oh christmas dick tree*

I made it through Christmas and am looking forward to New Year's thanks to my two amigos. It's as though Santa delivered a couple of single guys so I wouldn't be alone, hiding from couples on Christmas day. Solo women would've done the trick too, I think, although mild flirtations and late-night kisses have been sweet bonuses.

These guys are great. Both smart, crazy and politically left-leaning. The Canadian has lived in an Airstream since 1972 even though he owns a house (which he rents out) outside of Vancouver. The other is from New Mexico and will head back to the States next week because he has to get to Yellowstone by the 20th to be a wolf observer, which he will do for three months. Interesting men.

This morning I read my journal entry from last New Year's day.

Last night I walked away from my trailer and looked back at the scene. Men gathered in the glow of my fire pit: Lew, Jon, Ted, Jim, Matt, Bobby. I made spaghetti and meatballs. Ted gave us all Cuban cigars which we smoked as we sipped shots of bourbon. In my old life I would most probably have been alone on New Year's Eve; certainly never would I have been the only woman surrounded by a group of men.

I ran across some photos I had downloaded from Jailbird Jr's camera. Those fire pit gatherings were an almost nightly occurrence at my place in the weeks surrounding the holidays (no, the bottles were not lined up for target practice).
Between Christmas and New Year's it snowed up in the Santa Rita's. I took a ride up into the mountains with The Jailbird and Jailbird Jr and The Dog.
And on New Year's Eve the boys went into the desert to play cowboys and indians or desperados or whatever game it was where they could shoot their guns.
Apparently I had a Christmas dick tree last year.

Wishing all of you a prosperous, healthy, happy 2008!

*'dick tree' stolen from my daughter's new BF although she may not be happy with me for linking to this entry

rv'ing is the life for me - or is it?

I feel like I signed up for a spiritual new-agey retreat and mistakenly got sent to a Christian camp for married couples. Instead of a uniform of yoga pants and Birkenstocks, my fellow retreat-goers wear khaki shorts and crocs. We walk the grounds with our heads bowed, not in meditative contemplation but on alert for piles of dogshit. (At my last count, out of 29 occupied sites, there are 26 dogs).

Thus continues my fish out of water feeling.

My tendency is to simplify the situation by merely concluding that the RVing life isn't for me. Or that RVers are a strange breed and I am much too delicate a flower to be in the midst of such crass and boorish people. But neither statements are true. The two men who made those racist comments during unhappy hour both coincidentally left the next day. And except for the two women here I don't care for, everyone else is really nice. They go out of their way to include me in gatherings and our interactions are always warm and cheerful. So it would not be fair of me to diss this gaggle of snowgeese.

That leads me to ponder "Is RVing the life for me? Am I an RVer?" Frankly, I don't see myself as an RVer, one who recreates in one's Recreational Vehicle as much as I do full-time trailer trash, someone living in a 30 year old travel trailer because that was all I could afford (however, because I have a nicely-inherited sense of style and class, I chose an Airstream over an SOB, thus paying way more for my Airstream than a 30 year old Some Other Brand might have cost). Also, I am not an RVer because I do not have the interest, nor the funds, in traveling hither and yon across our great country, or even this great country.

It's like when I went to Europe. When my daughter was out of the nest - basically pushed at the tender age of 18 because mama was tired and needed some "alone time" - I went to Europe for almost a year. I tell people that I saw less of Europe in 46 weeks than most people see in two. I had no desire to follow the usual tourist itinerary: arrive in a foreign city, explore museums, eat a nice dinner, sleep, next day head to foreign city number two, repeat process for 'x' number of days. I preferred plopping myself down in a homey pensione and hanging out in whatever foreign place I was in for an indeterminate length of time (in most instances two months) which allowed me time to develop patterns similar to those of the locals. Cappuccinos here, a brioche there, a glass of wine down this little side street, lingering in cafes trying to decipher the conversations around me, adding water to my pastiche, crying over letters from home while a kindly old man patted me on the head murmuring "molto dolce".

Which is to explain why I stayed at The Home of Dashed Hopes for two years, the length of time it took for me to give up my highfalutin city ways (i.e. switch from micro-brews to Milwaukee's Best; trade neighborhood deli's for Wal-Mart), replace my pale rain-plumped skin for the brown scaly-lizard look, establish "my" barstool at the local watering hole, and learn to identify and classify "tweaker" vs "crack ho".

Which is also to explain why I expanded my two-week Mexican vacation into 52. I wanted to immerse myself in a new culture (and avoid w-o-r-k for just one more year).

