Life Unscripted

As many of you know, I taught elementary school for several years, beginning in the '90's.
Like the trailer park, I have retained numerous memories that make me laugh out loud
when I recall them. One in particular was when I was teaching a 2nd grade in the fall of 1998...
We were studying the process of how food gets to our table; meaning, the farm to the Save-Mart to the fridge thing.  I don't know if you realize this, but many children think that the food
on their plates originate at Safeway on aisle 5. Anyway, we were studying nuts (No, not my personal history) and when we looked at regions where various nuts were grown and that day, we did a lesson on peanuts.  We sang a song called "Oh! Peanut Butter" and read books on peanut farming and even ground our own nuts to make the chunky butter.  I'll never forget this one little girl writing in her journal about all that she had learned...
"Today we made penis buter.  I lik penis buter. penis gro on trees."

Recently, I was reading an old article in The Huffington Post on unintentionally inappropriate drawings by kids.

The last one brought back a memory of my first year teaching 6th grade. I had the class from hell and I don't care how that sounds to all of my politically correct readers.  I was barely hanging on day in and day out. At about mid-year, I looked out my classroom window and I saw the principal and the vice-principal walking toward my room with a student's journal in their hands.  They wanted to see if recognized the handwriting.  There were 3 sketches of people, each with giant "talk bubbles" above them.  Each person was nude, and I might add, drawn with explicit detail and accuracy.
I had large tits.  My bubble said something like, "I want to have hot sex with Dr. S."  The others' followed along the same lines.  As my principal (Dr. S) questioned me as to who might have done this, I felt my face bursting into flames.   Suddenly, it was as if I had been immersed in 20 feet of water.
All went silent.   I could see his lips moving but I couldn't hear a damn thing.
Days later, I told a 6th grade colleague and her response to it was, "Well, didn't you tell Dr. S. that it isn't true?" 

Nannyhood

In all my years of chronic caffeine addiction, I never thought I could make my cup of coffee too strong. Somehow I did this morning. You can peel it off my front teeth like old carpet.
I'm drinking it though as a matter of necessity.

So, this week I was on hiatus from the babes. No, I didn't need a break, folks.
I was out of town.
Most certainly, I still have material.
First, let me start by introducing you to Nugget.
Nugget is one of The Cousin's many pals that lives at the bottom of a toy bin, except when
The Cousin takes him out for a diaper change, a feeding or a hug.

Nugget

Nugget, like Lambie, Lambert, Kitty and Rudy (the bear with the weird body) are all my helpers.  I use them on a regular basis to distract, entertain and stall The Cousin when such forms of manipulation are required.

But The Cousin is no dummy.  No way.
She's nothing like the 'trailers' who fit the cliche, "dumber than a stump".  She knows distraction when she sees it.
She's "onto me" big time and all the time.
In fact, she's always 5 steps ahead of me.

Nugget (unintentionally) being suffocated

 The Cousin is a busy girl. Her life is a full 32-oz glass.  There's always chores to be done, animal friends that need attending to, and of course, there's the "Sweet Pea" factor. But The Cousin doesn't complain much about her busy life.  She takes it all in stride and I'm sure there's a lesson in that for all of us.

The Sweet Pea Factor

"This"

"This" is getting less and less. THANK GOD (or the new scientific fact of the Big Bang Molecule).
"This" only occurs when she wants this:

The Bribe Factor

I just need to be one step ahead of her, which most of the time, I am.
Last week, though, because the 3 of us and all our f@#!ing animal pals were stuck inside due to lack of a stroller and rain, I was not in step.  Ever have one of those days where you can't find your rhythm?

I did resort to using food as a "mid-day pacifier. But I disguised it as a "learning tool".
Thanks to Trader Joe's, I had happy babes as long as I stuffed their little beaks with sugar.
We sang The Alphabet Song and I offered some quick-course instruction
in spelling and grammar.  
Sweet Pea can now indulge in "solids" as long as you pulverize it into teeny pieces.

Anybody, besides me, digging those new AT & T "It's Not Complicated" commercials featuring a small group of youngsters gathered around a table answering questions about life?

I would imagine those are scripted.
What I ink, and then share with y'all, is not. Unscripted all the way!
So stay tuned. The best is yet to come.
~tpg

A Day in the Life of...

I can't get no privacy at home or on the job.
At home, it's constant.
The cats follow me to the toi toi  and lurk around me, sniffing and trying to get under my thighs and into the bowl while I sit and attempt to do my business..
At The Cousin's house, both girls also follow me in, even after I've bribed them with toys, tippy-cups and cereal bits to keep them distracted so I can have 30 seconds of peace and solitude while I pee.
But, no.
The Cousin runs in and stares at me with those eyes.
"Bal La Lee. What you doing?"
"I'm going potty." 
"Going pottee?"
"Yep."

In crawls Sweet Pea.  She resembles my cats. She lurks around on the floor trying to get up and into the toilet bowl. I can't even wipe.
I'm making all kinds of lame attempts to get them into the other room,

"Can you go get me your Cat in the Hat book?" I say to The Cousin in hopes she's feeling cooperative and hoping Sweet Pea will follow her out like a shadow.  No dice.
You can't always get what you want and they stay right there like shit in a diaper.

