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

Findings

 Trailer Park Girl writes of life at a trailer park, and life way beyond the park.  Her blogs are filled with soap box rantings, politics, observations of people and situations, soul-searching, senseless musing and crap like that.   

She pushes you to look inside yourself, and almost always, make you laugh out loud.

~ Anonymous (review)

So I'm sitting in my hair salon, where Lonnie is working some damn good magic on my hair.  As I sit with the dye on my head, ( something I swore I'd never do when the gray began its formation of a small, persistent army) I search for a magazine that grabs me.  I have absolutely zero interest in looking at Vogue or Elle with all the anorexic ladies the world see as beautiful. I pick up Harper's July 2012 edition and thumb through to the section called "Findings."
I love Findings.  It's like a "quickie" when you don't have time for hours of sex;
breakneck, to the point and satisfying.
Findings offers up a bunch of facts and recent scientific discoveries from all the major global
laboratories, universities, etc.  It's one or two gratifying, factual sentences without the fluff...
Recent discoveries, research-based suggestions for your health, advancements with this global study or that and yada yada yada...
My favorite finding, which caught my eye and provided me with one of those
"things that make you go hmmm" moments was this:
"Vanilla yogurt gives mice glossier coats and bigger testicles."
All you gentlemen reading this should make note, then get your asses down to Food Max and stock up.

Me after just 4 days of eating vanilla yogurt

Vanilla Greek Yogurt has been my favorite foreva and as you can tell, it's working.
I'm thinkin that because of my gender, somehow it directed itself to a different body part, yet in the general vicinity. 

Note to self: When you shut a door on "blood family" aka ‘kin’ some 44 years ago, they shut their side of the door as well.

I suppose the wisdom lies with the ability to truly know doors.
Intuition has something to do with it.  Understanding too.
But most important, in this writer’s opinion,  is effort.  
I made no effort to know my kin. 
Let’s take a walk down Self-Examination Lane for a moment.
For many years, I  blamed everyone else for slamming their doors on me.
How dare they?
I wrote 'em off like a boring church sermon and knew they had their reasons;
She's a “left-wing radical, hippie-lovin, trailer trashin, forget the 9-5, care-free, artist freak, dyke” for starters.  SLAM!
But then last weekend, I saw them again, at my aunt's funeral. I went to see if sealed doors could actually be pried open.  I went to see if there were any findings worth discovering.
I went to say, "Do we have anything in common after so many years?"

My childhood memories are filled with their faces, their laughter, our kid-pranks.  I loved Sunday afternoons; running with my cousins through the clothes and sheets that our grandmother had hanging on the line.  I loved playing hide-n-seek in the "apartment house" next door.  I loved the peach cobbler made from scratch.  I remember sneaking into grandma's room with my cousin Desi, carefully opening the dresser drawer and looking at her dainty doilies and scarves. I can still smell grandma's scent.

Then one Sunday, I think I was 9 or 10, my father informed us that we were no longer going to grandma's.  SLAM!
A very important, loving and established door shut. And that door has pretty much remained shut for 4 decades; shut through graduations, marriages, births, celebrations and deaths.

I went out of hunger. I went on a thread of hope and possibility.  I tried to make an effort, taking with me the understanding that life is what it is and the past is the past, and really all we have is this single moment.

Then of course, there's the intuition. And I held steadfast to that too.  Intuitively, I've learned that when you are sincere and come from a true heart place, people will meet you halfway.

Doors quite possibly can be opened.

Now,  I'm not talking about Facebook friends.
As social networking sites, like Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, Linkekum become more integrated in our modern culture, some people think that the benefits outweigh any downsides, while others believe the dangers are more pressing and hazardous than any upsides.

Personally, I dig it. All of it!  I dig the exposure, the information, both factual and fiction, comical and stone-cold serious.  And I dig the doors which, for me, especially via Facebook, have been both slammed in my face, but more so, opened wide as a fat baby's mouth.