But back to that RVing question. If I am to be honest, I think I'd like the RV lifestyle if I was recreating with someone. If I, too, were coupled up. If I had someone with whom to share the driving, the chores, the dumping the black tank, the scenery, the shot of Maker's Mark at sunset. Hell, I'd even give up the Airstream for a humongous SOB.

So there you have it. Another dissertation examining why I have felt so at odds here and, in light of that, what happens next? Do I continue this trailer trash/RV lifestyle or chuck it all and settle into a nice little apartment somewhere, see if I can't revive my city girl ways, and get over my Maynard G. Krebs* fear of w-o-r-k?

*of course Maynard solved that problem by getting stranded on Gilligan's Island so there's hope yet

from Kilbrack by Jamie O'Neill

Mrs. Cuthbert shook her head and said into her napkin. 'I think she might be an avocado,' she said.

'An avocado?' repeated Valentine Brack.

'You know,' said Mrs. Cuthbert. "Avocados. Women who prefer, you know...'

'Don't be ridiculous, Patience. You mean lesbians.'

'Do I?'

'Lesbians: women of a homophilic nature.'

'Well, I get them confused. Lesbians and avocados: they both seemed to arrive in Ireland at the same time.'

good good good good vibration

I lost it.

I had been out and about and when I returned to the park there were people everywhere. Trailers had been moved, Class A motorcoaches were squeezing into whatever spot they could find. The park had filled to the max. After my displeasure of the night before, I was feeling cranky toward my fellow RVers, especially the ones who have been coming here for years (as they remind you over and over) and who "jokingly" think you should give up your site to make room for them.

I had had enough.

I went off on two women I don't especially like.

I cried to The Texans "I want out of here."

I took to my bed and cried some more, hiding from Mrs. Texan, The Skeeper and a musician I had met just an hour before.

I was a fucking basketcase. The last time this happened to me was over a year ago when one of my neighbors at The Home of Dashed Hopes unleashed his alcoholic fury on me and others gathered around my fire pit.

In the middle of the night, as I listened to the fat pigeon of a dog snoring outside my bedroom window and Osita's easy breaths from where she slept on my sofa, the similarities of those two nights came into focus. I have a tendency to take on others' moods, to allow negative energy to gnaw at my nerve endings, and so it's important for me to be aware of that, to center myself and to imagine a grid of protection. It sounds corny - that last bit - but it seems to work.

I feel much better today, even in spite of the fact that plumbing problems have spontaneously erupted all over my casita chica. This evening I have a dinner date with a man who I think lives in his car, some sort of eccentric egghead, and I'm interested in learning more about his life. The Musician is also an interesting guy - talented, handsome and wealthy if he is to be believed on the latter (and The Skeeper thinks it's probably true). Sitting with The Musician was a whore who gave me her necklace when I admired it. She was a sight to behold, dressed in tight black pants and a black halter top with the Playboy Bunny logo over her left breast. She also sported a jagged scar on her left shoulder which looked too haphazard to have been done by a surgeon.

Before meeting The Whore and The Musician I had stopped by the Bicycle Vendor's casa to drop off a bag of aluminum cans for recycling and I met his daughter and his grandson. The Bicycle Vendor wanted me to stay and eat popcorn and watch television with them but Mexican soap operas are a bit difficult for me to follow. (Earlier in the day when I told him I would be over at 2 o'clock he said "Mexicana or Americana?" meaning was I going to pull a "manana maybe" or was I really going to show up?)

This is the stuff I love about being here in this Mexican village. As for the rest of it, I have imagined a beautiful sparkling grid of protection....ohmmmmmm.

odd woman out

When hanging with the snowbirds, I am number 11 or 13 depending on how many couples are gathered. But last night it was made clear that not only am I the odd number, I am the odd person.

For some reason, one of the snowbirds decided to tell an old joke about Jesse Jackson; something to do with the reason he pulled out of the presidential race (so you know how old that joke is) was because his whole family posed naked on the front of National Geographic. Not funny on many levels and I guess my look conveyed that because the joke-teller said to me "Don't tell me you're one of those bleeding heart liberals!" (I guess the only people who find racist jokes offensive are liberals?) but in an effort to keep the mood light I laughed and said "There has to be one in each group." I swear the 12 people gathered seemed to pull their chairs back, making the circle larger, creating more distance between them and me. Someone else said "I suppose you'll be voting for Hillary [snarl]" and I said that I would vote for whoever gets the Democratic nomination. The circle widened. One of the other men then turned to me and said "You're not going to vote for that nigger, are you?" I think that comment was even too much for the Jesse Jackson joke teller and an uncomfortable silence fell on the group until someone else felt the need to explain to the Canadians that we have a Muslim running for president (Obama is actually a Christian but I kept quiet).

