms her fingernails (with her teeth) painting duties. She ends up eating a lot of paint. That’s how I feel today: like I’ve eaten a lot of paint. Wes is tired because he basically did everything else we needed to do on the trailer: welding, assembling the sewer line (let’s hope he doesn’t groom his nails with his teeth like I do), building up the awning, roofing, nailing, caulking etc. He drove both ways as well.

This guy didn’t do diddly:

And these guys didn’t do anything either:

So if I seem a little discombobulated today, I blame it on the paint. I ate too much of it. But my fingernails look great!

Come Sit on Our Porch: Rolling Thunder Edition

Well what do we have here?

Did you ever think you would get to read two blog posts about porches back to back?

Apparently porches have become my life as of late, so you’ll have to suffer through reading about it. Look, it’s better than actually having to participate in the build of said porches. My butt is sore man! Wes decided to disregard my suggestions about building it in pieces and assembling it later, so instead we built the behemoth in entirety, then PICKED IT UP to load onto the trailer. Me and the sweet Asian neighbor (who likely felt bad for me) muscled that thing up while Wes pulled along the jack on which it was precariously perched. I was having visions of losing one of my toes (I have no idea why I choose to wear flip flops during our weekend construction projects).

But after all that work, we will now have a proper entrance into that little slice of paradise we call Rolling Thunder.

Steps pre-paint:

 
Steps after paint.
 

Wes's masterpiece in all it's glory:

 
Jocelyn's contribution (the beautiful paint job done in "Terra Cotta"):
 

We're thinking of getting some rocking chairs so we can sit out front and chew straw like real hillbillies. I'll probably have to get a banjo then too.
 

Come Sit on Our Porch

Time for another Friday Remodel Roundup!

Many people will tell you that the entrance is one of the most important parts of a house. It's the first thing people see when they arrive and it establishes the feeling of the place. The Sugar Shack needed a new entrance; something that commanded attention and indicated sophisticated design. But something to also make people feel welcome.

Well in our case, progress...

is...

being...

made!

Soon we'll be able to invite you to come sit on our porch! Except I'm using the term "our porch" very loosely. I haven't had much to do with it, besides the profound photographic evidence you see here. And I actually think Wes took one of those pictures, so again I'm incorrect.

Anyhoodle, Happy Friday!

Adventures in Aviation, Part XII

This past weekend I thought I’d give myself a break from flying lessons and catch up on my reading. All this crazy talk about soloing has made the reality of my ill preparedness very clear. I also generally go to the airport when Wes goes to the airport, and as of Friday, it appeared this weekend was going to be an airport free weekend. Well things didn’t turn out that way, and I figured since my significant other was going to the airport on Sunday, I might as well go too.

I managed to catch up on a little reading before my lesson. Nothing important, just boring old flight instruments and Federal Aviation Regulations. Not like I’m going to need to know that stuff. Then it was in the plane and off we go. This time I wasn’t as frazzled with the responsibility of communicating and operating the plane without Mr. Instructor’s input.

Camarillo is always busy on the weekends, and as we pulled up to the run-up area, it became apparent we were going to have to wait awhile before taking off. It’s during this time, while we’re waiting for our turn to depart and listening to tower direct airport traffic, when I wonder about the stress levels of the air traffic controllers. They have to manage dozens of planes coming in and out of their airport, not to mention the random bozos like me that take forever to repeat back commands. They must be stressed out!

On this particular Sunday, tower was frustrated with two planes that were responding to their call at the same time. Tower would call “Five three charlie bravo, state altitude and current heading” and the plane would respond with “five three charlie, bravo. One thousand feet, at two six zero, inbound” plus a weird echo repeating the call. You can imagine the danger involved if two planes were to follow the same instructions from tower (can you say collision?), so the air traffic controller became increasingly frustrated with these continuing communication errors. Even though we were still on the ground, it made me nervous to hear this incident unfold over the radio. But then the tower said “It sounds like someone’s communicating with a ground radio”, to which a child’s voice responded with “Ya, it’s me. Is that bad?” Tower: “Yes, it’s very bad. STOP TALKING”. It appears that some little kid got ahold of a radio and onto tower’s frequency, and after hearing all the exciting airplane talk, decided to pretend he was a real live fighter pilot! Yay for him! NOT.

I asked Mr. Instructor if we could keep the day’s lesson down to an hour and focus on touch-and-goes. He agreed and we made our way over to Oxnard. Our first landing at Oxnard was a full stop. Mr. Instructor wanted to “set up” for the day’s lesson: having me do three loops in the pattern without him saying or doing anything. If I can demonstrate competence in being able to fly the pattern and land without his help, he thinks I will be soloing in the next couple of lessons. That may sound exciting to you, but I’ve been having nightmares and spontaneous bowel movements because of it all week long (sorry, I know that’s disgusting, but I’m trying to emphasize my nervousness). Anyways! Back to the story!

So off I go to do my three loops in the pattern. Pattern work isn’t difficult for me and my landings are generally acceptable. Except Sunday it was breezy, and I had to follow a retard flying the pattern in front of me. Seriously, he was going extra slow and would fly out a mile farther than he was supposed to, which meant I had to do some serious compensating to ensure I wasn’t flying my little red plane up his butt. It was annoying. Then as I’m flying along, the plane starts spontaneously turning to the left. Freaking out, I turn to Mr. Instructor and say “I’m not doing that! What’s going on!?” He calmly recommends I apply subtle pressure to the rudder pedals because he believes the tail wind we’re experiencing is causing the unusual turbulence.

Hello God? Are you there? I don’t want to die when I solo. Yet it’s all I can think about lately. Please give me my confidence back. I keep trying to compare my flying lessons to when I took driving lessons, and I don’t remember feeling like I was going to die the first time I drove a car by myself. So why do I think I’m going to die the minute I’m in the plane by myself? Wes tells me that statistically I haven’t been flying long enough to have an engine quit on me, but I have a funny feeling this isn’t about statistics. Maybe it’s about you hearing how good my cooking is and wanting me to come up to heaven to make you dinner. Trust me, my cooking isn’t that good. It sucks actually. You don’t want me making you dinner. So please don’t let me die when I solo. I’d really appreciate it.

Well I didn’t die in the turbulence, and I managed to complete three loops in the pattern plus three ROUGH landings without Mr. Instructor’s help. He did say it was unfair to judge my flying because of the wind. I think he saw how freaked out I was and was trying to make me feel better. After we got back to Camarillo, Wes and I had lunch at the airport café and then walked up and down the rows of planes. It was a perfect, relaxing way to end the day. The nightmares didn’t kick in until a day later.

And I almost forgot! Check out the awesome new plane we’ve been flying.

It flies great even with the duct tape.

Hello my name is ... Wait, what is it?

Does anybody else feel like they’ve put up a no parking sign in their mind lately, but nobody cares to abide by it? I’ve got a whole lot of crazies who’ve parked their scooters and lifted duallies all up in my brain’s business. Or maybe it’s just a wedding, work, flying, hormones, the fleeting nature of time and aliens that have been making me feel off kilter. To make matters worse, a leafy green object has crept into the remaining nooks and crannies of my sanity.

If only my hair was as full and had as much body as that ivy has.

Wow. It looks much better on the sign than it does on me.