The "friend request" component is an interesting thing, isn't it?
Awhile back, I received a plethora of these requests from the long lost people in my life; those that I hated in high school and college, so why the hell would I want to "friend" them 40 years later?  Anyway, it's a door.
But rather than taking a handle or turning a knob, one sits in front of a keyboard and decides,
with the click of a button, to confirm or deny a request.   I had my old boyfriend, his best friend and his wife all "friend request" me.  Oh! They were thrilled that I confirmed. They sent long private messages of excitement at the prospect of "connecting" again and possibly seeing
each other.
Then they read my Facebook wall and personal profile. UH  OH! Tisk. Tisk.
Seems they're still lovin the Lord at The Southern Baptist Church on Las Posas Road, the very one I attended in my teens.  And guess what? They don't much take a liking to queer folk.  SLAM!

But, I've had so many cool doors open as well;
former students, old friends, people who I will probably never sit with or share a glass of wine, yet, we share news, political articles, jokes, photos, and as maple syrupy as this may sound, messages of inspiration and hope. But Cliff Stoll, a Berkeley astronomer, who has been using the internet since 1975 has a different thought. Cliff once said, "Spending an evening on the World Wide Web is much like sitting down to a dinner of Cheetos.  Two hours later your fingers are yellow and you're no longer hungry, but you haven't been nourished."

One thing that cannot be disputed.  The doors that are opened, via the internet, are limitless. 

Intuition, understanding and effort.
Intuition in which our senses clearly speak,"Offer a buck to a homeless person, (small door) but don't invite them to move in with you." (big lesson)
Understanding that the whole door opening and door closing thing cannot be "hinged" with expectations.
And finally, effort.  You cannot plough a field by turning it over in your mind.
It takes effort.  There's a line from a song by The Indigo Girls that says, "...you gotta tend the earth if you want a rose."


May doors open for y'all today.
~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

Live Life Unfiltered

I love getting up early and walking the streets of a city; any city.

The sights you see and the sounds you hear are unique only to that time of day.

This morning, camera in hand, I headed up South Congress rather than

toward downtown and took some “people less” shots, which after 72 hours of people-filled lobbies, workshops and bars, is quite welcoming.

Speaking of bars, I wandered into Friends yesterday afternoon when, from across the street, 

I heard a woman belting out Give Me One Reason To Stay Here by the one and only Tracy Chapman.  There were no chairs, so I pulled up to the bar, and took my place standing with the others who were already way ahead of me in the drinking competition. This band, consisting of 3 guys and their lead singer, could rock the house like nobody’s business; everything from 

Sam Cooke, Tracy, Aretha Franklin but also, originals that made us all hoot and holler 

and take to the saloon-type dance floor.  They had no “shtick”, no cd and no sideshow.  They took no breaks.  They just kept on doing what they passionately love and doing such a damn good job of it, I almost missed the independent film next door at The Alamo; my main reason for venturing down this street in the first place.

Austin is bursting at the seams with live music.  It’s that and the large, overly decorated longhorn statues on every corner that will keep me coming back.  Seriously, I’ve heard some kick-ass jazz, blues, bluegrass and country. That’s right, country!  Y’all know it’s in me, right?  

I attended only one panel yesterday and after listening to such dynamic women as Elizabeth Hunter (Charmed, L Word, Jumping the Broom, Beauty Shop…) and Pamela Gray (Conviction, Music of the Heart, A Walk on the Moon…) I knew no one could follow in their shoes.  

The topic?   The Heroine’s Journey.  In a realistic, approachable and funny way, these two women discussed both the creative side of writing female main characters and the business-related challenges of working in the male-dominated film industry.

Ironically, I attended a panel the day before which included Pamela, Scott Silver (The Fighter) and Nicholas Kazen (Reversal of Fortune) in which the flavor was totally different from her panel with Elizabeth.  Duh. 

Those two dudes dominated that panel as if the moderator’s questions were specifically directed at only the two of them.  Thank God Pamela had not an ounce of trouble holding her own, and thank God it was on the largest stage, because there needed to be ample room for these guys’ egos and genitalia.

So the good news? Women understand women.  Plain and simple. 

And we are the most capable, driving force to write about a female character’s journey.  