The Cousin's parentals are starting to introduce the toilet concept to her, so they bought her an Elmo toilet.  I think it's kinda funny.
She digs Elmo, so to them, it makes sense that she'll want to sit on Elmo and go potty.  Hmmm.
I'm thinkin she might be intelligent enough to not want to shit on Elmo's face.
It's going to be a long road and I'll tell you why.  For starters, many of The Cousin's toys are in the living room, she therefore likes to drag the Elmo toilet to the living room for playtime.
I move it back to the bathroom, telling her it's not a toy, which obviously makes no sense to her whatsoever.
When diaper changing time comes, I ask The Cousin if she wants to sit on her "big girl toilet" and go potty.  She says, "Yes".  So, I put her down from the changing table, butt-naked, and she walks down the hall to the bathroom.  I'm feeling very cool and optimistic and I'm secretly hoping that I am the one who makes this break-through happen!  We get to the Elmo latrine, I joyfully encourage her to sit down and she simply says, "No."
In fact, The Cousin sees a much better solution.

She puts Kitty on the toilet.
Kitty goes everywhere with her these days, and it's Kitty that needs to be "potty-trained".
I actually hate that term, "potty-trained".  The whole 'training' of a baby kinda reminds me of
training a mule or a dog in a way, but whatever.  What the hell do I know? I'm just the nanny who aspires to win the "2013 Nanny of the Year Award" for getting the kid transitioned from diapers to the pot.
I'm also the nanny who would LOVE to change diapers 5 times in a day rather than 10.

During Sweet Pea's 30-40 minute morning naps, The Cousin and I always slip away to
'project-land'.  Today, we dipped chalk in water and made cool drawings such as "purple rain from the clouds" and "grass at the park" The Cousin's favorite color is purple, hence her "Prince-like" reference to rain.

It was a cloudy, cold and overcast Wednesday, so the girls and I decided to stay inside and wear our sunglasses.
It made sense to us.

Sweet Pea's outfit is the bomb. Her little knitted sweater-vest is a throw-back to the '70's.
I totally dig her look and it suits her personality.  She's a mighty strong little girl and don't we want girls to be that way? Of course we do. We need more of 'em.  I will spare you my "men rule the whole damn world" soapbox today, however I will say this.  Her strength drives me to drink.

Actually, the 3 of us drink together in the afternoon.  It's our "after walk, after naps ritual".
I make the beverages and we sing a song that I made up in a 'desperate moment of resorting to anything to keep the peace'.  It goes something like this, give or take a few weird words:

"It's drink time! It's drink time! Let's quench our thirsties now! It's drink time! It's drink time! 
We're gonna show you how! Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!"  
I mix up the tune. Usually, it's similar to Row Row Row Your Boat or something like that.

Sweet Pea's 'beverage of choice' is warmed boob milk. The Cousin's is an organic pear and green veggie smoothie and mine is straight vodka.
Just kidding.

I'm grateful that I'm not Sweet Pea's mom and it's not my boob. Because lately, I'm having to do a lot of "finger sweeps" in Sweet Pea's mouth to remove, paper, faux leather, yarn and other debris and damn her teeth are GINORMOUS AND SHARP! I'll leave what those fangs must feel like when they bite down on her mom's boob to your imagination.

Well, that's the story, folks.
Except that when 5 o'clock comes, and the papas walk in, I bolt!
You would too.  Cheers!
~tpg

You Got to Know When to Hold ‘Em

Espanola (squiggly over 'n'), New Mexico is deemed the "Low-Rider Capital of the World.” 
I saw first-hand that this is true.  I also saw Rockin Christian Church (where folks rock out with Jesus) and Mighty Modular Fine Pre-Fabs (as opposed to the cheap, nasty ones). 

The business sign, in Espanola, that made me laugh out loud was at a brake & tire shop.

It was a big, bold neon that read:
“If You Can’t Stop, Then Wave.”

Espanola is population 9,000 and the majority of folk live in double wide communities and hang out at this burger joint. 

You’d think a girl like me would feel at home, but I got the hell out of there fairly quickly.

The road north out of Espanola gave me my first peek of the Rio Grande.  As a little "dyke tyke" my dad used to tell stories of the Old West and how the cowboys saved us all from the blood-thirsty savages etc, and he always hailed the Rio Grande as one of the biggest, most powerful rivers in all of America.

There has been a drought this year in our southern states, (Let’s not call it "global warming." That’s a crock.) and though it was a breath of fresh air from Espanola, it was no raging river.

I grew up in Ventura County; land of lemon orchards, strawberry fields and neighbors that went to church on Sundays, whether they needed it or not.  We, on the other hand, prayed and idolized "The Duke" and at one time, we even had a painting of John Wayne on black velvet.

He was altar-worthy in our house.
Right up there with Roy Rogers, Johnny Cash and Ronald Reagan. 

As essential to our daily lives as The Brady Bunch, bicycling until dark and Hamburger Helper made with high-fat ground beef from the sale bin. 