I figured it was time to refill my drink. At the trailer I debated about whether or not to return to the group but I decided to be polite and not make an issue out of things. When I returned the conversation had moved on to other topics (thank god). A few minutes later we began gathering up our chairs because we were all going to dinner at Mr. Potatohead. One of the couples swung by my trailer to give me a ride but the park dogs (all 3 of them) tried to get in the truck with me and so I said I would deal with the dogs and then drive over in my van. I never made it. Later, the couple came by to see what had happened to me and I said I couldn't shake the dogs, that two of them had jumped into my van and I couldn't get them out (which was the truth).

I guess it was only a matter of time that hot topics like immigration, politics, racism would rear their ugly heads. It looks like I'll be avoiding group happy hours for the rest of my time here.

I know that not all Republicans are this hateful and mean-spirited but have I run into a slew of them lately. Remember when I wondered how to respond to this guy who was sending out hate emails? After asking him to take me off his email list, he sent out an even more offensive email with a note "I don't care who this offends, I'm sending it anyway" and so I wrote back telling him that I blocked his email address and, oh, by the way, I think he's an asshole.

A week ago a really great couple stopped at the park for a few nights. They had tent-camped in Mexico for 40 years but this year had moved up to the luxury of a Mercedes camper van. Over shots of tequila we talked about the U.S.'s "culture of fear" and how this fear is perpetuated by the right-wingers and media outlets like Fox Noise. Last night as I listened to these big burly white guys put down women and people of color, I couldn't help but feel sorry for them, for their fearfulness and their hatefulness. I am glad I don't live my life that way.

Man, I tell you, I've had it with RV parks and their attendant wealthy old farts who feel the need to ridicule anyone who is not like them. I am so looking forward to getting on with my real life. And I tell you what, a woman or a black in the White House is gonna have these guys shaking in their crocs (all snowbirds wear them). I can't fucking wait.

june 2008, grand canyon, south rim - be there

I wasn't going to write about this because I figured it would put a jinx on things but, fuck, when it comes to my love life I feel as though it's pretty well jinxed so writing about it can't hurt.

I was walking with Constance, a woman in her 70s who has long gray hair and who wears the most humongous earrings she can find. Huge. Giant conche shells and hubcaps. She is soft-spoken and ditzy. Her husband, who is 'ten and a half' years older than she, writes erotica. He has written over 500 sex stories. I didn't ask to read one and thank god he didn't push any on me. I had told him I was trying to write a book. "Is there any sex in it?" he asked and I said "Sure. Lots. But I'm stuck; there are only so many times I can write 'hard throbbing member'" and he said "At this age there are only so many times you can use a throbbing member." I thought that was pretty funny until I learned of his obsession with erotica.

Anyway, I was walking with Constance (sheesh, how I get distracted) and she said "I heard you talking about where to go next, the Grand Canyon, New Mexico, and, well, I sometimes get these flashes and, for what it's worth, you should go to the Grand Canyon. You will meet a man there. He will be your age and divorced. He will be your twin flame. Do you know what that is?" When I shook my head no she said "In the spirit form we are both male and female but when we choose to come to earth our two sides split off. We spend most of our lives looking for our twins and we rarely find them. This man will be your twin flame. You will be one of the lucky ones. But you have to be at the Grand Canyon in June."

After doing some twin flame research I learned that a twin flame is not the same as a soul mate, the latter of which we can have many. Soul mates can be people we've known in past lives and may not necessarily be the person we are meant to be with (like the Jailbird), but they certainly are people we have a connection with.

So the question is, would a fairly sane, sort of grounded, semi-responsible woman make her next move based on the predictions of a goofy giant-earringed 70 year old woman? I'm tempted. I mean, I have to go somewhere and I do like the Grand Canyon....

Or I could follow Gretel Ehrlich's advice (author of "Solace of Open Spaces"). Here is what she said in an interview posted on Powell's (City of Books) web site:

I think people find what Edward Hoagland calls "your heart's home." I didn't move there [Wyoming] because I read a book about it; I just ended up there, and I found it suited me.

I think it's good for people to just roam around. Stay where your car breaks down. Get on the damn bus, get off when you have to pee, then move there. That's good.

It's funny, but back in the 1970s that's how a lot of people I know ended up on the Oregon Coast: Their cars broke down. Not that I want that to happen, but when I hit the road, as I head off to the Grand Canyon or New Mexico, I will certainly take notice of the places I stop for lunch, a beer, a bathroom break.

i need some calamine lotion

Writing a blog entry is difficult because I can't decipher my mood. I have no real reason to be down in the dumps but reading over last year's journal entries depresses me. I've reached none of the goals I set down for myself (learn spanish, work on writing skills, fall in love). I have spent a year by water when I think I should have been in the desert (even though both are here, the sea is the focus). The year feels like a waste. Non-productive. A year spent spending money when I should have been earning money.

