Showing posts with label Trailer Trash Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trailer Trash Humor. Show all posts

Monday, March 5, 2012

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.

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 slacksI 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.”

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

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Happy Thanksgiving Y’all!

I guess I’m ‘outta-da-loop’ because I thought the latest craze this Thanksgiving is deep-frying the bird.  My aunt informed me they’ve been sizzling the poor fowls in oil for years.  
Anyway, thank god it wasn’t the “in thing” when I managed the park or we could have very easily had a situation like this one:


I got hell from various halfwits in the park when I tried to enforce the “no open flames” and 
“no unattended fire” regulations.  Boy, they were pissier than a DMV worker on a Friday afternoon.  They’d mutter under their breath something about civil rights and this being America and too much control and dictatorship, etc. etc.  as if I were Hitler himself or some female Machiavellian dictator who didn’t give god damn ounce about their safety; rather I got off on controlling their lives every little chance I could get.
According to the Western Manufactured Housing Committee Association, aka WMA, and the California Codes: Health and Safety Code Section 13000-13011, and summed up nicely by yours truly, it’s not only illegal to have unattended and/or open flames in a modular home park, it’s f*#king dangerous.

I remember when space 5 had one of his monthly Latin shindigs and half the town of Castroville showed up…

FLASHBACK

I got the call around midnight when space 2, the “bee-otch” with the little rat-face dog, could no longer take the techno/rap/Latin/hip-hop/ jive music coming from 5's yard.  I, wearing only my jammies and a sour disposition, jumped in my Bug and headed over the hill to “that” side of the park; only to find Jaime drunk off his ass, and a bonfire the size of those they used to have at Texas A & M during homecoming week, blazing out of control under the roof of his carport.
No one gave a damn about the 8’-foot flame.  Actually, no one gave a damn about anything except the tequila.
“Jaime!”    
I’m irritable.     
 "JAIME!”
I hate dealing with inebriated Latin men who feel the “fiesta fire” is an extension of their manhood and a cultural phenomenon, with roots buried deep down in the heart and earth of Mexico; stretching from there to the great beyond and all the way up the 101 to the hills of Prunetucky. 

When he finally does focus and notice me standing there, his breath reeks of Patron.
Baalaria! …?Waz ‘up?

“Jaime, you gotta put this out, man. It’s muy dangerous.”

Okay…okay…Baalaria.   I put it out…No promblemo.”   He continues to slowly swirl his hips to the music.  We’re not talking Kardashian here... more like Rico Suave only “off.”

I leave knowing I’ll be back and sure f*#king enough, I get another call from unit 2, 20 minutes later.  I return with an ultimatum.

“Jaime, you either put this god damn fire out or I’m calling the sheriff and we’re gonna shut it down, baby!”

When necessary, I’m a barracuda.

It’s humorous though because space 6, 10 and 28 also felt like the not allowing of an open flame was a violation of their civil rights.  Now wouldn’t this be more of a violation of sort:


For me, Thanksgiving is a diabetic nightmare.  It’s carb and sugar hell and you might as well handcuff me now(wink) as I must practice enormous restraint.  
It’s a holiday that my achy breaky heart pains for the turkey as well, so I usually eat my dinner in my own private guilt.  I baked a Tofuki one year, with all the traditional sides, hoping the stuffing, mashers, and gluten-free pumpkin pie would disguise the fact that the entrĂ©e wasn’t the real deal.  My guests tried to remain polite, best they could, but soon they began gagging 
in 5-second intervals.

The numbers vary depending on the source, but according to wiki.answers, over 45 million turkeys, about 15 % of the population, were slaughtered for last year’s “Honor the Native Americans” holiday.  That number is considerably low according to several national animal rights organizations.
Don’t panic, my faithful, I’m not gonna ruin your upcoming meal... 
So, on a happier note, here’s the “pardoned” one:




The tables that are set on this day vary, depending on how and where you grew up, or how determined you were to shed the “how’s and where’s” of your childhood.  Mine was the meat and potatoes, t.v. trays and football. The meal was served at halftime and you could only converse with one another during the commercials.

Whatever yours was and whatever it is today, I wish you a spiritual awakening that fills your soul as much as the turkey fills your belly.  I mean it.  If there’s one thing that Thanksgiving brings out in most of us, it’s gratitude.
And gratitude is exactly what I have for each one of you buckaroos.
Enjoy this last ‘little ditty.’  It amuses my trailer park heart and it will yours too.
~tpg