I saw a lot of Espanola in the folks at the trailer park.  Simple folk just like you.  Just like me.
But I’ve come to the conclusion that I really wasn’t the right person for the manager job there. 
I suppose this realization has come to me in hindsight, as lessons often do.  

Leaving the park was a thought-out decision and more so, an action that had to happen.
I was becoming a pathetic, co-dependent, guilt-ridden manager; trying to appease the
whack-jobs/residents, while trying to enforce all the “regs” and all the while, attempting not to drink as much as they did.

When I left the park, I continued blogging, much to the egotistical put-downs of my former writing partner who, with his cold, flagstone face, remarked more than once, “Hmmm...I don’t know.  Your blog has taken a turn and it’s just not as good since you left the trailer park.  It’s as if you’re speaking in two voices now.” 

At that time, I was consumed by four-letter words, which were exploding in my head like granddaddy's sawed-off shotgun.
"You self-absorbed, domineering, lookist , misogynist, control-freak!” were just a few of my thought-bursts directed at him. 
But time is often the best teacher and soon I realized that my drive for writing is hard, strong, tough as nails and my action to leave the trailer park has, in fact, opened a huge vat of creative possibilities.  And time is the perfect guide, showing a girl like me how to "let go"of folks that stand in the way of those possibilities.
If I live, breathe and write within that realm of possibilities, the world is mine and there are endless situations, opportunities, potentials.

Decisions/actions can be like that, you know.  The old saying “There will be consequences for your actions” can, in reality, manifest itself to instead be, 

“There are possibilities for your actions” and those possibilities are phenomenal; transforming the way we look at things and how we walk in the world!

Think about it.  When we (finally) take action to exercise, we are overcome with endorphins and a euphoric feeling that gives us energy and a positive outlook for the rest of the day.  

If we buy a homeless man a cup of coffee and a sandwich, we are touched deeply by his gratitude and therefore we are able to see our own.  When we are struck with insomnia, (y’all know who y’all are)  rather than lie there and fill our heads with angry, bubbling gases that feel as if they'll  burst out of our skulls, we make a decision, take action, to get the hell up out of that bed and read a good book or write a poem or even clean the damn kitchen!   And because of our own action, the outcome has grand possibilities: we either are able to go back to bed and slumber or we see a sunrise.

Last week, at my humble little tea shop, my life took a turn down Serenity Street when a couple from out of town walked in to browse.

Instantly,  I was drawn to the woman’s ability to offer up eye-contact, a warm smile and genuine conversation that flowed so naturally from her mouth, one would believe she and I knew each other in some weird past life kinda place.

Sometimes you just meet people like this. 

I took action, although some might say I just made a small, insignificant decision to engage with her, but in my heart of hearts, and for the purpose of this blog, I must tell you, I took action and allowed any walls to crumble down with the same ease and steady pace equivalent to hers.  This action opened a door and that door is a door to possibilities.  Rose lives in Long Beach and I in Monterey, but we've been emailing ever since.
Now some of you might be thinking, “Big deal, Lucille.”  but I, on the other hand, am thinking this: “Meaning-full.” 
Whether we choose to call it simplistic or extraordinary…insignificant or monumental…
dull or magic…At the end of the day, it’s that choice that leads to either a consequence or a possibility, and in a world that will not only push us around, if we let it, but also pass us by if we aren’t paying close attention, why not choose possibility!?!

Last year, I was on a flight from Austin to San Jose via Denver.  I was determined not speak to anyone on the plane and had made a conscious decision, prior to boarding, to fold 'em and fake sleep during the flight.  Well, that didn't happen because the plane took drop dead drops all around Denver and I grabbed the arm of the man to my left, scared shitless we were all going down. (If I were Catholic, I'd had said a few Hail Mary's.)

His name's Curt and he, his wife and their kids all live in Denver.  He was different.  Special.
I felt it; knew it from the eye-contact he gave me. Caring. Genuine.  (Nothing like my ex-writing partner.)   When he got home, he facilitated an introduction, via cyberspace, between his wife, Susan and I.   Susan is this cool, vibrant mom, writer and executive director of an educational program called Lily's Truth, which is implemented in classrooms as an anti-bullying tool.  http://www.lilystruth.com/

She's also the author of a frolic down Menopause Lane called Smokin Hot Mama!

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/smokin-hot-mama-susan-a-haid/1106911695

And Susan is a stranger.  She and I have never met, but there's magic there, and someday we'll see one another face to face. I'm sure she has great eye-contact too.  I'm certain our energy will flow as if we were sisters in a past life.

Last October 15, my partner and I answered an ad that a woman had tacked to a bulletin board.
She was seeking 8 weeks of temporary housing. 

The ad described her as a single woman in her mid-sixties, fixed income, learning disability, seeking a room for 8 weeks while finishing her AA degree at the local college.
No drinking.  No smoking.  Quiet…the flier went on to say.  

I called immediately.  I called because we could use the extra cash.  I called because I have a tattoo right smack in the middle of my forehead that says, in bold font,

“All weak, differently-abled humans and animals in need, call me for help.”

