Lessons Learned (or Not)

“Instructions for living a life.   
Pay attention.  Be astonished.  Tell about it."
~Mary Oliver

The other day, I drove a dear friend to San Jose International Airport. She was returning home, to the great state of Texas, after spending 4 days in California doing what us Californians do best:

Drink wine, talk, laugh, drink more California wine.  My friend doesn't drink much and for some

absurd reason, known only to herself, she always comes to Monterey and orders a Blue Hawaii.

Just like a damn tourist.  Only God and the bartender know what's in those.

3 sips later, she snockered.

I tell her, "Sip the grape, not the volcano" but she never listens to me.

We have to practically carry her home from The Wharf.

There's a lesson to be learned I suppose.

Anyway, after I dropped her at the Southwest curbside check-in and we said our good-byes, which are never easy because we both have these humongous heartstrings that pull and twist and tug at the thought of good-bye.

How are y'all at "good-bye's?"  "Good-bye's" aren't my strong-suit.

So in order to lighten things up, as I drove away from my friend, I laid on my horn and scared the shit out of the entire line of passengers, the baggage dude and a traffic controller.

Upon entering the on-ramp to the 101 South, I looked to my right and saw the San Jose Airport Holiday Inn; the very location of all our quarterly trailer park management meetings.

Suddenly, a shitload of memories (and hideous paisley carpet) filled my head and I was quickly taken back to the conference room where I spent many a day during my 7 1/2-year career as a trailer park manager.

Instantly, I'm filled with visions of dudes wearing camouflage caps and denim shirts with embroidered elk, knitting bags made of red and navy bandannas and extra-large folk selling extra-large bars of See's during the potty breaks.

I always sat in the very back row; the seat closest to the door.  So did this Samoan couple from Campbell, who always had matching shirts.  They sat there, not for the "exit benefits", but rather for its convenient location to the snack table.

The snacks were nothing to write home about: individually packaged muffins with fake blueberries, either really ripe or really green bananas and "brown water" with packets of non-dairy powdered creamer.

The meetings went on and on and on. They lingered like a bad head-cold. "Park Safety","Rules and Regulations of the New Year", "Maintenance Budgets".  And thrown in the mix was this head admin dude, who I'll call Roger, who thought he was a stand-up comedian.  There were at least 250 managers there each time, representing trailer parks from King City to Sacramento. Out of the 250, I'd guess 249 took their job seriously.

I just couldn't.

I'd arrive wearing one of my peace shirts and weird skirts, sit in the back like I mentioned, and take out my notebook.  I'd scan the crowd for the perfect person to write about:  Mr. Sanchez who once stopped a drive-through drug deal at space 320 without having to call the poe-leese, Candy whose husband trapped a wild hog with his own bare hands, Mr. and Mrs. Vandy who tried not to discriminate because "it's the law" but they had a problem with "those kind"...

Such a potpourri of characters.

I miss those characters, those meetings, those days.  No joke.

My resume looks a lot like that potpourri of characters.  Actually, more like Campbell's

Alphabet Soup.  From trailer park manager to hotel concierge to nanny and a dozen

other professions in between.

It's incredible that any prospective employer would take me seriously.

But from the trailer park to the front desk to the changing table, there have always been lessons.

Lessons that have taught me, given me, tools for life.

Lessons such as determination, fortitude, patience and humility;  Instructions for living a life.

The Cousin has some lessons to learn. Like many of us, she needs practice and positive reinforcement in order to "get it".  She was very used to, very comfortable with, being the one and only kid in her family's life. That special grandchild.  The princess on the block.

Then along comes Sweet Pea.

Jealousy is a vicious green serpent. It yields its poisonous head at the most unexpected times and can be the source of many regrettable situations.

The parentals try and tell her.  They say, "Give Sweet Pea hugs. Be Gentle. Love your cousin." 

I can see right through it.  I "get" The Cousin's jealousy and I understand her journey; a path that will certainly have some bumpy rocks.

Oh, how she tries to please the grown-ups.

She tries to do the right thing, but sometimes the devil just gets the best of her.

"Love Hugs"

And after she's done with "the lovin",  she always has this look.  I kid you not, it's a look of total satisfaction. And I'm beside myself in thought. 

"Was I like this with my poor little brother?" 

I know the answer. 

My bro is 2 years younger than me and of course growing up in a household of "traditional gender roles" I was the sweet, innocent, little girl. Therefore, 

I definitely didn't start anything in the area of trouble. 

I'd taunt, tease and torment my brother until he couldn't take it anymore and he'd haul off and hit me. 

I'd then go running down the hallway, crying to mommy and he'd get sent to his room.  