End of story.   Or beginning because these two women, and another by the name of Joyce San Pedro, Creative Executive for Zhiv Media Studios, all gave of themselves, their knowledge and their advice freely and selflessly and that is refreshing.  And that fills me with some kind of childlike hope.   I’ll leave it at that.

So the other cool, highly beneficial thing I’ve attended, as a fly on the wall, are the Pitch Sessions.  Each writer has 90 seconds to pitch their screenplay to a panel of producers, directors and other industry professionals.  Holy Shit!  Now this takes some you know what.  

It was a really great experience to listen, not only to the pitches, but also to the feedback given by these pros to each and every brave soul that got up and pitched.    Next year, babies! 

There are so many festivals happening in Austin!  Just this weekend alone, along with the film festival, there is The Texas Book Festival, The Day of the Dead Festival and The Gypsies Picnic that includes block after block of food trucks, dancing, and little children running around in diapers.

I roamed through all these events and more yesterday.  I cheered with the protesters of 

Occupy Austin, marched two blocks with the opponents of the death penalty; specifically, another upcoming Texas execution awaiting Rick Perry's signature... I walked around the state’s capitol and The University of Texas campus.  I even bought some Longhorn gear and 

I hadn’t even had a cocktail.  

I did make it to The Alamo to see the film, Fred and Vinnie; a low budget ($50,000) film about an unlikely friendship between two middle-age guys that was laugh out loud funny and also charmingly poignant, then I headed back over the bridge to my cave.

(Which, btw, I am growing accustomed to, but because I did work for 8 hellish weeks at a hotel…and was forced to watch the Bedbug Video…I’m just sayin.)

While walking back, I looked up and saw this brightly lit billboard for some unTexas type beer that read simply:

Live Life Unfiltered.

And that, my favorite people, is my message to you today.

~tpg

Ying Yang River…Part Two Country Roads

I met up with a friend from high school that I hadn’t seen in 36 years!

Now that’s ancient, eh?  It amazed both of us how comfortable we felt from the minute we sat down  together at the corner table in the local Peet’s. 

I found her with the trusty help of Google and then some amateur detective work.  Our conversations flowed back and forth like the ebb and flow of the ocean;

both of us taking turns sharing our trials and tribulations of days gone by since those hellish times of high school.

It was a tad intimidating when, in sharing about our various professions over the years, she humbly listed a litany of jobs that included “City Planner” “ Executive Director of The Girl Scouts of America” and as for her husband,

she just said, “He’s in oil.”

I found an opening and threw in my 7 years as a trailer park manager and she about choked on her double cappuccino.  Then she bubbled with curiosity and I’m sure she was thinking, “Ok, she’s got a B.A and an M.A. and she chose to manage a trailer park; probably aspires to pass Go, collect her 200.00 dollars and eventually get let into the pearly writer’s gates of Heaven one day.” 

Nice goals.  Successful life.

The park life isn’t a bad life.  It wasn’t then and it isn’t now and I’d probably do it all over again for a juicy stipend and a year’s supply of Hendrick’s Gin. 

This picture totally brings back memories; a captured flashback of well lived years.

You know there’s something about drinking a beer and wearing slippers outside that makes a girl appreciate the finer things on God’s green earth.

Madness takes its toll.  Please have exact change.  

~Author Unknown

I accepted the invitation for tea at Julie’s a few days after our first meeting in my unit.  You know curiosity has been my demise on a fairly regular basis my entire damn life.

When I walked into her trailer; a 1970’s box with wood paneling and burnt orange shag carpet, it felt like a cross between Twilight Zone and Little House On The Prairie.

She appeared to have put on her “Sunday bests” for my visit and giddy, oh was she giddy, over the fact that I had come for tea.

She scrubbed the Formica as she put water in the kettle.

“ Oh! Thank you for visiting…I'm so happy…do you like tea… if you don’t like tea, I can make you something, but I don’t have something else, but I have a ying yang river of tea…Oh! Thank you for coming…let’s have tea and talk… do you like sugar cuz I have sugar…let’s see…where did I put that…”

I noticed a stack about 10 inches thick of albums and I commented on her good taste in music.  Sometimes I’m clueless to the repercussions of saying things like, “Oh, wow…Carole King, John Denver, Simon and Garfunkel, Nancy Sinatra…we have a lot in common.”