Isabelle moved in October 15, 2011.  Isabelle is still with us as of July 7, 2012.

You might be asking yourself, “Did my actions bring consequences or possibilities?” 
Both.   But in this moment, I would say, mostly possibilities. 

For sure, she’s a teacher among us, though her teaching style often leaves one laughing out loud and excessively drinking wine at all hours of the day and night, simply because she can be a bit odd.
However, she’s a compassionate cat-sitter, a Squirrel Whisperer and wise sage. Because she is vehicleless, she knows the weather and bus schedules like nobody's business.  I like that.
I’m lucky she’s passing through my life.

Just like I was lucky to have known Space 16 and 19.  Space 16, reminded me of the importance of innocence. She also gave me the chance to listen to Karen Carpenter again.  Space 19, who I had an ‘entanglement’ with, which wasn't pretty at the time, turned out to be quite sweet and gave me the gift of acceptance.
I wouldn't have known that, if I had chosen to fold 'em.  Instead, I did what any trailer park manager would do... I made Space 19 a Bundt cake. 

Because of  that action, all future interactions were pleasant.

It's kinda like not caring if the wine glass is half full or half empty 'cuz either way, there's still room for more wine.

You gotta hold ‘em or fold ‘em in this life, and if you choose to hold ‘em, OMG, you'll reap
an armful of possibilities!  

I am reminded of my dear and holy friend, Shem, who comes to mind because she walks in this world with her eyes wide open.  She never folds.  And if she does, she's somehow able to dive deep into the how’s and why’s and then remarkably shovels her way back out.
She's able to embrace all that is good and true.

The list of adjectives to describe her is incredibly long and, suffice to say, would fill an
entire blog by itself.  But one thing I would like to bring to your attention:

Shem has a camera.  And she is the Mistress of the Lens.

This camera is an extension of her eyes, yes, but more so, it is an extension of her soul, and with her camera she, again, never folds.  Always noticing, always searching, always capturing the essence of life’s possibilities, whether in the salty waves at her feet, on the dirt path lined with delicate grasses that move freely in the wind, or whether it's in the faces of the people who aren’t looking.
Shem’s photographs, as well as her actions, define her and define all of us if we remain
open to such chances.

I’m on a natural high this evening; take me down country roads Johnny Denver kinda high and
I'm hoping it’s infectous and contagious for y’all.

My partner has a big bowl of ripe, juicy cherries right now and she won't share even
one with me.
No big deal.  

She can have her cherries and eat ‘em too. 

‘Cuz I’m just merrily rollin along…

~tpg

Move Over American Pickers

I come from a long line of trailer trash, as you know.  I say that with utmost pride. 
We ‘trailers’ hold in us the ability to persevere through harsh economic times, family feuds
and liberals moving into our parks everyday. 
We've learned to endure. Cope.

The ‘trailer’ in me slips out occasionally with a “gettin’ instead of ‘getting’ or a ‘y’all’ now and then.  My bloodline and roots are blatantly visible when my partner and I do our weekly yard saleing in order to keep our side business, VW Upcycling, up and running.

DEFINITION:

VW Upcycling

2 girls buying junk at cheap ass prices; then doing whatever it takes

to make the crap unique and aesthetically pleasing, and after doing so,
selling it for hella profit.

Minimum 200 % mark-up.

Primary goal is to sell to “shi shi” folks on the bay.

Green company.  No support of large chain stores. No waste in landfills.

VW Upcycling is the modern day Sanford and Son.  For those of you still in diapers, Sanford and Son was an American sitcom and a smash hit created by Norman Lear.
It first aired in 1972 and featured a father and son team who owned a salvaging business.

VW Upcycling is a couple of dykes buying crap then 'upcycling' it in order to pay the rent. 

My dad loved Sanford and Son.   Redd Foxx was the only thing that made my pop laugh out loud in those days.  He’d plop his fat ass in his recliner while my mom, my brother and I, with our bowls of Neapolitan ice cream in hand, huddled together on our vinyl couch; all eyes glued on the console. 

When Fred Sanford would engage his favorite ploy and feign having a heart seizure, whereupon he’d look toward the heavens and call out to his late wife, “I’m comin, Elizabeth! This is the big one! I’m comin!” my dad would let out a belly laugh that could be heard blocks away, totally scaring the shit out of the three of us.

http://youtu.be/1WqazleR3FE

Recently, my brother told me about the TV show, American Pickers.

Opening: The series intro is narrated by Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz:

“I'm Mike Wolfe. And I'm Frank Fritz. And we're pickers. We travel the back roads of America looking for rusty gold. We're looking for amazing things buried in people's garages and barns. What most people see as junk, we see as dollar signs. We'll buy anything we think we can make a buck on. Each item we pick has a history all its own and the people we meet are a breed all their own.
We make a living telling the history of America...one piece at a time.”

Amen, Mike and Frank.  Amen.
And what I love about American Pickers, in addition to sharing
the same passion as these boys for earning a decent living, is their sidekick Danielle.

Danielle's a tattoed spit-fire who knows how to charm the pants off ya. And I like that.  The show airs on The History Channel due to its self-proclaimed title as “Antique Archeologists.”  

