Littered With Magic

You could say..actually I will say, I believe in magic. Not disappearing white bunny rabbit magic a totally different kind of magic. I believe in the type of magic that moves you and awakens your soul from it's state of boredom. Magic that shakes your insides and causes you to perform and accomplish seemingly impossible things. The restlessness that keeps you from sleep. The constant sensation of being late for something but not knowing what. The raw need to fulfill a destiny. It's magic, and it is real. Somewhere in America, there is a child who dreams of being a better athlete than Lance Armstrong, and I believe if he has the magic, he will fulfil that destiny.

I feel without the magic I am a mear corpse aimlessly roaming this earth. I have spent my winter in this lost, wondering, state. No spunk, no ambition, no anxiousness, just drab and uuninspired. I've looked everywhere for my magic. I have held everyone around me as suspect of stealing it. I've ran for miles looking for it. I've  looked through pages and pages of books. Between couch cushions, inside of pizza boxes, I really have looked everywhere. My magic is gone. Like a crazed crack-head, I needed it back, I needed to be awake, I needed to be shaken.


As I walked my zombie ass into Daytona Speedway I was certain that the fire was gone and I would never see it again. On Friday somewhere between the bright blue Florida sky and the roaring of forty engines I stood back and felt the warmth of excitement in my soul again. The air in Daytona seemed different this year. There was a new and positive energy. I hope that it wasn't my lofty imagination turning a finger painting into a Picasso. I hope it was real for everyone. Every aspect seemed different. As the race cars hit the race track each event held it's own seeming impossible story.

The entire weekend was text book lessons on dreamers and destinies. A tear-filled Brian Kesolowski would get a shove from his brother to qualify him for a coveted starting spot in the Daytona 500. Landon Cassill, a young, hidden talent would go on to wheel his underfunded Phoenix racing machine into a podium position in the Nationwide race, lending him the platform he has been needing to display his talent. Daytona was littered with magic.

I arrived home and plopped down on my couch to watch the Daytona 500 with Watson. Completely typical I fell asleep for most of the race. I awoke just in time to see young driver, Trevor Bayne cross the finish line as the winner of the great American race in only his second start. "Am I dreaming right now" were the words Trevor said on his radio as he made his way to victory lane. My eyes filled with tears and my heart raced with excitement. I was excited for him but I was more excited about seeing the magic. The hope. The affirmation once again that dreaming big is still allowed. All is not lost. As I regained my composure and began scrolling through my Twitter feed I saw that many were touched and inspired. Maybe I wasn't the only person looking for some magic.

Trevor gave the Lord all the glory for that win. I often forget that the Lord knows when I need that magic and when I need to stumble around looking for it. The point is, I am never alone in this. No one is. Magic or not the dream is real and the desires of our hearts are real. The magic is seeing it come to life. 

"To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble." - Bill Watterson

A Mystical Creature Known As "The Off-Season"

My January has been fairly easy. Life has been quite simple in the life of my little cubical in South Carolina. Don't get me wrong, I am bored as shit. The highlight of my week are the days I spend visiting my accounts and all of the Nationwide and Camping World truck teams. For the first time in 9 years my January is rather dull. I've spent a lot of time and effort into getting to know our products better and educating myself on the life and love of brake sales. Its riveting. :really: Meetings, placing orders, gathering samples.. enticing I know. Recently, I have found myself constantly in a state of.. "This time last year, I was.." :haha: I walk into these race teams with my carefree, peppy, cheerful, rested, brake salesman attitude and the Harrys are exhausted. Its written all over their faces. Misery. Hating life. It's pre-season not off-season. The first race is looming in the dark corner next to the pit equipment. Cars need to be built, set-up, engineered, fine tuned and in the lucky cases branded with sponsorship. The media calls it the "Off-Season", which is hilarity at its finest. The "Off-Season" in the world of NASCAR is as mystical of a creature as "Puff the Magic Dragon."

