Saturday, September 29, 2012

W(h)ine Wednesdays

I arrive at 7:45 a.m. and usually she greets me with an infectious smile.  With such a sweet, intimate little greeting, you wouldn't think I'd need 2 cups of coffee, the strong shit, under my belt to make it through the day, but I do.
Extreme situations, call for extreme hard-core leaded.  It's necessary on Wednesdays.
You see, I'm now the "Wednesday Nanny" for this little sweet pea and her
1 year 5 month old cousin.  
When I reflect on all the jobs I've had in my lifetime; pre-school teacher, elementary school teacher, coffeehouse owner, tutor, waitperson, hotel concierge, tea shop extraordinaire and my personal favorite, trailer park manager...
This 9-hour-per-week position should be a piece of cake. But quite honestly, it takes not only the cake, but the frosting, decorative sugary florets and rainbow-colored sprinkles as well.
You're probably saying to yourself right about now, "Awww...she's super cute. Like a little button. 
TPG, you whine but all you really have to do is play all day like all those stay-at-home moms. 
What could be so challenging?  And why the hell are you whining?"
And you're probably thinking, "How could such a sweet face turn devil-child?"
This leads me to two words:
“Shit Show”.
Having never been a mom, never breast-fed, never changed a Pamper of a breast-fed child,
I had no f@#*ing clue what to expect.  I mean who really thinks about these things in the course of a day when it doesn't apply to you, right? But let me simply describe "the show" or plural as it occurs 2 or even 3 times, per pooper, per day. Allow me to describe it in a small, but powerful fragment of a sentence:
an oozing river of mustardy goop. And I mean oozing. Come to find out,  breast milk causes this yellowish messy substance and because it is odorless (its single redeeming quality) it oozes on my jeans, oozes on the changing table, oozes on the Safari Rainforest Magic Blanket and oozes
on the toy set.
But not so in the case of her older cousin who is on lots of  solid foods and eats a banana like she was a ravenous alligator devouring raw meat.
Her 'contribution' consists of GINORMOUS, dark brown balls, the size of 1lb. truffles and solid as rocks.  They have a familiar shitty smell that at least gives me a "heads up" when she needs changing, unlike Sweet Pea's whose runs out of her diaper and straight up her back and neck like a gushing river.

I know I've got what it takes.
I know there's a rhythm to be found in a job like this. Changing the diapers, like the changing of the guards, will in fact one day become a timely event; masterminded and easily woven together with feeding times, stroller times, nap times
and play times.
One prays for all of these things to fall into place without any wailing.  But you know what?
The wailing comes! And that little "Sweet Pea" has lungs! They call her "Slugger" but I call her "Fog Horn" and boy when that horn starts to blow, it does not let up!
Ships could find their way to us in a matter of seconds, even through the most dense fog.

Seriously, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't phoned CPS on me.  It begins with a slight, breathless panting and a quivering lower lip. You try everything in your power to avoid what is to come.
You shake rattles. You check her diaper.  You pick her up and blow on her tummy.  You get out the "crunchy book" she loved last Wednesday. You put her in the Ergo. You bounce her on your knee. You warm the bottle of pumped breast milk (liquid gold).  But you don't succeed and the horn blows, sending a screeching vibration that penetrates the walls. All the while you're singing, "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and telling her cousin, 
"No, honey take the crayon out of your mouth, please. 
Crayons aren't food." 

Getting both the little buggers in the 2-child stroller is a classic act of poise and dignity. As they both initially fight it, the passerby's stare at me with the same damn stare I used to give parents who were out in public with screaming children.  You know, the stare that says, "What are you doing to them? What kind of a mother are you? Can't you see those children need something?" 
I just keep my composure and my "sweet as maple syrup voice" the one that says "please" and "good job" and I get the girls harnessed in.  Soon we're off.  Hitting the pavement does something miracluous. Let me tell you. The first time I took them for a walk, I couldn't believe it.
It was as if God herself stepped out from curbside and said, "Here is my precious gift to you, Valerie."  I'm talking about the sweet gift of having both girls fall asleep simultaneously.
The baby is snoring by the time we turn the first corner and her cousin, who I call Ms. "I love cinnamon, apple sauce, hitting my cousin with the toy camera and tossing all the books all over the floor 5-times just to watch you pick them all up" is sawing logs after about 10 minutes of walking and I am so relieved I can barely see straight.  I breathe deeply and say a prayer that parents everywhere get this kind of a break.
I walk them up and down the path next to the ocean.  I don't know which is a lovelier sight:
the ocean or the two sleeping babies?  No, wait a sec.
I do know.  Hands down,  it's the sleeping babies.