I watched two episodes and knew instantly that I was ‘one of them.’  ‘One of them’ meaning: a backwoods, pre-fab kinda girl who enjoys the simpler things in life like little sparrows chirping in the early morning, a golden sunset on a country pond and ripping folks off by selling junk disguised as treasure.

This week was an excellent week at VW Upcycling.  We’re rollin in the dough which means we can now afford to buy the free-range, no nitrate hot dogs and also buy tickets to see the derby girls kick some ass in Santa Cruz.  Here’s just some examples of the treasures we’ve kept out of landfills:

Purchase Price: $5
Upcycle Price:$25

Purchase Price: $10
Upcycle Price: $185
(Delivered to San Jose)

One thing that we ‘trailers’ have in common with folks like you is we are resilient.  We take the damn bull by its horns and ride it baby.  We don’t wait for opportunity to come a knockin, but rather, we sniff it out like a hound sniffs out a coon.

Purchase Price: $3
Upcycle Price: $45

We always have an organized plan.

We do our research or “homework” as we like to call it.
And although we’re old-fashioned, we do use mapquest in order not to backtrack.  You see, this saves on fuel, which btw is at $4.47 a gallon in our neck of the woods.  Timing is everything. We make our list according to start times and locations.
However, we disregard the NEB (no early birds) requests and get there as early as we damn well please in order to work our magic and get some real bargains.

Once our Chevy pickup is loaded, we make a drop at home, take a quick potty break and then get back on the road. Time is money, honey.
Usually it’s a good day and we score big, especially if it’s not raining.

The week that follows the shopping frenzy, is spent in the garage fixin, gluein, stainin, changin hardware, and sometimes “airin out” an item if it has a mothball or mildew fragrance to it.

Then comes the staging and the photographs.  This is my forte.

I take photos of the “pieces” from various angles and post them on Craigslist.

Then we wait for the callers to phone in.  And hot damn do they ever!

It’s a win win and the way I see it, the world needs more “win wins.”

Once in awhile, I come across an item of high quality and prestigeous value;
an item whose beauty and worth make it far more valuable for me to retain it
rather than sell it.

This past Saturday,

I came across one of those items at a bargain price.

I got the vase for a couple bucks and the gin for $5.  The seller informed me it retails for $40 a bottle, and because he was a UK native and wearing Banana Republic dress slacks, I believed him.
I got home and Googled it and here’s what the experts had to say,

“The Chanel No. 5 of the category is Plymouth English Gin. Made for two centuries at Black Friars Distillery, the ultra-sophisticated spirit is distilled in a copper alembic still using pure grain spirits, soft Dartmoor water, and an infusion of seven, highly aromatic botanicals. A quick sniff explains Plymouth’s enduring popularity. The gin has an exuberant citrus, spice, and juniper bouquet, and a light, seamlessly smooth body. Its vibrant, skillfully balanced palate fills the mouth with the flavors of strawberry, coriander, orange, and lemon zest, which gradually tapers into a graceful, distinguished finish.”

http://www.drinkspirits.com/gin/plymouth-gin-distillery/ 

When you aren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth;
I mean when you fall into that class that pays 25% tax instead of 13%...you gotta find ways to make ends meet.

You know what I’m talking about. 
Hey, if you’re looking for a nice piece of furniture, give me a ‘shout out.’
Or stop by for a bubbly glass of Plymouth botanicals on the rocks.  I’d love to see ya!

                                                      ~tpg

It's a Brave Girl in a Scary World

I just saw a commercial for www.christianmingle.com

It’s the site where God helps find you your perfect “mate.”

I personally didn’t use the site when I found my sweet little match back in 1994.

I was slinging lattes and toasting croissants; serving up apple pie and cinnamon twists when she walked in and ordered a cappuccino.  She had actually been eyeing my best friend at the time, but it was me that could make foam like no other barista in town and somehow that, and the fact that 

I didn’t wear undies, won her over.

My partner is as solid as The Poconos.  No.  More than that.  She can leap tall buildings in a single bound.  She’s as sturdy as the pyramids at Chichin itza and mightier than a hurricane.  She has the ability to eat nails, at a picnic, all the while, smiling at how beautiful the surroundings are.   She coaches her women’s basketball team like a tenacious barracuda; a relentless teacher and forceful presence; pushing her players to be fearless warriors in a treacherous sea.   She can take a sliver out of her own palm, never wincing.   She doesn’t crack when there’s no money in our bank account, even though it’s two weeks till the next payday.   

If the bastards at PG&E or Comcast screw us over on a bill, she calls them up, remains calm, cool, and collected throughout the entire conversation, and we get the refund.   If a tsunami were to hit our coastline, she’d not only have an excellent plan of escape; one that you and I could depend on, but she’d execute it in a composed, nonplussed manner.  

She’s like a f*cking Tibetan monk during prayers in these types of situations;

Gandhi herself.