F!@*king clueless.  “A lot in common” to a girl like Julie means we're instant BFF’s until Hell freezes over.  Next, she’ll probably get out a sewing needle and want to prick our index fingers so we can be blood sisters.

“Oh! What do you want to listen to?…I feel the earth move under my feet.  I feel the sky tumbling down…I feel my heart start trembling whenever you're around...I love Carole King…I know all the words. I bet you do too…Do you want to hear Carole King or I have The Beatles too…I like The Beatles but my sister….she was always so mean to me …and she likes The Beatles but I like John Denver…”

The next thing I knew we were singing, in unison, at the top of our lungs….

”Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River…Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains blowing like a breeze… Country Roads, take me home…”

When you know every damn song, on every damn 33 album someone still owns in 2011, then you actually do have something in common with that person. 

I spent the next hour sipping stale Lipton and belting out every song of my teenage past; wondering if this woman across from me, who was singing recklessly and sipping tea like a Slurpee, wasn’t just a wee bit saner than me.

Julie and my friendship grew as friendships often do…but I wasn’t exactly prepared for the rate of speed.

The phone calls from her increased from 1-2 a day, to about 10 a day in less than a month.

Once I opened my front door to find a gift of tea bags wrapped in tissue paper and a bow, with a note on Strawberry Shortcake stationery that looked like a 10 year old wrote it…

Dear Valerie,

I know how much you like tea and I have extra so I want to give it to you.

Have a nice day.

Love,

Julie

One day I was making my rounds and saw her peeking out her blinds.  Seeing me, she swung open her front door and came running out into the street before I could hide behind a nearby double-wide…

“Hi! Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, just doing some things around the park.  I need to get back and wash my car while it’s sunny.”  I kept on moving, as I wished her a great day.

By the time I finished my rounds, she was down at my trailer with a hose, bucket, soap, a large sponge and 2 towels.

“I love washing cars!  When Grandma Cooley’s car needed washing she’d call me and I’d come running faster than the ying yang river…I’d be at her house in no time and I’d wash her car and I’d dry it and she’d be so happy she’d tell me it looked great except usually I forgot to dry all of the hood and she’d show me and then I’d do it…no problem…”

Sometimes I’d pick up when she phoned.  Sometimes I’d let the machine get it.

What seemed to be a harmless initial gesture of making copies for her, was taking a sharp veer south.
I actually was finding myself feeling like the lead character in some horror film where the heroine slips deeper and deeper into a weird entrapment abyss that demands a super hero to rescue her sorry ass.

Most of you would have changed your number by now or let her down gently, but not me, friends. 

No.  Me, the Mother Teresa of the trailer park, in a spontaneous moment of insanity, offers to take her to Costco.

People unravel privately it’s true, but some folks unravel in public.

When I picked Julie up, she was again dressed for a church function. 

She showed me her list, her pocketbook and her keys to her unit. 

Why the keys, you ask? 

How the hell should I know!   Why the offer to go to Costco is a more intelligent question!

When inside Costco, it became quickly evident that she didn’t get out much.

She frantically pushed the cart ahead of me, which put me into a full-on sprint to catch up with her.  She filled her cart with these items and these items only: a new broom, a new mop, a giant-size bottle of Clorox, Ajax, Comet, economy-size bottle of hand sanitizer, laundry soap, and Lysol wipes.

I thought we’d head to the produce and cheese sections, two of my favorites,

but she informed me she was done, ready to go, and made a beeline

for the check out stand.

In line, the unraveling began.  She frantically fumbled through her purse searching for her wallet and I was literally sweating directly above my upper lip. 

In her ‘special’ way, Julie was drawing quite the audience, and I was mentally guestimating the cost of her f!@*ing  Martha Stewart cart…

“It’s here somewhere…and I have coupons too…lots of coupons that I cut out…don’t worry...it’s here…I put it inside the envelope so I wouldn’t lose it…you shouldn’t lose things and I don’t…”

When she finally found the envelope, I breathed a monstrous sigh of relief, as I’m sure the newly formed line did also. 