                         When the cousins are engaged, it's blissful and sweet as Gummy Bears.

                           So this is an Ergo. It's a pack thing you can resort to when all else fails.

Ergos, like strollers, car seats and even Pampers are fairly simple to hook, put on or use
unless you're me.
Here's a perfect example of a helpless child dangling in an Ergo that has been put on incorrectly.

I start looking at the clock around 4:30 p.m.
I smell of breast milk spit up, Bamba peanut butter crackers and crushed bananas.  I have Exhaustipation.

ex*haus*ti*pa*tion     (noun)    a condition in which one is so tired they don't give a shit.

I haven't been this wiped since the carport inspections in which a half-dozen residents gave me hell for walking with my clipboard on their properties.  Stressful stuff like that happened often. Like telling "Naked Man" at space 31 that he couldn't keep all those goddamn chickens in the back of his carport.  Or having to ask space 22 to stop putting her sanitary napkins down the toilet.  "It's my f@*#ing toilet" I recall her shouting at me from her front porch, as I took off the latex gloves, set the bleach in my wheelbarrow and gave her a "mental middle finger".
"The Chronicles of a Wednesday Nanny" will surely bring some 'situations' that are right up there with my "Park Tales".

At 5:00 o'clock, I hand off my new little friends to their parents like a quarterback under pressure
and head out into "road rage traffic" which I have absolutely no patience for.
Suddenly, I realize I 'm out of wine.
I make a jarring and deliberate right turn into Safeway, where Lerry, that's spelled  L E R R Y, greets me.  He's a middle-aged white guy with a big belly hiding under his Safeway
apron, which has all these pins on it telling you which gift cards to buy.
Lerry's got a look that says, "I hate my job as a Safeway checker but I owe alimony and child support so I'm here".
I put my bottle of cheap Syrah, a salmon filet and can of peanuts on the belt.  It's Wednesday but I don't expect Lerry to listen to a grown woman whine, so I hold back and muster up a courteous "Hello."
I'm totally spent and I'm feeling pretty unsociable.  I'm still humming "The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round "  in my head.  I'm wound tight.

"I forgot my bag, Lerry, so may I have paper not plastic?"
He takes out a brown paper bag, but then puts my salmon in a plastic bag.
"You need this plastic bag so it won't leak in your other bag." 
"No, I don't Lerry. It's ok cuz I'm not going far."
"Yes, you do.  You'll thank me when you get home.  It's just one plastic bag."

I lose it big time.  Nanny Goes Ballistic read the headlines.
And after I'm done yelling at Lerry and educating him about our oceans and pollution,
I yank the plastic bag off my salmon fillet and toss it at his apron.
It's just another Wine Wednesday.
L'Chaim! (To Life!) 


Monday, September 17, 2012

"I know. Stop Talking."

I’m typing this week’s blog with one hand because I’m holding a glass of 2-Buck Chuck in the other. Such self-sacrifice also occurs when my big boy is snuggled up, purring on my arm or lap.
The movement of two-handed typing disturbs "the king" and we wouldn't want to do that,
now would we?   