When a situation that required muscle arose at the park, it was Ms. Barracuda that I sent to handle it.  I remember it well.  One evening right before sunset, Rafael was disturbing the peace and tranquility of our harmonious modular housing community; Ranting, raving and waving a Cesar Chavez flag.  Neighbors began phoning in with complaints.  Then there was a knock at our door.  It was the teenage son of Rafael’s next-door neighbor, saying he felt there was going to be an eruption and he feared for his father’s well being if we didn’t go down and intercede. 

My partner went down. (I pulled our blinds and turned on a good murder mystery.)

As she approached the unit, she could hear what sounded like a carport of barking dogs and screaming children, but it turned out to be none other than Rafael, 3 sheets to the wind, and falling over his fold-up lawn chair.   With the poise of a tightrope walker, she approached.

“Hey..Rafael.  Everything okay?”

“ Oh…hiiiiiii (hissing sound like a German snake with a rat caught in its windpipe) hi...there …Winn…deeee.”

“Rafael…what’s goin on?”

(More hissing and lots more stumbling) “ Wiiiinnnnndeee…do you know what Guillermo said to me?? I…I...I’…m gunna kick his…”

“Rafael…calm down.”

“Geee…Air…Mo called my daughter una...lesbiana...a lesbiana and I’m gunna kick his ass…pendejo!  Windeee, can you help me…porque he called her a…”

(A delayed pause)

“Well, Rafael, that’s actually not the worse thing your daughter could be.”

My partner, cool as a lesbian cucumber, answered calmly. 

“I...love you Wiiiiindee….(hiss and drunken hacking sounds) I love …the managers…”

“Thanks, Rafael.  We feel the same about you, but....”

“Do you know what my daughter said? She…(slurring, hissing and possibly slobbering) she said for me to come inside and go to bed.”

“I think you have a very smart daughter, Rafael, and you should take her advice.”

“NO!  I already called…I called the sheriff and told the sheriff...”

“You what, Rafael?  Look. Go inside and get some sleep and let’s talk in the morning.”

I’ll be damned if the sheriff pulls up, gets out of his rig, looking like Barney Fife, and greets Rafael by first and last name. (Obviously, they’d met before.)

“Mr. Anayo, you need to go inside your trailer or I’m going to have to write you up for disturbing the peace. Now get on inside.” 

There are numerous more examples of my partner’s fearless bravery:  burying dead mice, fixing technical difficulties because I hate reading the “How To” manuals, confronting residents who hate us, dealing with Jehovah Witnesses at the door…these are just a few examples of why I married her. 

But there is one exception.  There is one thing, the Queen of Composure is deathly frightened of; one situation that, just the thought of it, drains her of every damn ounce of suave and coolness and leaves, in its place, a pathetic puddle of panic.

My partner is petrified of the dentist.  

I’ve never seen a grown woman avoid something to such an extreme degree. 

I mean the sound of that drill, the smell of that drill, the guy with the mask on leaning over you while you are strapped to the chair, flat on your back (or so it feels), his big ‘ole hands down your throat, and who can forget the shot!  

Holy Mother of God!

I totally understand the yucky unpleasantness that borders violation with regard to going to the dentist.  But I go AND I suck it up with the generic Novocain. 

But not my Buttercup.  Just the mention of the “D” word sends her into a crazed frenzy and causes crocodile tears to form in the corners of her baby blues. 

This is where I stepped in; where I became the parent.  I began with a Deepak Chopra approach; gently explaining that her issues and concerns are real, universal, valid and that I am here to support her in a loving and understanding way. 

Then I took a more Margaret Cho approach and told her to get over it and woman-up because rotten teeth are unacceptable for a girl with a Master’s degree in Psychology.  

I then acted quickly and found the solution:

Sleep Dentistry.

It took the dangling of a huge carrot and some secret ‘favor-promises’ to get her to the first consultation.  (At Sleep Dentistry, they give you several consultations, in order to establish a feeling of trust and tranquilly between them and their patients.)

I sat in the waiting room through each one of her consultations, thumbing through Yogi Times, with the other parents.

Months and consultations went by before the first x-rays were taken.   The verdict was in.  

She had MAJOR dental issues to address and fix, and many appointments would be needed.    The news sent “the barracuda” straight into denial and another

6 months passed before she phoned back to schedule her first appointment.

Day of First Appointment/Misc. Examples of Future Appointments

Prior to “the day” the patient is sent a lovely card.  The front of the card had butterflies and purple irises.  The inscription inside welcomes you and assures you the path you are on is a healthy one, and that you will be pain-free through the procedures. 

The morning of the procedure, the patient takes a pill (given at the final consultation) one hour before the scheduled appointment time. The patient must have a designated driver there and back. 

She hadn’t slept at all the night before. She took her “happy pill” at 6:00 am.

I didn’t think it had any affect on her until, at about 7:00 am, when we were getting into the car.   I looked at her and happened to notice a little bit of drool and a weird smile on her face…

She says to me in an equally weird voice, “I like your ass in those jeans.”

(Okay, that’s nice, but I was wearing baggy sweats.)

The ride to the office took about 30 minutes and for the first time in 17 years, she didn’t complain about my driving.  So, I asked, “How’s my driving, babe?”

“Great.”  She answered, seeming content to just stare out the window. 

(I love the “happy pill.”)