Julie was sweating.  I was sweating.  We drove back to the park in complete silence.

When I pulled up to her unit, I helped her unload.  My compassion meter was off the charts as I almost tripped over her heavy heart and embarrassment.  A simple “Are you okay?” would have been sufficient, but instead I say,

“Hey…do you like pancakes?”

She perked up.  “I love pancakes and lots of maple syrup …or strawberry…I like strawberry syrup too…” she exclaimed like a second grader.  She was a glow.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning around 9:00 and we can head over to IHOP!” I said.

You know what people? 

I hate IHOP!

…to be continued

~tpg

http://youtu.be/MWzeInQaUk4

John Denver  Country Roads

Ying Yang River... Part One

Last Chance Mercantile is this cool second-hand, perhaps fourth-hand store next to the dump in Marina, CA.  I am a thrift store whore from way back and consider it quite nifty to be thrifty.  

Besides, you can really do a make-over on a mobile with the treasures you find, especially on the free paint aisle or the outdoor open-air area which includes rock/ lumber/furniture/crap.

Anyway, I found myself there yesterday, buying scraps of high-quality Astro Turf remnants from some athletic field or miniature golf course I suppose. Hey, do putt putt golf courses still exist in 2011?             I was a little golfer girl queen when I was a kid; kicked my bro’s ass at our town’s course which also included the popular skating rink (where I learned my cool backwards moves), the bowling alley and a run down motel. (Where I’ve never stayed, btw) So, I dig synthetic grass.  Sweeping the stuff is quite therapeutic and takes me back to 29B, which then unleashes all these silly and dangerous thoughts that were born in that pre-fab province that will always be home. 

 

So, let’s allow me to take you there!  It’s either that or go ballistic about capital punishment and you probably don’t want me to go there.

This little ditty is part one of three; I suppose a trilogy of the most personal kind…

Might we not say to the confused voices that sometimes arise from the depths of our being:

“Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time?” 

~Madame Swetchine

In a little less than 2 months, I became so involved with the woman in space 17 at the trailer park that my drinking increased by 50 percent.

It took a significant length of time for me to figure out, what most of you would have figured out in a half second; that I was about to get in way over my pretty little head.

Perhaps I should have paid closer attention on that day she called my home for the first time in the 7 years I resided at and managed the park.  When she phoned that day, she was seeking help in the advertising of her new cleaning service.  

(To be read as fast as you can without taking a breath)

“Hello, this is Julie in space 17.” she began at a rapid, manic voice that hit me like a verbal locomotive.   “Sorry to bother you... so sorry to bother you... but I am going to clean for everyone... I know these are hard times so, I wouldn’t charge anything, hardly anything... Maybe oh, I don’t know... maybe two dollars an hour... I just really want to do it because I really want to help people... I have Comet... lots of Comet and I have paper towels and I have all the cleaning supplies so I just want to know about these flyers and where I could put them and maybe you need some cleaning done and I know you are the manager and everything so you probably already have someone… someone who cleans your house but maybe I could help someone I really want to help someone.”

Me too, Julie, pathetic as it is.

That’s exactly how our friendship began; the first interaction I had ever had with a woman who evidently had lived in the trailer park for two decades, whose mother mailed her rent each month from out of the area; a woman who, in that moment, I couldn’t tell you what she even looked like.  

When she paused to inhale, I heard myself saying, “Two dollars an hour would be selling yourself short.” 

 

You see, compadres, I wear this f*@#ing bleeding heart liberal hat with a fat stamp on my forehead that says, “ I can help you, fix it, fix you, give you my heart, soul, cash and favorite pair of Doc Martens. Let me save the world and you too.  Oh, and guaranteed, I’ll put myself last.” 

When I finally got a word in “edge-wise” somehow I had invited her down to look over her flier, offered to make 34 copies and place them in each resident’s mailbox.  I even offered complimentary, standard-size envelopes!

She arrived at my door just minutes later.