The Cousin gets put on a "time-out".  At least her mom uses this method.  I tried once, but the truth is, 

I have this kinda look on my face that tells The Cousin, 

"No need to take the nanny too seriously." 

Satisfaction Cheer

We all know that lessons don't always come easy.

I particularly like the ones in which you receive the learning right then and there and you don't have to do it wrong, over and over again, for the next 10 years.

The cutest thing of it is, Sweet Pea adores her.  And she's so forgiving, even after a choke-hold.

Sweet Pea in her "I Love My Forest Friends" onesy with way too many snaps for the nanny.

"Thank God she's not eating my puzzle."

In fact, Sweet Pea is totally oblivious to The Cousin's jealousy.  She's astonished with life and lives it to the fullest, with very few cares in the world.  No huge lessons for her to learn these days. Well, except don't eat the toaster plug.  No barricade too strong to stop her.  No book that can't be torn to shreds.

She's one happy camper and all her needs are being met.

All kids should have that, ya know... All their needs met.

It's a beautiful thing.
~tpg

Enjoying the Little (and Big) Things & Blah, Blah, Blah

Even trailer park girls get the blues.  Mine hit me from behind early this week;

Originating from a variety of sources and resulting in the ever-hated, most-dreaded, writers’ block. 
I did what any normal whack job would do.  I posted a plea to my Facebook friends, asking for blog topics in time of such crisis, hoping to get the rev back in my engine.  I got 2 responses.  Which is depressing if you think about the number of peeps on my precious friends list..

“Earth day...overpopulation...reflection on global warming, lack of employment opportunities and as Angela says so pointedly, "blah, blah, blah...."

“Living life to the fullest with the one you love. Enjoying the millions of little things that make it clear why we love each other.”

Aww to both you cutie-pies and thank-you!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am ever so grateful to Cynthia and Carolyn for their responses.
Hell, I’m just happy as a tick on a hound that they even read my plea, but I needed a bigger hunk of meat this morning. Something juicy.  Something I could sink my bicuspids into and chew on for a while.  Then, I turned on the mainstream news…

Vice President Joe Biden spoke at length in defense of President Obama’s foreign policy on Thursday. Referring to a famous quote by Theodore Roosevelt,

“Speak softly, but carry a big stick”

Biden said, “I promise you, the president has a big stick.”

Hey, now! TMI Joe. TMI.  My only question, burning outta control like a fire flare-up on a bunch of pre-fabs is, “How the hell do you know that, Joe?”

Yesterday, Dorothy, the check-out girl at Trader’s Joe’s, responding to my debit card requiring a second slide through because it didn’t work the first time, and my pressing concern that my hard earned cash might be deducted twice,

Spouted, “It has to connect to work.”

“Ain’t that the truth, Dorothy!!” I blurted out as the entire 5:00 pm checkout line burst into laughter.  Oooh, you could just see their imaginations swirling around the display of stacked four-to-a-box artichokes and winding through shelf after shelf of 85% Cacao dark chocolate bars.

It’s true that it does have to connect to work, but does it really have to be humongous to be satisfying and effective?

Seems the gentlemen think so or at least they’ve been conditioned to think so; that bigger is better and bigger is more powerful. And some powerful men think they can control women.  Now I’m not professing to know the length and circumference of Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger’s stick, but Pope Benedict XVI and his cronies are sure flexing "theirs" with the American nuns.  Seems these boys just had to form a committee and decide that American nuns “promote radical feminist themes incompatible with the Catholic faith."  They concluded that the sisters had contradicted church teaching on homosexuality and on male-only priesthood in public statements that "disagree with or challenge the bishops, who are the church's authentic teachers of faith and morals." 

YOWZA! Hail to the mighty Bishops, the authentic teachers and hail to their big sticks!  Seems their quiet, sneaky little investigation has been going on for 3 fucking years and what have they come up with?
The sisters aren’t submissively toeing the line to their standards and liking.

While the sisters have been quiet to respond, a former nun has a big stick of her own.

Mary Johnson served for 20 years in Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity. She calls the Vatican’s harsh new rules for American sisters “disrespectful” and an “insult.”

 “The main complaint is that sisters are thinking for themselves. No one says it in those words, but that’s the bottom line:

You’re thinking for yourself and we don’t like that.”

