Posts Tagged ‘trailer park’

Twas The Night Before

November 24, 2016

Thanksgiving.

When all through the house.

Not a creature was stirring.

Not.

Even.

A.

Louse.

I mean.

There shouldn’t be a fucking thing stirring.

I cleaned so much today I can hardly stand it.

My house is ridiculously clean.

I washed things that I didn’t even think to wash prior to yesterday’s news.

It had fabric.

That thing got washed.

I mean.

I washed my pot holders.

I did nine loads of laundry.

I think.

I’m not sure, I definitely lost count after six and I know I was still washing stuff.

All my bedding.

Which has to be done every day for a week, just in case.

And frankly, I will be doing it every day, I’m not going to even take a chance.

I got rid of stuff that pained me to get rid of.

All my hair accessories, all my flowers.

I just couldn’t.

I tried to spray them all down, but the thought of there being any infestation.

I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to wear them, I just trashed them all, plus my brush and my comb, all my barrettes, bobby pins, and hair elastics.

Sigh.

I was bummed.

But.

l just knew, there was no going back to using that stuff and I feel better for having let it go.

I can also relate that I haven’t been wearing them as much of late.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m growing up.

But I did have a thought recently, “what would it be like to not wear flowers in my hair?”

And.

Well.

Fuck.

I get to find out.

At least for a little while.

In the scheme of things, I’m ok.

I was a bit more ashamed of the situation than I realized until I was messaging with a friend and it sort of leaked out and then I was astounded to find out I was upset with myself, for not having realized it sooner, for having to do so much work, for feeling grossed out about having bugs in my hair.

All the grief my brain makes up.

I did some inventory.

I wrote it down.

I called my person.

I cried.

I got some perspective.

Then I went back to washing everything in the house.

And vacuuming.

I have two small area rugs that I just attacked with the vacuum.

I attacked everything.

I’m a bit exhausted from the cleaning.

And more than a little frazzled by the thought of doing the holiday alone.

I was going to be hanging out with a friend, but he had something come up and I realized, well, fuck, as much as I can plan and try to figure things out, life it happens and I can be a sad sack and keep crying over it or I can move on.

Frankly.

I’m a little over the tears.

I have cried now three times today and I’d just like to stop.

This does rank up there in some great holiday memories.

I mean.

Fuck.

At least I’m not waiting tables at the Essen Haus.

I worked two Thanksgiving’s there.

That was miserable.

All you can eat family style Thanksgiving.

And slammed, packed, oozing with people, cheap people with big appetites.

And kids that were untenable and out of control.

I will never forget setting down a tray full of slices of pumpkin pie for a ten top that I had in my section and turning to serve them and seeing a child from another table sticking his fingers into each slice of pie.

I was infuriated.

I took every plate he stuck his fingers in and set them down at his seat.

“We didn’t order that!” His mother said.

“Well, apparently, he thought you did,” I said, and kept putting the plates on the table, “he’s marked all the ones he wants to have, Happy Thanksgiving,” I said and walked away.

“May their trailer home get carried away in the next tornado season,” my best friend told me as I was scrambling to plate fresh pieces of pumpkin pie for my table.

Seriously.

Plenty thankful that I don’t work there anymore.

Or that I haven’t had to work a Thanksgiving in years.

I may have worked one or two while I was at the veterinary hospital, I know I worked a Christmas Eve there, but for the most part, I haven’t in the last decade had to do so.

That’s a gift.

It’s also a gift that there’s a washer and dryer in the garage next to the house.

I washed all my bedding and towels last night when I got home.

And today I continued to do so, I pulled my last load of laundry from the dryer at 5 p.m.

I had started washing clothes and rugs and towels and coats at 8:30 a.m. this morning.

Hell.

I had already had a full day by noon.

Laundry, cleaning, yoga.

I messaged a few more people who might have been to close to my person recently, another friend from school, but so far, it looks like no one else has gotten it.

Relief.

I’m not currently excited about how this holiday is panning out, but I remind myself that I can go and be of service and I have plenty to be grateful for.

In the end.

Thanksgiving is just one day out of the year to be grateful.

I am grateful every day.

I mean.

I really am.

I write a gratitude list twice a day.

Once in the morning in my morning pages and again in the evening, I send one out to my person.

It usually goes something like this:

I am grateful to be alive, sober, abstinent, fed, clothed.

I am grateful my rent is paid, my phone bill is paid, I have a laptop, a scooter, good coffee in the cupboard.

I am grateful to get to go to graduate school.

I am grateful for lice.

Yes.

I wrote that this morning.

It was once suggested to me that I also write down the challenging things in my life, that I get to have challenges, that I get to grow through them.  That the difficulties give me a chance to lean into God.

I mean.

I am grateful my employers paid for my treatment and for the products to clean my house and that I had today off to take care of it.

I am grateful for sunshine.

I am grateful for cooking for myself and eating persimmons.

I am very grateful for persimmons.

I am grateful for getting to go to yoga this morning, that wasn’t in my plan for today either, but I got to do it and that was nice.

I am grateful for flexibility, in my life, in my home, in my person.

I am grateful that I was able to deal with the issue and I get to move the fuck on.

Happy Thanksgiving y’all.

I hope it is one filled with family, merriment, good food, and no lack of lice.

Seriously.

 

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Now, That’s Good TImes

April 3, 2014

I thought to myself as I watched the guy ahead of me in line at the 7-11 swipe his card for three packages of HoHo’s and a bottle of white wine.

Dude.

That’s a party.

Not a party I will be RSVP’ing for anytime, but I have to admit I was amused.

7-11 in general amuses me.