She had a nervous way about her; couldn’t stop fidgeting, combing her pixie hair, which she repeatedly tucked then untucked behind her ears.   She wore boots from ‘the day’; perfectly shined and a lavender polyester sweatsuit with an appliqué of two kittens and a ball of yarn.  Her attire and style threw me as to her age, but I guessed 48, which later I found I was only off  by 3 years.

I noticed she rocked back and forth and spoke in pitches, ranging from high screeches to descending, low mumbles and the conversation took more roads than are in the entire state of California.                  Within 3 minutes, I had learned about her 7^th grade teacher, her love for ponies except Brut; the one who bucked her off when she was 10, her Grandma Cooley, who had hair as long as the Ying Yang River, and of course, her new cleaning business.

All this before I had a chance to offer her a seat in our 12’x12’ living room; which felt like 6’x6’ box 

at that point.

I made us both a cup of tea.

  

She seemed most oddly honored and excitedly uncomfortable, as if she were in a palace and I, the queen.

I took her ad, hand-written on a torn piece of lined binder paper, to our back office where I began making the copies. Her presence seemed to follow me down the hallway.

When I returned with her copies,

“Oh, you are so nice! You are such a nice friend! I am so sorry there is a rip in the paper... So sorry... I didn’t mean to rip it… Maybe I was in a hurry while I was writing… Grandma Cooley used to always say, “Slow down… Take your time… haste makes waste.” And she was right…haste does make waste… She was always right and then she died… She died and left me and she died and I was the only person in the house and I cried “Wake up! Grandma!”” Wake up!”  but she didn’t wake up and I didn’t know what to do and I was all alone and I called 911…that’s when the ambulance came... and I cried and cried even though she was with Jesus.” 

She paused to rest from the word marathon she just ran.

In some weird, dysfunctional way, I thought this was all “good for me.”

Maybe this person sitting in my living room, with the perfectly combed hair and the spit-shined boots, had entered my life for a reason.  

Girls like me look for reasons in life; underlying meanings sent via people, places or experiences.       Those that teach lessons, help us blossom, grow, become dynamic park managers or American saints. 

Girls like me probably just need more therapy.

Before she left, a departure nothing short of over-the-top, she smothered me with gratitude and before I could see it coming, she wrapped herself around me on my front porch and with a hug that smelled of moldy camping gear, she sang (Yes, sang, as in musical), “Good-bye my new friend…thank you my friend, the manager!”

There was pep in her step as she headed down the street to her trailer.

I closed the door, still somewhat clueless as to what was to come. 

The smell of mold on my collar remained.

It was early, but I tossed the English Breakfast and poured myself a stiff one.

To be continued…

~tpg

“What the Fresh Hell Can This Be?

I'm happy to just blog in a sea of random abandonment this morning; hoping to just float around with ease and keep my head above water. 
You see, when you lose a guy who made you laugh as often as he pissed you off, it’s rough.    A guy who, with his sharp tongue and undeniable wit, left you wondering if he wasn't in fact the male reincarnate of Dorothy Parker.  
Sometimes only a bumper sticker on a truck can truly sum up the man...

Wife And Dog Lost

Reward For Dog

I’m hoping to simply blog with abandon and maybe someone in charge, out there in blog cyber galaxy, will raise an eyebrow and place me at the Top Ten on the Blog Blacklist!  The term “blacklist” got me thinking of all our compound words in the English language that include ‘black’ and of course, the negative conations that go along with many of them:

Blackwater

n. - Any of several human or animal diseases characterized by dark urine resulting from rapid breakdown of red blood cells

Blackmail

n. - Extortion of money by threats to divulge discrediting information

Blackball

n. - The act of excluding someone by a negative vote or veto

Blackout

n. - Partial or total loss of memory (Certainly nothing positive, especially if alcohol is involved)

Blacklist

n. - A list of people who are out of favor

I’m thinking of switching it up, but keeping the current meaning: whiteout, whitelist, whiteball, whitemail, whitewater. (Oh, damn, already been used in Arkansas)

There’s a annual list of Hollywood’s most liked, unproduced screenplays (I'm hoping to make that list as well) called appropriately, Hollywood’s Black List.  Many outstanding, cool films are recognized and awarded from this list.  Of course, the dark side is the word in the description: “unproduced.”