Fitting, that exactly two years ago today, in 2010, a memo, written by Steven Mulvain, a Foreign Office civil servant was passed around.  One of Steve’s suggestions was that Pope Benedict endorse his own brand of condemns for his “stick” and the sticks of all men everywhere…
It's not a bad idea actually, although that might not only go against "church doctrine" but it might actually help curb the world's over-population crisis. Hmmm...

http://youtu.be/f8JaLsFiYI4

In case you missed the nutty nun news…

http://www.irishcentral.com/news/Vatican-attempts-to-silence-group-of-liberal-thinking-US-nuns-148235185.html

Let’s face it.  Men have been carrying big sticks since the beginning of time.

And of late, the news is still on fire with stories that back this theory regarding boys and their rods…

Ashley Judd’s “puffy, not pleasing enough to men, kind of face”

“Ashley Judd’s Puffy Face Explained” was a breaking headline in the tabloids on the recent rewind. Respectable news outlets such as HuffPo and MSNBC even joined in to debate if Botox was to blame for her "chubby" face.

The news sparked a viral frenzy speculating how much “work she got done” along with warnings that she “better watch out” because her husband is likely “looking for his second wife.” 

Some reporters called her a “pig” and a “cow”, labeling her as fat because of the fact that she was now a size 6/8. (How many of us girls know or have known a dude like that?)

The most troubling fact of all is that mostly women initially broadcast the conversation about Ashley’s face.  But as Ashley writes in her now infamous rebuttal, “That women are joining in the ongoing disassembling of my appearance is salient. Patriarchy is not men. Patriarchy is a system in which both women and men participate.”

How about Julia Louis Dreyfus once being told that her “curly hair wasn’t fuckable?”  

Now I know a woman didn’t say that!http://jezebel.com/5904193/a-producer-once-tried-to-help-julia-louis+dreyfus-by-telling-her-curly-hair-wasnt-fuckable?utm_campaign=socialflow_jezebel_facebook&utm_source=jezebel_facebook&utm_medium=socialflow

It’s an election year and I think women are being placed in the media spotlight to benefit the two gentlemen running for the highest office in the land. (The one man who has a big stick and the other one who has a big dog in a crate on top of his car.)

Trailer Park Manager; It’s Not a Man’s Job

Three men applied for the management position at the park when I put forth my application.
Tommy in space 6, Eliseo from space 27 and Rafael in 10.

All three collectively agreed, ‘It’s a man’s job.’

Tommy had plenty of “plumin experince” and was “always home” because he was “waitin to get a settlement of boo coo bucks” from the company that had fired him.

Eliseo was bilingual, which was a plus, but had been just caught and cited for having a rabbit breeding business behind his unit days prior to him submitting his application for the manager position.
And Rafael…Oh, Rafael.

Well, for starters, he usually had tequila on his breath early, as he headed out to work. His position?
Long-term substitute second grade teacher in a neighboring community. 

I got the job; clearly a known fact.  Maybe I’m the one with a big stick.  Or maybe guys are just knuckleheads who just think with "theirs."  Obama brought the term back recently when referring to the Secret Service team caught with their pants down. 

“A couple of knuckleheads shouldn’t detract from what they do. What these guys were thinking, I don’t know. That’s why they’re not there anymore,” Obama said.

http://rt.com/usa/news/secret-service-prostitute-scandal-075/

Years ago, a group of gal pals and I were returning home from the Arco Arena in Sacramento after a night of women’s basketball.  As usual, I fell asleep on the ride back.  My partner, unannounced to a snoozing me, kept a straight face and proceeded to tell the carload that I was unfortunately born with a single testicle. No joke.
When I woke up, a bunch of sad, sympathetic and perplexed faces were all staring at me.    

She’s a keeper, my partner. 

I’ll let you decide the fiction and the non-fiction of today’s blog.

Blah, blah, blah and live life to the fullest with the one you love ('fo sure!) and God save the American nuns and all that jazz.

~tpg

I’m Experiencing A lot of Happiness Right Now

“All those writers who write about their childhood!  Gentle God, if I wrote about mine, you wouldn’t sit in the same room with me.” ~ Dorothy Parker

Tina Fey’s biography, Bossypants, isn’t a Pulitzer by any means, but it’s got meat.

Chapter 2 jogged a few magical childhood memories; specifically; the special ones that resurrect vivid details of going from Little Girlhood to Woo Woo Womanhood, and all the incredible little tidbits that marked that unforgettable, noteworthy moment.  The question of “When did you first realize you were leaving your childhood behind and entering womanhood?" was asked to a selected group of women--

the group being racially and economically diverse.  Their answers varied only slightly.

The majority of these gals recall “car creepery”  and actually claim it to be that exact moment of entering the halls of womanhood.  I, too, encountered what Tina refers to as “car creepery.”