I had such a great Saturday with Wen and a girl pal, whose name will remain anonymous! 
The three of us headed out early to all the yard sales.  Just to mess with ‘em, we hit the ones that said “No Early Birds” before the given time of arrival, simply to release our rebels within.
While many areas of California are still sweltering in near 100 degree temps we, here in
Monterey County, are dripping in early morning fog and wet mucky muck. 
Plainly stated, I froze my ass off yard saleing. 
We got some damn good bargains though: a couple of fancy vases, a Virgin de Guadalupe lamp for a friend, a pork-n-beans dish with lid, fake beads and a Bob Marley sweatshirt.  Wearing a Bob Marley sweatshirt in the trailer park wouldn’t go over well.  Most likely, I’d have been tied up by my ankles, put on trial and executed without a jury of my peers.
My shit kickin crime?  
 H I P P I E.
After yard saleing, Wen dropped my friend and I off at Hambrook’s Auction in Pacific Grove. 
This is my new addiction; the auction.  Well, I have another:  Peanut Butter Cheerios. OMG!
There's only a couple a things that would make a ‘trailer girl’ chirpier than an auction:
Watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while chugging a free six-pack left over from the Annual
Moose Lodge picnic or winnin 4 bucks on a Quick-Pick.
Hambrook's Auction has been in existence since forever.
It's held in a huge 16,000 sq foot building, live auction carried out upstairs, silent auction happening downstairs.  The crowd's mixed like a well-tossed salad:
antique dealers, consignment store whores, Ebay fanatics, hillbillies lookin for a deal and us,
two girls just looking for a good time. (I, of course, am also looking for some stock for our resale business known as V W Upcycling.)
Before we enter the action, my pal and I head for Pavel's Bakerei (they spell bakery in a shi shi way) for a delicious breakfast pastry and coffee.
I, being the diabetic, can hardly inject my insulin fast enough and get through the bakery door.
As we storm through the line, taking "cuts" like first graders in a line to get on a field trip bus,
I'm instantly happier than a tornado in a trailer park.

I'm drooling.  No doubt.  My pal says to me, "Let's just get something small and take it to go."
SOMETHING SMALL? Come on now! Are you f@#king kiddin me?
I order some fancy dancy raspberry donut thing that they call a "bombolini" and let me tell y'all,
They ain't the donuts at Winchell's!  She gets a maple.  We order two coffees also different from  Winchell's.  We pay and head to Hambrook's.
We take our seats as the auction is in full-swing.
I'm as happy as a dead pig in sunshine.  In complete heavenly silence, and with the auctioneer's babble rolling off her tongue somewhere in the distant background, we begin eating...
Eating...Eating...Continually and pleasurably devouring our goodies...

Finally, I lean over to my friend and say, "This is better than sex; better than any orgasm."
To which she replies, her mouth shoved halfway into her maple bombolini,
"I know.  Stop talking."

The bidding's crazy-fast and I can barely keep up.  I mean, even if I had money to blow and I paid close attention, I'd miss the train 'cuz the auctioneer, a big girl with fiery red hair,
is totally breakneck.   Vintage tables, an Eames chair, bamboo coffee table, dining sets from France, "known" paintings that are pencil-signed.  Even a turquoise bust of a horse. 
Boy, rich people or "high cotton" as my grandaddy called 'em, are so weird!
After 'bout an hour, we squeeze through the row of fold-ups and lotsa folks, making our way downstairs to look at the silent auction items.  I see a cabinet with a paper description like this:
YowZA! I love it.  I write in $10.00 and crawl back through a now larger-than-ever crowd in search of other bargain items.  My pal bids on a '60's chair and an original piece of framed art for her daughter.
When I return to my "cabnet",  there are about 6 bids written in and the last being $100 bucks.
Sheee it!
I want it bad, but not that bad.  When we return upstairs we see 3 empty chairs, one of which has a purse on it.  We carefully make our way through the aisle, trying not to step on any body's feet, and take two of the chairs.  As we make ourselves comfy, this hoochy mama, owner of the purse, returns.
She flashes us one of those looks that the bitchy, popular girls gave us nerdy, unpopular girls
in high school and says,  "Well, it looks like someone took my chairs which were saved for my
husband and I."
I stare at her and her husband (singular) with my best trailer trash stare, running my tongue over my two front teeth and under my upper lip gum and making a kinda squeaky mouth-sound; the kind that sounds slightly irritated yet confident.  I say,
"Well, unless you got 2 husbands, that looks like 2 empty chairs, so there shouldn't be a problem."

The auction continues with roaring enthusiasm.
The air is electric and the people are so fun to watch.
I end up buying a modern, angular table lamp.  My pal got her '60's chair and painting and some glass vases.
Yep. Yep. A good time was had by all.

On the way out, she says to me, "That was fun! Let's go back next month."

"OK. I think the next one is the first Saturday in October."  I'm on board.

"No, not the auction. I mean Pavel's."

That girl will do anything for a good.....donut.