As you enter the waiting room of Sleep Dentistry, elevator music plays softly and the air is filled with the smell of cinnamon and apples.  Everybody whispers.  The receptionist greets us in a quiet, delicate Stepford Wife voice and encourages us to relax and have a seat.  There are various healing journals throughout the room; a counter with fresh fruit, a coffee maker and hot cider with cinnamon sticks floating at the top. Everyone is smiling.

A nurse eventually comes to escort her back behind the door to the “frown-free zone” and I am instructed to keep my phone on so they can call me 15 minutes before she is ready to go home.   I leave but not before noticing my partner is chuckling it up with the nurse as if they were old college pals.

The Drive Home

So, when the dirty work was over, the nurse, who is now Wen’s bff, escorts her to the car.  They hug one another.  The nurse seems so proud of her, which makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.  They are smiling and exchanging happy thoughts as happy people often do.  I am given strict orders:  She must go home, rest, drink lots of water, soft foods only, and no alcohol for 24 hours.  She assured me they’d be calling to check on her in a couple of hours. 

The drive home began pleasurable enough.  My partner put her chair all the way back, closed her eyes and appeared to be sleeping.

There’s something I neglected to mention to y’all and that is that my partner is as stubborn as she is valiant, and with eyes shut, here’s what comes out of her mouth:

“Take me to work.”  (She’s slurring like Rafael.)

“No way!  You’re not going to work!  Are you f*cking kidding me?”

“I gotta work.  It’s the last day of the semester.  Just take me there.”

You have absolutely no idea what that ride back was like but I’ll tell you this…I had zero chance in hell of winning.

“I’m going to stop by Erik’s Deli and get you some soup.”

 I did both; I got her soup and took her to work.

Several hours later, her assistant brings her home. 

Evidently, she fell asleep on her office floor for quite a long period of time.  During practice, she set up her chair in the middle of the gym floor rather than on the sidelines.  She has absolutely no recollection of eating her soup.

These types of escapades continued for several more appointments in much the same way.  I got lots of compliments the mornings of the procedure.  My driving was exemplary the mornings of the procedure.   And she had no recollection of work on those days, even though she went. 

But let me tell ya, I love Sleep Dentistry! It’s the bomb and I highly recommend it to all the babies out there who wear an exterior of Superman or Bionic Woman because it takes you in its loving arms, gases you up and sends you to La La Land, all the while, taking care of your dental problems. 

You betcha.

That’s all for today, folks.   Keep smiling and showing the world those pearly whites.

Happy, Happy, Happy to you!              

~tpg  
http://www.1stsedationdentist.com/

http://www.dentalfearcentral.org/help/sedation-dentistry/


                                    

A Delicious Sip of Something New

The other evening, at a friend’s “3 Kings Celebration," I reached the state of perfect blessedness; achieving it by ridding my whole being of individual existence and simply absorbing my soul into the light of supreme spirit; extinguishing all other desires and passions, in order to be in an exact moment of great peace and bliss. 

No, it didn’t occur because of yoga, meditation or organic herbal skin products; 

Nor was it due to the following the North Star. This blissful state was not from the giving of frankincense, gold and myrrh; nor from the cheese and chili empanadas and pork in clay pot.        My perfect happiness; the ideal condition of rest, harmony, stability and joy...My own personal Nirvana was achieved through a simple little beverage 

called a White Russian. 

A taste of paradise with the medicinal, hypnotic powers of an orgasm.

How I’ve lived for decades without ever partaking in a tumbler of this heavenly liquid is beyond me.

YOWZA! I think I met Jesus, right then and there, in my friend’s kitchen.  And boy did his and my relationship grow with every sip.  When the pitcher of this delicious  “aid to stopping osteoporosis” was back in front of me; it was a second offering I couldn’t refuse. After two tumblers, I do believe I saw St. Peter and his holy tribe of angels all playing their horns beckoning me home…

This morning, I Googled the recipe, still struggling with the acceptance that I’m a White Russian Virgin.  In doing so, I learned that not only am I out of the liquid loop, I’m also out of the flora and fauna loop.

White Russian Grow with Flowering Clones

This got me thinking about the time I heard Space 27 hammering and drilling in the middle of the night.  The electric saws and pounding continued for weeks; always after midnight.  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I decide to check out the back of his unit one afternoon when he wasn’t home.  As I climbed over buckets, tarps, hammers, nails and a few empty Corona bottles, I came across a large shed that was being built (without permits).  I snooped a bit, as trailer park managers often do, and discovered weird and oddly placed electrical wires, small vents, and huge black canvases for curtains. 

I now know that structure was a White Russian shed.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Russian_(cocktail)

                                            

                                                         Careful man…there’s a beverage here.