You know, those times when you were just walking home from school and some dick-head drives by, rolls down his window and yells intelligent remarks like, “Nice tits.” and “Hey, baby, I’ll take some fries with that shake.”  It’s hard to wrap my brain around the fact that a large majority of women claim that experience as their entering into womanhood.  (It’s equally hard to wrap my brain around why the majority of women marry those dick-heads.)

Let’s just dive right in…

Uncle Tom (Time Of Month), Aunt Flo, A friend’s visiting, A snatch box filled with red roses, high tide, back in the saddle, ammunition, the beast, chasing waterfalls, Are you getting another monthly visit from an annoying relative?, code red, closed for business, the gift, on the rag, devil days, Goddess is calling, Happiness or I’m experiencing a lot of happiness right now.

My “happiness” arrived at age 12.  I was with Britt Bales and the other Bible Thumpers from Oxnard Presbyterian Church.   We had a play day at Magic Mountain in Valencia, California.  

I was in love with Britt Bales.  It was a first date.

I held Britt’s hand while waiting in this long ass line for the Log Ride. 

My palms were sweating.  My stomach; a 8”x 8” cage filled with fluttering monarchs.  My knees were jello and my nervous excitement was killing me.

The idea of Britt Bales getting into that log and spreading his legs for me to sit in between them was more delicious than a Big Mac and fries. 

I remember leaning back into his Izod-clad chest.  I remember pressing up against “that area” of his Dockers and feeling what it might be like to have sex.

(FYI: We didn’t have sex back then because we were Christian teenagers in the 70’s, and Christian teenagers in the 70’s didn’t have sex because Jesus was always watching.)

My friend, Susan, and her “date," Jeff Jones, were seated behind us in the back of our log.   Susan was perfect.  She had beautiful olive skin that wasn’t too dark or too light.  She didn’t scream like a girl or yell like a guy when we shot through the tubes of water in our “love log.”   She simply muttered little appropriate exhales and sighs.  It was because of her feminine perfection that I refrained from just totally letting loose.

The ride came to an end and that’s when “it” happened.

Jeff and Susan climbed out of the log, giggling and all dreamy-eyed at one another.  Britt waited for me to get out of the log first, and as I did… BAM!  That’s when I noticed lots of red liquid on the already water-drenched vinyl seat where I had been sitting.  Britt climbed out and I remained frozen; mortified at the thought he might have looked down and seen “it.”

Of course, and this is the honest f*%king truth, I was wearing cream colored

Dittos. (which are back I hear)

http://www.dittosbrand.com/

Description: These were the first must-have label jeans. They came in a large array of colors and styles with names like "Hi-rise."  They were so popular (at least in southern California).

I wrapped my sweater around my waist, grabbed Susan’s arm and headed for the bathroom. Neither of us had any “pads” because neither of us had faced this situation before in our lives.  Yep, I entered womanhood at Magic Mountain and months before Susan Everett.

“Cigars” were out of the question for the same reason that sex was out of the question. 

Pushing one of those babies up into the dark, dismal cave was most certainly a "Top 10 Sin" in the eyes of the Lord.  Luckily, there was a machine than sold Maxi Pads on the wall and Susan had a quarter.  And doubly lucky for me was taking the sweater; which had been at my mother’s insistence.  

It never worked out for Britt and me, but of course that had nothing to do with my “experiencing a lot of happiness” on the log ride that day.  It did, however, have to do with me experiencing a different kind of happiness in the years ahead though. ;) 

Girls enter womanhood at various stages of their lives and as much as we hate to admit it, 

there’s no way out.

My pal, Carolyn, a postal carrier, has enough material to write her own blog, fo’ sure.  

She recently was delivering a package and after ringing the doorbell, a lady came to the door to sign for it in only her bra, underwear and a smile.

(Carolyn was glad it wasn't just a smile.) But I’m thinking that this lady either lives in a trailer park, or she was experiencing her womanhood at that very celebratory moment. Reaching our womanhood is when we toss out the Barbies and replace them with handcuffs.  

Check this ad out on Craigslist:

http://monterey.craigslist.org/gms/2708873125.html

Now evidently, Jay Pee’s are the best. 

In the day, you just didn’t speak of your “womanhood."   Straight up.   My mom, like Tina Fey’s mom, bless her heart, handed me a bunch of pamphlets and told me to go talk with Ms. Utsunomya, my 6^th grade teacher, about “this wonderful time in my life."  (All I remember about Ms Utsunomya was that she was short, mean and walked like she had a corncob stuck up her ass.)

But that’s how we did it. 

That’s how we rolled.

Seems now days, you just go online and ask Kotex for answers:

http://www.ubykotex.com/

Hey... have a free ‘flowin day!