Speaking of girls that will do anything or, in this case, boys that will do anything.  How about our vice president?  Joe Biden cozied up with a female biker during a stop the other day
at Cruisers Diner.
The Associated Press snapped this photo of the vice president sitting behind a female biker. While he talked with her, two other male bikers looked on.
According to the campaign, the bikers were part of a group called the "Shadowmen," but there were no other details on who the female biker was or what sparked the conversation between her and the vice president, because the pool had been escorted out of the diner before the encounter.
A second AP photo showed Biden grabbing the female biker's shoulders.
When Biden entered the diner, he approached three diners seated at a counter and asked if he they'd lend him one of their motorcycles, according to the pool report.
"Can I borrow one of your bikes? They don't let me ride anymore," Biden said.
"Probably not," Jeff Cook, one of the diners, said. The vice president responded laughing, "Probably not."

Watch yourself, Joe!
Don't you go pullin an "Eastwood" on us.

I dig biker chicks, though.  I shared time with a few at the park over the years.
Male bikers tend to be big, burly scary-looking varmints with hearts as wide as Leonilda's
(from space 18) flowered housedress catching wind.
But the ladies, oh my! 
I seen 'em with their boots, tattered tank-tops, spiked purple hair.  Some loaded with leather bandannas and bandoliers slung low on their sweaty cleavage which glistened with tattoos. 
To me, they're dangerous priestesses not to be reckoned with. But they're not hooches like the high school bitches or the one at the auction.
These gals aren't kiddin anyone. They know their shit stinks like everybody else's.
And like Joe, I kinda dig 'em.

I think I've come to some sort of end in the road.  Some sort of conclusion point if you will. 
Just one more thing though about those fancy donuts we were eating...

Oh, never mind.  I know. I'll just stop talking.
Love y'all.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

A Blog of a Different Voice

Many of us have hiked the trails of the High Sierras or stood elevated on enormous, elephant-size boulders, whose concrete skins are soaked in sun-heat and whose flatness lends way
to a dust-free resting spot.
Many of us have walked for miles aside an ocean, ran through fields of bending wheat, splashed in clear, freshwater underground pools, wandered for miles through Old Growth forests…
All of these experiences in Nature are worth writing about.  All are there waiting for us humans to capture and experience.  
All fill us to the brim with an awareness and serenity and all leave most of us hungry for more. 

Now I’m not a girl that does triathlons. Never camped with my family.  
I've backpacked only once in my life when I was 17 years old. The memory is still vivid.  
There I was, my weary face and body so darkened and crusted with dirt and sweat that I thought I'd acquired a fantastic tan.  There I was hiking with my best friend Beth at the top of the world. 
I recall trying to appear like a veteran; like this wasn’t my first rodeo. Trying to not let on that the road was much too steep, that the air was much too thick and that I was actually completely
out of breath.  
As I hiked, nose to the ground to avoid ‘mishaps’, I recall Beth shouting out, 
“Isn’t that lake breathtaking?  I looked up and before I could see any essence of H2O, my foot wrapped itself around some root or perhaps large rock and I hit the dirt like nobody’s business.  
It tasted dry as chalk.  
Beth pulled me up from the chrome of my pack and, to this day, I've never backpacked again.

This past weekend, high above Donner Lake in Northern Cali, way above day-to-day life
as we know it, way above the noise and almost touching the edges of clouds, I experienced the wonders of the trail again.  But this time, in a very unique and inspiring way. 

This is now my attempt to share with you the essence of my personal journey through a different voice; leaving my trailer park girl voice and those ingrained thoughts far, far behind, in
order to glorify the experience.   Through my words, which more than likely won't do it justice,
perhaps I will fall short, flat on my face in the dirt.  But I will try to share with y'all something rare and transforming.  Something very beautiful.  I will give it a new voice; one that sounds and hints of a very deserving explanation.

Trails and Vistas brings the beauty of ART, DANCE, POETRY, STORYTELLING and MUSIC in NATURE to the Lake Tahoe region.   Although this was the 9th Annual hike, I was a T&V virgin who will now return year after year. Evidently, each year has its own inspiring theme, with this year’s being The Dreaming Tree.
I chose the silent meditation hike, figuring if I shut my mouth for a change, I might learn something.  And I was not only right, but the learning was silent, rich and distinctive. It came to me, yet is almost impossible to capture with words.
“What are your dreams?” was asked as the hike began.   I adjusted my shoes, took a swig of my water and thought to myself, “ Romney getting blown out of the water by President Obama this November.” 
Clearly, I had no idea how silenced these kind of thoughts would become and just how wholesome the transformation would be…
As we walked silently, in a single-file queue, I couldn’t help but breathe in the mountain air, whose essence filled my nostrils and whose breezes carried familiar, yet distant smells of fir and pine and whose coolness lightly touched my face and skin, settling me into the moment, effortlessly banishing all my thoughts of the “outside world” away.