 http://www.harbus.org/2011/life-on-the-black-list/

The blacklist begins (1947)

As you probably already know, in October 1947, a number of persons working in the Hollywood film industry were summoned to appear before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, which had declared its intention to investigate whether Communist agents and sympathizers had been surreptitiously planting propaganda in US films.  The hearings began with several Hollywood professionals, including Walt Disney and Ronald Reagan, president of the Screen Actors Guild, testifying that the threat of Communists in the film industry was a serious one. (Personally, I think Ronnie, Walt and the others should have been more concerned about homosexual activity in Hollywood not Communism)

The blacklist, of course, was rarely verifiable.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hollywood_blacklist

Whenever there was a knock at her door, Dorothy Parker would yell, “What the fresh hell can this be?”   Since she is one of my all-time 'crushes' and I so adore lingering in her numerous, interviews, poems, shorts and quotes, I had to investigate if she in fact was blacklisted back in the day.  Well, not surprising,    hers was in fact verifiable…

Blacklisted in Hollywood

Parker helped organize the Screenwriters Guild, joined the Communist Party, and took up with equally aroused lefties like Lillian Hellman. She even had an FBI file more than 900 pages long. (Right on, Dorothy!)  She was blacklisted in Hollywood during the McCarthyite ’50s.

In the 1920s, she became a regular member of the Round Table at the Algonquin Hotel; the watering hole of New York writers who relished in three-hour lunches and liked to dazzle each other with their wit.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algonquin_Round_Table

But the thing that satisfies me the most about Parker, besides her writing, was her leftward drift. In 1927, she became outraged at the imminent execution of Sacco and Vanzetti, the Boston anarchists. Amongst the 20,000 who protested their innocence were Edna St. Vincent Millay, Albert Einstein, George Bernard Shaw and H.G. Wells.  Parker was arrested and fined for her critical maneuvers preceding the execution.

http://writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/sacvan.html

Would you believe that Dorothy Parker willed her modest $20,000 fortune to Martin Luther King, Jr., though she had never met him, and dedicated her literary rights to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People? Indeed, when she died, family-less, on June 7, 1967, Lillian Hellman saw to it that Parker was cremated with dignity.

But then Lillian forgot to collect Parker’s ashes. (What the hell?) After an erratic series of removals from one business desk to another in New York City, her remains were safely ensconced at the Baltimore headquarters of the NAACP in 1988, 21 years after her death. 

Her entertaining literary remains, however, can be found in The Portable Dorothy Parker.

  http://www.amazon.com/Portable-Dorothy-Parker/dp/0140150749

Dorothy's poems are mainly reflections of her own disappointments and frustrations. She had a sad childhood, losing both parents at an early age. This shadow followed her throughout her life. Her lovers and spouses only seemed to add to her distress. Parker attempted suicide 3 times, eventually took to alcohol, and died alone in a New York hotel, aged 73. The New York Times printed one of its longest ever obituaries as a tribute.

According to an interview with Vanity Fair in 1925, Ms Parker wanted her epitaph to say, EXCUSE THE DUST.

From a Book Review

"It may be that this autobiography is set down in sincerity, frankness and simple effort. It may be, too, that the Statue of Liberty is situated in Lake Ontario.”

I have a plethora of “Dorothy Quotes” that I like to use in the same way I like to blog, babble or drink...with abandon.  Here’s a child-size handful…

"Ducking for apples -- change one letter and it's the story of my life."

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.” 

“The cure for boredom is curiosity.
There is no cure for curiosity.” 

“I don't know much about being a millionaire, but I'll bet I'd be darling at it.” 

“Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common.” 

“Tell him I was too fucking busy-- or vice versa.”
 

 “I hate writing, I love having written.” 

“I like to have a martini, two at the very most. After three I'm under the table,

after four I'm under my host.”

And of course, “What the fresh hell can this be?” which you’ll hear me yelling from inside my abode if you ever pay me a visit.

I’m thinking of taking a Thelma/Louise type road trip today, 

         except I’ll skip the cliff.  

Enjoy the scenery today!

~tpg