~tpg

Taking It To Austin

     I’ve always been frightened by “the south.”  Even when I was a little girl, and we drove for hours on some hellacious back road from Southern California to Oklahoma;

my dad smoking cigarette after cigarette and driving like a bat out of a flame and my mom, turning around every 2 minutes to tell my brother and I “to knock it off” and enjoy the scenery or she’d “draw a line on the seat between us and then it would be all over for the one who crossed it.”  Well, the scenery was miles and miles of f@*#ing cows and rundown barns and “fillin stations” where the guy would mosey on out in his bibbed coveralls and pump your gas for you at a snail’s pace, all the while speaking in some kind of language that me and my bro were weirded out by.  

     We had relatives in both Texas and Oklahoma and all were bigger than life in ever way you could imagine.  Hell, one glass of ice tea took me 3 days to finish.  I have never seen people eat so much.  Pie was the food of choice and the “N” word was thrown around as casually as a football.  But that was then and this is now and I’m headed back to The Lone Star State manana; to the bright lights and big city of Austin where I have never been.  From what I’ve read about Austin, my daddy wouldn’t have tread there if it were the last place left standing on the planet. 

Destination: The Austin Film Festival

http://www.austinfilmfestival.com/new/

     

     The Driskill Hotel seems to be the center spot, the hub,  for all the action that will take place in the upcoming week at The Austin Film Festival.  It’s swanky and full of ritzy, pretty people with lots of “moola” to burn, and to be quite honest; I’m scared to the bone. 

That kind of ostentatious glamour and luxury, equivalent to the night on the red carpet, is what girls from trailer parks watch from their sofas with a bag of Dollar Tree popcorn and a Bud-Light.  Of course,  I’m nervous as hell!  But gals from a park can also fake it until they make it and I’ve packed cool (worn) cowgirl boots, ($7.50), a cocktail dress from Banana Republic ($2.00), black footless tights (a buck) and a suitcase full of other yard sale scores.  The girl’s got game and she better because the reason she’s heading to

a state that has towns called Looneyville and Buffalo Mop is to hobnob with some big boys and girls in the film industry, attend workshops and panels and hopefully pitch her screenplay, 27 Angels, to a couple people who might be willing to give her the time of day.

     I’ve spent the last two years co-writing a screenplay that’s fairly good and I’m packing my bags tonight and taking it on the road.  Actually Austin itself, from what I’ve read, sounds anything but ostentatious and it certainly doesn’t sound like I’ll need a gun. And the AFF sounds like it’s hip, yet casual and jam-packed with big names that are approachable. 

     And though I am very proud of my trailer roots, I didn’t list trailer park manager on my business card.  But 27 Angels might tell it all and perhaps it should.  My dark comedy takes place in a park and opens a window on a world that most people would simply drive on by… a world of misfits; the disenfranchised, the low-income welfare recipients who pay for their groceries with food stamps and wait in line for slabs of free butter and cheese. 

There’s a story or two there. 

Perhaps we look away because we feel they arrived at this place in life due to their own doing.  I recall this saying my grandmother used frequently, “They made their bed, now they have to lay in it.” I think that mentality has falsely guided an entire generation of Americans; that and this one which goes hand-in-hand, “First of all, I don’t see America having problems.” a direct quote of George W. Bush when being interviewed by Bob Costas at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. 

     According to the Reuters report, nearly 40 million Americans receive food stamps; that’s 1 out of 8.  This has increased by 260,000 since the economic recession of 2008.  Hmm…an increase in people who can’t buy food and at the same time, an increase of profits for CEOs and companies like Chevron.  Hey, did you know that health insurance companies found increased profits of 56 percent in 2009?  No wonder Republicans don’t want Universal Health Care.  Their sugar daddies in the health insurance ‘bank’ wouldn’t be able to buy them as many treats.  I believe we look away, not because we necessarily think like my grandmother or like George, but because if we look too long, then, in turn, we must take a hard look at our own lives and ourselves.

     I hope I’ve got what it takes to not only wear my yard sale rags with confidence, but hold my head high and talk about my project, 27 Angels, like I talk about anything that is near and dear to my heart.  It will take guts, but not balls.

I agree wholeheartedly.  I’ve got mine packed, Betty, and I'll be taking it to Austin.

And unlike Vegas, what happens in Austin won’t stay in Austin.  I’ll be reporting the good, the bad, the ugly, to you all.   

Believe me, if Austin feels the least bit chilled or unwelcoming, I can always hitch a ride to

Crume Gin, Moonshine Hill, or Chocolate Bayou; all towns somewhere deep in the heart of Texas.

See y’all in Austin!

~tpg