I don’t often shop in them, never really have, but there’s one of the corner and my friend down the block with the foot in cast for two months peeped me for some Coca Cola two liters and so I just went over to procure said carbonation.

I can’t remember the last time I bought soda pop for myself.

Yeah, I just wrote soda pop.

Pop.

I used to drink a lot of Coke, I did, before I snorted a lot of coke.

Very rarely did the two mix.

I was not a fan of sweets, much, when I was drinking and using, I got all my sugar from alcohol.

Although there were occasions when I would indulge in something sugary, but it was usually something I was making, not something I was buying.

Until I stopped drinking and using, then the wheels fell the fuck off with the sugar thing.

Glad to not be doing that any longer either.

There really is not much for me to buy in a 7-11 for myself, but I did manage to snag a little something.

A scratcher lotto ticket.

I didn’t win, but it was fun for a moment to fantasize about a little extra cash.

I am going to need a little extra cash this month.

I did my spending plan and the scooter costs bit more out of my budget last month than I was thinking it would.  There was also the additional add-on of the bicycle ticket that I paid out and also my Healthy San Francisco was due.

I got the courtesy e-mail from my bank telling me I had dropped below $25 in my checking account yesterday.

That’s good times too.

But I am not too worried.

Why?

Why be worried.

I paid my rent, I paid my student loan, I have groceries, I have plenty of toiletries, I have all the things that I need to get through.

Granted I don’t like having $23.56 in my checking account, it’s cutting it a little too close.

But, hey, I didn’t bounce any checks and I got paid for three days of working, plus tomorrow I will get paid for my solo gig in NOPA and then again on Friday up in the Castro.

It’s not the optimum set up for me, but I know things are working out.

Plus, I am not bat shit crazy yelling at the guy behind the counter at the 7-11 because I am convinced I won on my lottery ticket.

That was happening too, while Mister Hostess Treats and White Wine was paying, there was an elderly, intoxicated, Asian man arguing with the clerk, who finally ended up screaming at him.

I mean screaming.

Then, he pushed the old man out-of-the-way, and said, “next,” and waved me over to check out with my two liters of Coca Cola.

“Uh, I’ll take a lottery ticket too,” I said and pointed to the one that said “Rockstar.”

He rang me up and I headed my way.

Convenience stores are good times.

Just flashing back to all the ones I have been too.

A highlight reel if you will:

Circle K in Homestead, Florida.

It was just off the Lake where I camped, otherwise known as, I was homeless living in a tent, when I was in my 19th year of life on this planet.

I would go there for cigarettes–Doral’s when the money was tight, which it often was, I mean, read previous sentence about camping I was not really rolling in dough.

Although a splurge would happen now and again and then it was Pall Mall Gold Light 100s in a box or Camel Light 100s.

Jesus, there’s something else to be grateful for too, I don’t smoke anymore.  It’s been just shy of 9 years since I have had a cigarette.

Wow.

I was also introduced to roller hotdogs at this particular convenience store.

Hot, juicy, sweaty, logs of pork, one can hope, tucked into a white steamed bun covered in ketchup and dill pickle relish and mayonnaise and cheese.

Do not put chili on my dog.

Do not put mustard.

Do not, I repeat, ever, use sweet pickle relish.

Gag.

And last, but certainly not least, Bartles and James wine coolers, pink lemonade please.

Tasty goodness.

Oh dear Lord, the things I put into my system.

And these were all legally obtained items.

Yick.

The other convenience store that comes to mind for me, like I said, never been around a 7-11 before, was the PDQ in Madison.

Which, I believe, stands for “Pretty Damn Quick”.

Not sure if those bad boys are still around.

My mom would write me a note and send me off to the PDQ for her smokes.

Merit Menthol 100s in a box.

Classy.

I mean, she wrote me a fucking note.

“To whom it may concern, please sell my daughter one pack of Merit Menthol 100s (in the green box), Trish M______”. Her signature scrawled out at the bottom of the page along with a home phone number in case the clerk had any misgivings about selling a pack of cigarettes to a little girl in third grade.

I don’t believe any clerk ever did.

I also remember an ex of mine who swore by getting a Hot Pocket from the PDQ after playing a round of frisbee golf out at Heistand Park, followed by an icy cool blue raspberry slushy.

Double gag.

I can still smell that Hot Pocket and taste the damn slushy.

It was usually too sweet for me to choke down and I usually turned down the Hot Pocket on principle.

But I must have eaten one at some point because I have a taste memory of the weird things.

“That is so white trash,” my friend said in response to a story I was telling him about living in a trailer park in Stoughton with my pregnant teenage sister, her boyfriend, and her best friend.

I hadn’t really thought I was white trash, but I may have some roots down in that muck, I may.

The only other PDQ story I have would have been from living at that trailer for a few weeks while my sister’s best friends parents were out-of-town on vacation in Mexico–it wasn’t even our trailer, we were squatting–and we ran out of money and went to the convenience store in the middle of the night.

I remember it was cold and the heater in the Monte Carlo was slow to produce any warmth.

I remember the weight of the sandwich baggie of pennies, with a dime or two mixed in to add up to the prerequisite $1.80 a pack of cigarettes cost, in my thin coat pocket.

And how the cigarette tasted when I lit it up and blew the smoke toward the cracked window of the car in the back seat, the maroon leather the color reminiscent of dark, dried blood, the frost on the window, the scuttle of clouds over the moon, the dark trees rushing past.

I don’t know how I got from there to here.

But I am damned grateful that I have.

Now, excuse me while I wrap this up and head over to bring my friend some pop.

Soda, that is.

Rolling out this bitch 7-11 style.

 

 


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