During these months most all of the guys are working late hours and long weekends with, in most cases, minimal help, due to the current financial standing of NASCAR. Don't let their gripes, grumbles and cursing fool you..they love it. They all do. They must. I know I did. Trust me, I bitched as much as anyone else.
Here's a taste of how it goes.. The news of unplanned wind tunnel time comes down the chain of command and what do ya know the crew chiefs wants to take chassis 087. :ahhh yes, perfect, ofcourse chassis 087: That's 087 over in the corner with no suspension, no engine, no nada. Sitting over there in all her "just a body" glory, collecting dust. Oh and they need it now.
Maybe that is why I am so bored. Typically this time of year, I am right there with them. Wide open, exhausted and going in 4,684 different directions. That is "Business As Usual" for the month of January in NASCAR. I know the Harry's are just about over it, but I really miss it. I find myself putting off little tasks in my cubical so that at 4pm I am paniced and stressed-out trying to get that last spreadsheet completed before 5. Its all subconcious but completely on purpose. It's delightful. PANIC! I love you. I miss you.
On a set-up plate in Mooresville the bump-steer on the Intermediate car is all wrong. A sub-assembly guy is scrambling around to change the culprit drag link.. for the third time. All of this is happening under the watchful eye of the already annoyed crew chief, who incidentaly told the mechanic what drag link needed to be installed in the first place. Patience are running low and he considers throwing down the parts and making a dramatic exit. Just wait, that same guy will be the first one at the plane en route to Daytona. As he waits for the rest of the crew to board he is filling up his Twitter feed with something like, "On the way to DAYTONA Baby! Wooowhoooo." It's all ok now, cause race season has finally arrived, and everyone survived. 

"Zoom-Out"

Gateway International Raceway, just down the street from the beautiful city of St. Louis. My new job as a sales and technical rep. has given my the opportunity to travel the circuit, hone my skills as a brake specialist and most importantly zoom-out from the race car and just look around.

My weekend in St. Louis was great. It was fantastic to be back in the garage with all of the Harrys. But this weekend was different for me. I got to "zoom-out" and look around at what we all get to do for a living. I spent a lot of time just taking it all in. Most of my time was spent on pit road, monitoring brake temperatures. I caught myself in a daze. I stood and watched the cars scream off turn four. I have been doing this for eight years now and it all seemed new to me. Its exciting. Its breath-taking. I am in love with the sport again.

When final practice concluded I picked my things up and headed back to the garage. As I walked past the infield fence there was a little girl with her Dad, she was probably 10 years old. She looked at me and gave me a shy wave. Emotions rushed through my chest. I waved back and gave her a smile. I hope that she was thinking the same thinking that I was thinking15 years ago, "Girls do this? Can I do this? Dad, Can I do this?" For all I know, she probably thought I was Danica Patrick (just 2 feet taller, and 30lbs heavier)



Dover, 2009



The time I spent away from my career as a mechanic may have been the best learning experience of my life. I had grown spoiled. My transition into the world of NASCAR was not a hard fought battle. Everything kind of just came to me. Fast forward eight years later and I was a bitching, angry, nothings fair, no one knows what they are doing, mechanic. I didn't even realize it at the time. I was writing a blog about the sport that I said I loved and then bitching about it.

I believe as mechanics we get tunnel vision. The long stretch of race weekends run together and the romanticism of the sport we once loved, begins to wear thin. Sadly, we begin to just go through the motions: tech, practice, qualify, load-up, go home. Everything seems to zoom in. The love for the sport fades fast, frustrations run high and then it's "on to the next one."

For the past two months I have been on the outside looking in, begging for an opportunity to get back on the other side of the fence. I remember now why I love it. And I also know why I began to hate it. It is safe to say that my career and I took a break from one another. During that break I realized that I love this life, I love the stress, I love my career. I just need to take more time to "Zoom-Out"

A Dose Of Life

Dose of life. it's a term I use to explain short comings, realizations and lessons learned. I mostly use this term when curse words are frowned upon. ex: blogging and lunch with my Nana. It's also the time that I put my pity-party hat and kazoo away and stand back and look at the situation for what it really is....Life.

On Sunday evening I sat somber at the beautifully decorated dinner table and starred at the ham and scalloped potatoes my Nana had just prepared with a sudden loss of an appetite. I was still digesting what just happened. I made a valiant attempt to pay attention to the conversation that was taking place at the family dinner. Unfortunitly, the thoughts in my head were much louder and seemed much more important than the conversation that was taking place at the table. I excused myself from the gathering and climbed into my truck to head home. My emotions were like a pinball machine: Silent, beat-up, jealous, relieved, excited and happy. I arrived at home, laid my head down on the concrete patio, and stared at the sky. Watson sat down beside me. We sat. We listened. We tried to grasp reality. Did I make a mistake? Four years and I was only two weeks too short. Never a win. Seven f'n years! Never a win! What do you think Watson?