One of the first large trees on the trail was draped in tiny hand-made books; all dangling
from the branches, teetering and twirling in the gentle wind like miniature kites on strings.
As I silently approached the books, I was amazed by the spectacular watercolor depictions of Jeffrey Pines, White Firs and Squaw Currants…An incredible artist hand-painted each and every one with so much detail and a plethora of love; her personal honoring of Nature.

During the 2.5 hours hike, there were many dreaming trees like the first. Colorful mobiles twirling, words of spiritual empowerment, chimes, bells, rocks all beckoning some sort of awakening.
We were encouraged to stop, enjoy, read the poetry hanging from the limbs, touch the trunks and bark, close our eyes, breathe deeply, listen for the ‘language of Nature’ and the voices of those who had come before us.

~I climb the road to Cold Mountain
The road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
Pines sigh, but it isn’t the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And sit with me among the white clouds?

~ T’ang poet Han-shan

With every step, I felt the snares of the world breaking away.  Never before had I experienced the perfect blending of Nature and art that Trails and Vistas provided.  Mixed in and hidden behind the mighty pines whose needles seemed to dance to each song, were a variety of storytellers, dancers, musicians with their flutes and drums all, collectively and individually, praising Nature, honoring the living and the dead in perfect harmony. Washoe, Maidu and Paiute whose bones lie beneath my feet, whose tears fell where mine now fall...
I am joyfully lifted, my soul opened as wide as the perfectly blue sky.
As I sat at one performance, I felt my tears slowly drip down my face. 
I think I cried because of the blended beauty of art and song.  I think I cried because all painful, unnecessary emotions had already left me. And I cried because of the peaceful, quiet that had
found its way to my head. 

We were not allowed to take photographs so how does one describe the graceful, colorful dancers on the high peaks overlooking Donner Lake?  How does one capture the tiny paper-mache sailboats, carrying wishes and dreams across a sleepy, unexpected pond?  Without a lens, how does one capture an ancient flute being played or a beautiful musician and her cello perfectly in tune with the wind?

What are my dreams? I asked myself throughout my silent trek.  
To my surprise, the answers that came to me had absolutely nothing to do with politics, money, success or unresolved issues.  To my surprise, my brain had somehow turned all of these types of thoughts completely off and I was lost in the sounds of flute, cello and drum which seemed to
blend naturally with the sounds of rustling pine needles, howling winds and the birds that call
this mountain their home.
My entire body felt serene and relaxed here within these surroundings.  And the magic, the love, the time and effort of numerous people who put Trails and Vistas together, and do so year after year; especially the creator and visionary, Nancy Tieken Lopez, was an experience that left me not only at peace with myself, but very comfortable in Nature’s silence. 
Then came the realization that my dreams are simple:

I dream of walking in a place of serene calm.  And when I stray from that place, when the world’s noise finds me and baits me (to which I often take the bait), I dream of rising up above it like a bird.  I dream of returning to the rhythms of Nature. Returning to a quiet beach, an abandoned trail, a Cold Mountain.  I dream of listening to the voices of the waves, the sounds of my ancestors, the eagle and hawk taking flight upon the wind. I dream of the company of the tress and the dance therein.

Thank you Nancy Tieken Lopez!
Thank you Trails and Vistas for an unforgettable, dreamy experience! 
Next year, 2013, will be the 10th Annual hike and it promises to be spectacular.
I hope y'all will consider going.  I certainly will return.
For sure!