There are various deviations of the original cocktail.  A simple

splash of Coke and you get a Colorado Bulldog.

and then there’s all of these…

China White #2
2. Flaming Black Russian
3. Fuzzy Russian
4. Jake White Special
5. Pink Russian
6. Russian Cream
7. Russian Kelman
8. Russian Qualude
9. Russian Sunrise
10. Smooth Black Russian
11. White Cloud
12. White Dove
13. White Elephant
14. White Man
15. White Sangria
16. White Tornado

1. Albino Russian
2. Belle Melon
3. Black Magic Shooter
4. Black Russian
5. Blue Russian
6. Cappucino Cocktail
7. Double Fudge Martini
8. Liquid Coffee
9. Mint Russian
10. Mulatto Russian
11. Nutty Russian
12. Russian Nog

Now, although White Russians hold the obvious medicinal healing properties and health benefits, 

I can’t drink them too often. No. No. No!  But life without one every now and then might bring tears to your eyes in much the same way had you been seeing a psychiatrist for several months and one day he/she looks at you and says in a very quiet, professional voice, “No hablo ingles.”

That would suck.   But I figure we’re starting a new year and we need to start off on a positive, adventurous foot. Try new things.  Focus on each day.  Practice living without regrets.  

Reinvent ourselves.

Reinvention is a much-discussed theme in women's literature and women's lives, and the New Year is a particularly appropriate time to discuss creating a new you!  We have such a plethora of great writers, from Jane Eyre to Anne Tyler to Doris Lessing to Maya Angelo…women’s literature and poetry have long proved so; 

that reinventing, rediscovering, replenishing one’s self, right down to our little bitty souls, is a common thread-theme that keeps us filled with self-discovery, united and I suppose, whole.  Women find ways to do this through various art forms in which we are passionate about, through our everyday actions within our communities, through educating and reeducating ourselves in order to reach our potentials; to reach beyond what is at our immediate grasp and into the realm of the unknown, the surprise; that which in intangible at first attempt.  

Reinvention can even find us while standing in a friend’s tiny kitchen sipping 

a White Russian for the first time at the age of 53. 

When I think of reinventing or recreating, my head swirls around from shedding a pound or two or volunteering for a noble organization, to attempting yoga, or completing that writing or art project that’s been sitting for months…I also think of friendships and the nurturing of those relationships.  I never thought I’d type these words, but I think Facebook is one tool we have to do just that; 

Begin dialogs, worthy or unworthy conversations, with folks we see not so often.

I have reconnected with wonderful pals who I haven’t interacted with for ions, and though I can’t say I’d spend 24/7 with them (or them me), it’s been good.  Real good.  And it happens so randomly.  Take the following Facebook interaction, for instance…

Tray:  “Wow, butternut squash is pretty darn sweet. 
I feel like I've returned to my 20's when Tam used to do all the cooking! Tahini, broccoli, sesame seeds....” 

Vee: “Ahh...your 20's. Were they easier than these days of giving up caffeine, booze, meat, and addictive relationships? lol...maybe we should all eat butternut and return!”

Vee (again b/c she can’t shut up): “…or maybe you and Tam just belong together! lol. I'll stop now. Xo”

Tray: “Are you drinking a cocktail right now?”

Vee: “Just finished one (pinkie promise) and am munching on green beans and tofu (organic!) xxoo”

Tray: “I'm jealous. Not about the green beans and tofu, mind you.”

Kel: “That's how i eat all the time...”

Tray: “rolling my eyes icon inserted here. Lol”

Sche: “Hippie. Xxo”

Pyl: “Hey!! “S!”! How do you know “T”?!  And vice versa ?! I love small worlds! Two of the coolest women ever. YAY!! :)”

Tray: “We used to be neighbors. Shared a duplex of sorts in Sebastopol.”

Tray: “How do you both know each other?!”

Pyl: “I met “S” at the Ren Faire in like '84 I think. She and her boyfriend worked with my boyfriend and me at the Roast Beef booth. We were like family :). Wow, such great memories...”

I think that initial connection was sealed at the roast beef booth. Yea, and now the reconnect which has so much possibility.   But in all seriousness, there are days when I don’t feel like writing a card or picking up the phone.  The whole phone-phobia usually hits me at night.  I’ve been out in the world all day; chatting it up, interacting with the masses, smiling till it hurts…then I get home, 

pet the little guy who purrs at me unconditionally, take off the bra, put on the sweats, walk around outside to assure myself that Nature is still my friend.  

Then I flop on the couch (BAM! Phone-phobia) for an HGTV marathon.  The last thing I want to do is pick up the telly, even though y’all are so cool and interesting to talk to.  But what I do have energy for, after a long day, is to say “hey” on Facebook.  And though I have to be careful not to get sucked into the vortex, which could lead some of us to starting our own chapter of "Facebook Anonymous," I do have some worthwhile interactions there. 

I get the politically incorrect, sterile, unspiritual aspect of FB.  Yet, I see its purpose and place in our ever-changing world.  If it serves as a way to stay connected to your peeps or reconnect with those you've lost, then that might well be plenty.  And if it gives those faithful followers a "jump start" at rediscovery, recreation, rejuvenating a part of their mind or heart that was idle prior, then so be it. And if a delicious sip of something new finds your lips, enjoy it!  

And my little chickadees, if we remain stuck within the confines of the eggshell; how the hell are we going to experience the freedom of flying? 

Na zda-rov’ye!  (To our health!)

Za schast'-ye! (To happiness!)

~tpg