My last blog was about my new adventure. My new life. Starting fresh. Leaving RAB Racing. Well on Sunday, prior to my family dinner, RAB Racing :deep breath: well they won. They won in Montreal. Not a half ass race either, not the "all the good guys stayed home" race, they won the NASCAR Nationwide Series race at Montreal.

Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, as the Canadians call it, is a beautiful road course on an island of its own in Canada. It's one of my favorite tracks and none other than Boris Said, the best driver I've ever worked with, was behind the wheel. Boris flew through the gears, corner after corner, gas, brake, gas, brake, left-turn, right-turn, gas, brake. He made every move perfectly, the stars aligned, no one wrecked him and they won the race.

I began that Sunday with invisible pom-poms in the air for Boris Said and every 09 crew-member, the Harrys, my Harrys. As I watched, what seemed to be the longest race ever, my heart began to sink a little more each lap. The thought of the young, struggling team gathering up a win was beyond exciting. It was David vs Goliath. And the Harry's took down the Giant.

In my four years with them, they taught me mostly everything I know about life and race cars. We seemed to face more days of anguish, disgust and frustration then days of jubilation. In fact every year we would have a Christmas party to celebrate the hurdles we leaped over to survive our season. I would make a tribute video for them every year to reflect back on it all. This was when we had finally gotten over the disappointment enough to sit back and belly laugh at all of the madness that had taken place that summer. Last winter the tribute video began with the words "There were times we felt we were in hell, but we were there together."

I saw everyone of those Harrys through their first day of work at RAB Racing. They are all like brothers to me and watching them in victory lane on Sunday was bitter sweet. The bitterness came from the magical box that we call a television, that separated me from them. I saw all of their faces. Sheer joy and tears of happiness. I absolutely hated not being there with them. I was profoundly jealous. I hated the fact that I wasn't able to join in on their victory lane "hat dance" and the bragging rights that come along with such a prestigious win. Suddenly I felt like the prodigal son who left home.

However, I do not regret my departure from the team. Wish I had waited a few weeks, Hell Yeah! But, I am ready for a new chapter to begin. It was the correct move for me and my career. What absolutely frustrates me is I wasn't there to hug their necks in their moment of victory. Cry with them and exhale the frustrations that four years can pile on a weathered ship.

So yes. A dose of life. Ode to a dose of life. What the AP Organization learned on Sunday was...to never take any moment of this fore granted. Don't ever spend too much time in the "woe is me" mindset on the flight home from a race track. Fact is, one day...not maybe but one day your "glory day" that this sport promises you will arrive and every trial you endured to get there will make the effort worth while. I am not sure a win would matter all that much if it wasn't such a struggle to receive.

I will lay my head down tonight completely envious of the celebration that happened without me. But I will do it with the utmost pride that I worked beside every mechanic and fabricator who stood in victory lane on Sunday. Those guys are my heroes. They saw the perfect storm build up in front of them, they rode out the waves and found themselves covered in champagne and confetti.

Congratulations to the RAB Racing Crew Members, The Harry's.

Questions and Answers

As I sit across the desk from him, there is an awkward silence. I loathe any kind of silence. Especially, strategically placed silence. Silence, inserted into an interview by design, to cause me to say more than I originally intended. I believe they call these “stress cues.” I stare at the red flashing light on his recorder and wait for the next question, the next interrogation, the next awkward silence that is sure to come. Ok, I’m exaggerating a little, but to me interviews are nerve racking, especially this one. I am being interviewed by, in my opinion one of the toughest reporters on pit road. He is here to do a story on our team and out of the blue he requested to get some insight from me about our team, our plans and how I fit in to it all. I have done interviews with reporters for the past 12 years so this one shouldn't be any different. But, it is. In the time frame leading up to the interview, I managed to transform the interview into a “Godzilla-like” creature in my mind. Here's why..like I have mentioned in my other blogs, I lack a "filter". Sitting across from a good reporter who will get whatever information he needs to make his story worth reading is a deadly combination for a "call it like ya see it" kinda girl, like myself. Especially with this interview, framed around our company. There's a lot on the line with an interview like this. It's far different from the "Tell me what it's like to be a mechanic" interview. The last thing I wanted was to shed any negative light on a company that I have invested and helped build for the past 4 years. Imagine, Jim Carrey in Liar Liar ... "The pen is blue" scenario kept replaying in my head. Every company has its bumps and bruises but smarter folks leave that out of an interview :survey says: this girl will find a way to add some spice to the story. I got to answer questions about our team, the Harry's (or crew as the reporter called them) and my future in NASCAR. It went well. I believe, my damage was minimal :hmmm: I think. :facepalm: I guess we will see when it’s in print. :yikes:

Anywho, on a few recent occasions I have found myself cornered in interviews, back-peddling and taking a more "sugar-coated" route. Completely out of character for the AP Organization (me)... I’ve been asked by several reporters, "What advice would you give to other women trying to find a career in the NASCAR garage" This is the tricky question. This is the bear trap. This is the moment where I've had to make a valiant attempt to be less blunt and more candid. I have been asked, tricked and lured into saying things I don't whole-heartedly believe. I have even had reporters turn off cameras and persuade me to answer the question differently. I find myself struggling to keep my answers PG during interviews, as it is. And now they ask me to manipulate my answers? :f: This is like asking me to plug the BP leak. I live it and I believe it's fair for me to state my feelings on it. So I chose to write this blog.

There is no easy answer to that question. Every reporter wants the “go to NASCAR Tech, meet with crew chiefs, etc.” Answer. This sport can be very tough, not just for women, but for everyone. It forces you to become callused. You will come in with big dreams, bright eyes and confidence and in the middle of July, on some idle Tuesday, you will realize that you are worn out, running low on self esteem and the only parting gift is the bags under your eyes. Sounds dreadful huh? Well it's not, that's what we live for. The point of exhaustion. The end of ourselves. The very last ounce of fight we can muster up until that one random Saturday night at the racetrack. The stars align and the hubs spin freer than they ever have before, that's the night, that you have the perfect race.

The point I am trying to make is 99% of this sport is agony and while you’re waiting for your owed 1% of glory to show up, the only thing that can keep you going is the love and passion you have for racing. NOT what some 27 year old, chick, mechanic from Maryland "spewed out" as advice during some interview. That pep talk won't last you through the first day at Daytona. There's a fire in the belly of everyone in that garage. And if there isn't, you most likely won't see that person next season. What makes you survive is the passion to play. Unfortunately I don’t believe that passion can be taught. So, if asked for an honest answer, the advice I would give is, “Do what you love and do it with determination. Don't work in NASCAR to say you work in NASCAR or I am sad to say you won't make it through boot camp. If you’re determined to be here you don't need advice, you just need to get your ass to work."

Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.

-Thomas Edison

Shadows

Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin. Our driver for this week is a young, rookie driver from Michigan. Throughout the weekend he has slowly impressed us and gained our confidence. I am proud to say, even amongst all of the veterans he is one of the few drivers to not get off track during the "Test Day."

Shadowing by his side all weekend has been his Dad. Helping him buckle in. Giving him needed pep talks. Handing him water. A constant support system. He is completely content to stay in the background, as long as his son knows he is there. Most of the Harrys probably don't even notice him. I do. It's special to me because he reminds me of my own support system.When I was racing my Dad was right by my side. Every race. Every lap. Every win. Every failure. I credit him for my success in every aspect of my life.

There are so many stories about my Dad and I that I could share but there is one in particular that stands out. I was about 16 years old and I was racing in Pennsylvania at Big Diamond Raceway. It was one of my favorite tracks. It was a fast, 3/8 mile clay oval. I remember it had been a good night for us. We had been one of the top five cars all day. We were running in third place, with about 3 laps remaining when I got hit. A lap down car trying to make up time drove far deeper into the corner than his car could stand. He slid up two groves and slammed into me. Then together we went flipping. Due to the fact that I had, at this point, wrecked many, many other times and I was a daredevil by design I was rarely spooked by a flip or two.

I wrecked a lot in my sprint car days. Well everyone did. It's what sprint cars do. Any contact at all usually ends violently. I remeber waking up, still up side down. My brain was like pea soup. I attempted to gather my thoughts when sudden fear shot through me. I realized I couldn't feel

my arms or hands. I began to jumble through the possibilities of what had just happened. Neck Injury. No more racing. How will I make a living? Better yet, How will we tell Mom? As the safety crew began to extract me from this mangled mess, my mind was running rampid. I looked up to see my Dad. He was knelt down in front of the crinkled up race car. He was calm and collected. He didn't say anything or make any gestures he just stared at me. He was focused on my eyes. It calmed me. He became my security in the midst of the hurricane, that was my mind. And somehow, I knew everything was well on its way to being ok.