Meanwhile, keep dreaming, peeps.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Quite entertaining to watch Mr. Clint “Get Off My Lawn Because I Carry a Smith & Wesson” Eastwood the other night.  WTF?  I thought the Republican Party had enough bank to hire speech editors.   Clint always gives himself the starring role and he definitely deserves an “Oscar nod” for his performance  with an imaginary President Obama in an empty chair saying imaginary(and disrespectful) things like "I can't tell him to do that to himself." True to the characters he plays, like Josey Wales, Will Munny or Harry Callahan, Clint is as tough as a steel railroad spike and obviously, just as phallic. 
After Clint’s stellar performance at the RNC, the term “Eastwooding” quickly became word and his name hit Twitter over 60,000 times in less than 24 hours according to a trailer park girl’s bible, Wikipedia.  Shit, those guys at Wikipedia are quicker than the fast-dry cycle at the Prunedale laundry mat.  Smarter too.
Since he was once the mayor very close to where I now reside, I decided to read not about
Mr. Eastwood the actor/director, but more so about Mr. Eastwood, the man.
Here’s his track record on relationships.  If you decide to skim this Clint bio, 
I'll summarize.  He's a total womanizer!  Seems he has trouble keeping his railroad spike in his pants, especially on a movie set.

Eastwood has fathered at least seven children by five different women and been described as a "serial womanizer".  He had affairs with actresses Catherine DeneuveJill BannerJamie Rose, Inger StevensJo Ann HarrisJean Seberg, script analyst Megan Rose,[254][256] James Brolin's former wife Jane, columnist Bridget Byrne, and swimming champion Anita Lhoest.
Eastwood married Maggie Johnson on December 19, 1953, six months after they met on a blind date. While separated from Johnson, Eastwood had an affair with dancer Roxanne Tunis, with whom he had his first child, Kimber Tunis (born June 17,1964); he did not publicly acknowledge her until 1996. After a reconciliation, he had two children with Johnson: Kyle Eastwood (born May 19,1968) and Alison Eastwood (born May 22,1972). Eastwood filed for divorce in 1979 after another long separation, but the $25 million divorce settlement was not finalized until May 1984.
Eastwood entered a relationship with actress Sondra Locke in 1975. They lived together for fourteen years, despite the fact that Locke remained married (in name only) to her gay husband, Gordon Anderson. Locke had two abortions and a tubal ligation within the first four years of the relationship. The couple co-starred in six films together:The Outlaw Josey WalesThe GauntletEvery Which Way but LooseBronco BillyAny Which Way You Can, and Sudden Impact. On April 10, 1989, while Locke was directing the film Impulse, Eastwood changed the locks on their Bel Air home, had many of her possessions removed and placed in storage. Locke filed a palimony suit against Eastwood, then sued him a second time for fraud, regarding a phony directing contract he set up for her in settlement of the first lawsuit.  Eastwood and Locke finally resolved the dispute with a non-public settlement in 1999. Her autobiography, The Good, the Bad, and the Very Ugly, includes a harrowing account of Eastwood's treatment of her during the events surrounding their separation.
During the last four years of his cohabitation with Locke, Eastwood had an intermittent, hidden affair with flight attendant Jacelyn Reeves. According to biographers, the two met at a pub in Carmel, and conceived a son, Scott Reeves (born March 21,1986), at the premiere of Pale Rider. They also had a daughter, Kathryn Reeves (born February 2,1988). The birth certificates for both children stated "Father declined." Although they were mentioned in exposé articles as early as 1997, Eastwood did not present his and Reeves' children to the public until 2002. Kathryn served as Miss Golden Globe at the 2005 ceremony where she presented Eastwood with an award for Million Dollar Baby.
In 1990, Eastwood began living with actress Frances Fisher, whom he had met on the set of Pink Cadillac (1989). They co-starred in Unforgiven, and had a daughter, Francesca Fisher-Eastwood (born August 7,1993). The couple ended their relationship in early 1995, but remain friends and later acted together in True Crime.

Eastwood with wife Dina in 2007
Eastwood subsequently began dating Dina Ruiz, a television news anchor 35 years his junior, whom he had first met when she interviewed him in 1993. They married on March 31, 1996, when Eastwood surprised her with a private ceremony at a home on the Shadow Creek Golf Course in Las Vegas. After their wedding, Dina commented "The fact that I am only the second woman he has married really touches me."The couple have one daughter, Morgan Eastwood (born December 12,1996)."

And what about a conservative Latina governor who packs heat? Now that’s worth sitting up on the sofa and munching a bag of pre-popped corn!  Governor Martinez of New Mexico declared the other night at the RNC that she packed a Smith & Wesson .357 and understands what gun rights are all about. 
Well, sheeee it.  God bless her and Viva la NRA!