Obviously the loss of feeling for a minute was either shock or a pinched nerve because I regained all of my feeling within a few minutes. I never voiced that I was nervous but Dad knew. He didn't panic, over react or try to take control of the situation. He was everything that I needed at that time. He was my shadow. Right there to show his support. We were in a huge mess, but we were there together.

This weekend our driver never got hurt. He had a very unfortunate race and his Dad was right where he was supposed to be, by his sons side. Equipt with water and pep talks.

As young adults we rarely appreciate or acknowledge that support system. I know I didn't. But I do now. And all too often in this flashy, highly publicized sport of auto racing there are Dad's who step in front and demand the attention and publicity that, they believe, their son/daughter deserves. I am fortunate enough to have had a Dad who stood back. He allowed me to be front and center. His only concern was to make sure that I knew he was there.

In lieu of fathers day, I'd like to thank my Dad. He is been my biggest fan, my sounding board, my hero and most importantly, my shadow.

Dear Undertaker..

I had so many different subjects that I had planned to write about for this week, until today. This weekend, we are in Middleofnowhere, Wisconsin. Yup the cheese state. I love love love cheese. Cheese doesn't love me, but that's neither here nor there.
The Harrys and I are smack dab in the middle of P2 (P2 is the second practice session of the day), it was a good p2 in case you were wondering. Anywho, I look up and there he is. In all his racefan glory. Today is his big day. Obviously. I mean this cat has been planning this day for a long, long time...I think.

Please allow me to paint the best mental picture that I possibly can :aheem: Dick Trickle throw back t-shirt, black Spandex bike shorts, and red, lace-up, wrestling boots. He was epic. A sight. a mystical creature of sorts. Nessy, the Loch Ness Monster...maybe. I would have insisted that I get my picture taken with him except, like I said, P2, lots going on, etc.
Ok, ok lets just call him, "The Undertaker" for obvious reasons. Well the single, most important piece of his ensemble was the checkered flag fanny pack. Sure, I have proudly worn a fanny pack before. I totally get it, they are cool, convenient and hands free. They were the bees knees back in the day, on the field trip to the Science Center. If I were to wear one nowadays I would fear my chances of a date would be somewhere between slim and none. Soooo..I think it's safe to say, I avoid them.The point is, as much as I belly laugh at "The Undertaker" the fact is, he's a race fan. He's the reason I get paid. Solely, single handidly, this guy makes my personal dream come true. He reaches into his checkered flag fanny pack (buys a ticket) and pays for me to wrench on these race cars because he's a fan. Wrestling boots and all, first and foremost he's a race fan.

The cast of ccharacters that is race fans is a sight to be seen. It is my "Comedy Channel" while on the road. Much like Raiders fans, they live for the shock factor that they cause with their "raceday" get-ups. Deep down I hope the boots and fanny pack are his "get-up" to assist with getting Carl's (Edwards) autograph but for all I know they may be standard. If it's standard, I am sorry, Undertaker. Please don't hit me in the head tomorrow with an aluminum chair when you see me. You're my hero. Or better yet, you are my sponsor. Living life the way you want, even if it is in a Dick Trickle t-shirt, cheering on racecars. Lose the fanny pack or lose the boots just please don't lose your love for NASCAR. You Sir, help my dreams come true, and for that I Thank You.

Mile Markers

Today we head eight hours northwest to Kentucky Speedway. By the looks on the faces of the Harrys you realize that this is no typical travel day for us. Nope. Today we get "windshield time" in the team van. You should know, all team vans smell like ass, b.o., and well... boys. Which means "windshield time" feels more like "gym bag time" :hackt:
Currently, times are tough for a small race team like ours. Just one year ago we were staying in the fanciest of hotels, utilizing shuttle services, and even boarding private jets. This season we don't have the luxury of a full-time sponsor so the indulgences that we had grown accustomed to aren't nearly as plentiful. Yes, we have gotten a bit spoiled but no one in this van forgets that this used to be the only way real racers went racing. The "grass-roots" of our sport. We like to call them, "The Days of Dale" (The late Dale Earnhardt Sr). I believe that most of the mechanics, car owners, spotters and PR reps all began their careers in the "grass roots" fashion of auto racing.

Ex: Anxiously hoping into a steaming hot Suburban in the dead of summer with either family and friends enrounte to the local race track, loving every minute. This is when the seeds of their unforeseen careers are planted. And we didn't care how we got there, we were just happy to go.

As we pass each mile marker I am reflecting on my own "grass root" days. The days when an 8 hour ride to the racetrack was the highlight of my week. A white Ford pickup, toting our family owned race team from race track to race track was my team van. I grew up racing for my Mom and Dad at the local dirt tracks. Those days were the best. We raced every single weekend. The long drives were our time to discuss and dream of where all of this might lead. I learned a lot about life in that truck. (I also learned that making Dad keep the windshield wipers off didn't actually keep the rain from inevitably coming) Back then I believed I would be a racing champion. Those long talks past countless miles markers fueled that desire.

Along the way I transitioned from driver to mechanic. I get to live my life traveling from coast to coast, chasing the NASCAR Nationwide Schedule. I go into the garage, wrench on race cars and walk out everyday. It never crosses my mind that I didn't get to fullfil my dreams as a racecar driver. I am no longer a young driver with dreams of that Cup Race winning pass to keep me motivated. Now I am a mechanic with dreams of that Cup Race winning pit strategy. I have new goals now.

Short term:

• Do my part to help our race team run better this weekend so maybe we can land a sponsor and not ride in this stanky van anymore.
Long term:
• Work my way up the ranks and position myself to be a well respected crew chief.

I realize that to accomplish all of the things that i have laid out on my "To-Do" list I have to take steps. Each step is comparable to these mile markers that keep passing by. I know where i want to go, and there's no way to jump ahead or skip some steps. I have to reach each mile marker and continue on to the next.

"Swamp-Ass"

As we wait to get into the garage I hear the ramblings of the "Harrys and the Henrys". They aren't talking about set-ups and pit stops. They are moaning about the dreaded "swamp ass" that they all plan to deal with throughout this long, hot day in Nashville. And I agree it is a hot one. "Hotter than Africa" one Harry said. I myself have never been to Africa but he obviously had and apparently it wasn't nearly this hot.

For those of you who don't know the term "swamp ass" ..well I'm not surprised, it was new to me about a year ago. It's basically diaper rash for adult men. Which, in my opinion, is a very fitting description. Other terms used throughout the garage are: monkey-butt, chapped ass, and the worst "Chad Chaffin" (a race car driver who's name is now used to describe a rash on someones butt :sigh: poor guy). My favorite is "swamp-ass" tho.
Companies have invented products to help the Harrys out, Anti-Monkey Butt Powder and Boudreaux Butt Paste, yup Butt Paste. Just to name a few.
Throughout my years of being only one of two females in the garage I often entertain my thoughts with keeping score between myself, "The AP Organization" and all the guys, "The Harry's and Henry's" ....so when I hear the disappointment in their voices regarding their "swamp-ass" I giggle because I "win" this one. In the right situation I could fall victim to a case of "Monkey Butt" as well, but not near as easily, for obvious reasons. In the garage most all of the race teams wear black pants as part of their uniform. Most wear a brand called Dickies. I also have to wear black pants. It wasn't til the day that I made the attempt to wear mens Dickies that I realized how the Dickies play a huge role in the need for "Butt Paste." Every pair of men's pants had my inseam somewhere around 8" below my crotch. Therefore causing a "Penguin-esk" feel. "Is this how men wear their pants? This is ludicrous!" Obviously the extra square foot of fabric, coupled with sweat, extra "cargo" and lots and lots of walking is the culprit for such suffering.

I grin at the idea of a "win" over the Harry's. I don't have an extra square foot of fabric and better yet I don't have "Swamp Ass" . However this mini "win" isn't free. See they don't make Dickies for woman ... that aren't horrendous. And by horrendous I mean a waist line that comes up to my bra or a horrid tapered leg, straight out of the 1980s. I may be a mechanic but I still like to look cute and be comfortable. What girl doesn't? My price to pay for looking cute and not having "Swamp Ass" is the $70, for each pair of work pants, that I shovel out monthly to JCrew or Banana Republic. While these pants are a perfect fit and well worth the 200% mark-up, they are designed for the working girl. The paper-pushing, working girl not the climbing around under race cars, working girl.

I get it tho, JCrew and Banana Republic can't cater to the small percentage of female mechanics. So I have decided that one day I will design my own line of women's work pants, don't laugh, its going to happen. They will be Low Rise, Boot Cut but out of stronger fabric. I plan to call them "NoDickies" :hehe: Yup, I've thought this out! No extra fabric, cute cut, no "swamp-ass" ... NoDickies.