I remember a conversation I had with “Pinkie” from space 7 once upon a time. 
“Hell, I vote Republican because they’re the only ones who’ll protect my guns,
my right to bear arms.” 
Hmmm.  Let’s see Pink, you really need that “right” now don’t ya ‘cuz them thar squirrels are nasty little varmints, ain’t they?  Jump on yer neck, attack ya when yer back’s a turned.
Ya gotta be ready for ‘em.  
Well, the Romney/Ryan ticket is the ticket for you, Pink, because their platform is clear:
The party opposes legislation intended to restrict Second Amendment rights by limiting the capacity of clips or magazines or otherwise restoring the assault weapons ban passed during the Clinton presidency.  

Of course, Pink’s not worried about the lil amendment to change America’s Constitution.  
The one that just might infringe upon my rights a wee bit:

Or yours:

Y’all gotta watch this!  Please don’t skip it. Please. Please.
These delegates are being interviewed by Samantha Bee from The Daily Show.
It’s a bit ‘scratch-your-head-in-wonder’ because they’re talking about the essential and undeniable component of the American Dream:
Whatcha think?

I’m actually equally concerned about this too:

And this:

A resident from “outskirts” Louisiana spoke with candidate Romney yesterday, who lent a sympathetic ear and then told her to “Go home and dial 211” Since she has no home left, she told Mr. Romney that she will likely seek some other shelter because her home was submerged in water. She expressed frustration about the town's lack of flood protection. "We live outside the levee protection that's why we get all this water because they close the floodgates up front and all they're doing is flooding us out down here," she said. "It's very frustrating, very. We go through Katrina and Rita and now we're going through Cindy, Lee and now Isaac." 
Well, I’ll tell you why. Lots of rich folk live in the cities and we can’t have their mansions getting flooded and lots of po folk live “down here”  in the rural areas and we can get ‘em a single-wide within 6 months or so depending on FEMA and what they got going on.  
And because it's in my blood, I’m also very concerned about this:

Park folk or “trailers” as we are known in some circles, are among the groups that mostly live outside a levee protection zone.  Face it! You don’t put a trailer park in the middle of downtown San Francisco, Beverley Hills or Carmel-By-the-Sea, where the Western superstar, who talks to empty chairs,
owns a home. 
Like gay bars and animal rescue shelters, you gotta put them way the hell out of the city; in some far off, out of reach, dusty trail where there’s no cell phone reception even when using Verizon.
Out in the vicinity where the "powers that be" don't give a shit that buildings are not up to code or earthquake proof.   Hey! What about next to a toxic waste dumping ground! 

“Trailers” have a life to live and it’s a good one; one that revolves around 2 for 1 sales at the Dollar Tree and a good tuna in oil on white bread sandwich. 
My time in the park was what dreams are made of.  Like the time I got a call from space 30, complaining that her neighbor in 31 was seeking revenge for her narking on him for littering
cigarette butts. No, heavens, no.  
He didn’t share Pinkie or Clint’s philosophy of shoot first then ask the questions. 
Nor did he send her a threatening letter. 
Nope.  He simply attached 5 toilet seats to his rain gutters and strategically hung them facing her kitchen window.  Now that’s healthy revenge and nobody gets hurt.
My pal, who I taught 6th grade with during my pre-trailer park years, took out some revenge
on me one time.
I, upon gathering a very willing group of 6th graders one early weekday morning, dumped every single one of her students’ desks and played Musical Chairs with all the furniture.  Then we ”Raiderized” the entire classroom until it looked like someone threw up silver and black. 
(She was and still is a big time 49er fan.)
It’s all sweet and fun until the revenge component enters the picture, isn’t it?

Weeks passed and then one afternoon, I walked out to the staff parking lot to find my
truck covered in Oreo cookies.  I would guess they used at least 2-dozen bags, opening each and every cookie and smearing the sticky centers on every damn part of my vehicle.  The sun that day added an extra gooey texture that later became quite a challenge to remove.
“Dalmationized” she called it.  “Sweet revenge.”

Then I took out my 500 Cal Magnum and told her to get the hell off my lawn.
Just kidding.
In all seriousness, I love my prankster pal.  We’re still buddies to this day and I like how she votes too!
Hopefully, November will bring some satisfying revenge, aimed at the delusional, and may it occur at the voter box.
G’day mates! Happy Sunday.
~ tpg