On top of the self-flagellation is my ongoing confusion over what to do, where to go next. That is the broken record I have lugged with me since leaving Portland three years ago. And it's silly because the next move will happen without my having to worry over it. I'm like damn Osita still scratching scratching scratching even though she's been cured of fleas and ticks; worry scratch worry scratch.

The thing is, I had a really great weekend, hanging out with an entertaining group of snowbirds, going to the big city with the Bicycle Vendor, somehow carrying on conversations with people when I had no idea what they were saying. I listened as the Bicycle Vendor talked with the taxi driver. When we got out of the cab I said "Tu habla espanol muy bueno" because I had never before been with the BV and other spanish-speakers and it was fun listening to him rattling away in his native language. Our conversations tend to go like this: "Mucho peoples. Mucho traffico." "Si si."

Last night I realized that I've gone at least two months without saying 'fuck'. I was having a shot of tequila (Herradura) with a beer back (Bohemia) after renting a couple of movies (neither of which worked, by the way) and the restaurant manager said "chinga" and I said "wait, did you say 'chinga' like 'chinga tu madre'?" and she laughed and said "yes, how do you say that in english?" and I couldn't spit it out. My mom will read this and say "well, at least a year in Mexico was good for something!" but I'm sure that once I'm back in the States, 'fuck' will start flowing again. Scratch worry fuck. Scratch worry fuck.

image courtesy of google images

the alaska boys

"Just tell me this. Do you believe in Jesus?" the round one asked. He had had one drink too many and even though I didn't know how to answer his question - do I believe in Jesus? what does that mean? do I believe that he existed? yep. do I believe he is the 'son of god'? aren't we all children of god? - I responded with a simple "yes".

"Good," he said, "that's all I wanted to know."

He drinks, he brings up religion. He is very upset that the young woman at the park office is Muslim. It worries me that it bothers him so much because his anger is palpable. I'm glad we can't bring guns into Mexico, not that I think he'd go off the deep end but you never know.

Of the two, just by looking at them, you would think that he is the mellow one. Round and baby-faced, he looks much younger than his 60 years. The other brother is lean and craggy and has a deep rough voice from continuous cigarette-smoking. He is the more laid-back of the two and his one-liners are delivered deadpan and are priceless.

Last night the brothers treated me to a steak dinner in exchange for three windchimes. The Giant Gringo was there too (we were seated at 'his' table) and was the first to go home. The round-faced brother had just grumbled something about Muslims before his eyes glazed over and he sat barely conscious, the effects of his four giant margaritas having kicked in. The lean brother was telling me about his married girlfriend of six years. Her husband doesn't mind. They are all friends. He and the woman have never had sex but that's okay with him.

"I think you need to get your brother home. Look at him."

"I do believe you're right. La cuinta, por favore. Last year we learned how to ask for the check. This year we learned spanish for 'how much?' We used to ask 'como mucho?'. That makes sense, right...'how much?'...and we usually got our point across, probably ended up paying more than people were asking."

When the check arrived the round-faced brother managed to dislodge his wallet and plop it on the table but that was as far as he got. I pulled out the necessary bills and then sat finishing my glass of wine while they went out to their truck. Suddenly the restaurant manager and waiter rushed outside. Apparently the round brother had fallen just before getting into their truck and the lean brother needed help lifting him (that the round brother has only one leg made it even more difficult).

I got outside in time to hear the round brother retching in the front of the truck. The lean brother was leaning against the driver's door smoking a cigarette. "Ahhhh man, don't do that. Ahhh shit it's gonna stink in there." He turned to me. "When you get to the park, will you ask Mr. Texan to come down and help me get my brother into bed?"

I said I would. God I was happy that I had driven my own vehicle!

They leave in a couple of days for the long trek home in a vehicle that is on its last wheels. It's been fun having them here in spite of the need to avoid conversational land mines and the smell of vomit emanating from their truck...

the bartender

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to meet The Bartender in Nogales on Thanksgiving. I craved chicken in a hazelnut mole sauce. She was due to leave the next week for Laughlin so it was unclear when we would see each other again.

I decided to bus it which was an interesting experience. The only glitch was getting out of this little village. I arrived on a street corner before dawn and waited almost two hours for the bus. I had company. The fat pigeon of a dog followed me (she is so stubborn!) and sat with me while I waited. It is fortunate that she has such short stubby legs as she was unable to board the bus and sat looking forlorn as the door closed behind me. (If a dog could have a 'what the fuck' look on her face, she did.)

Even though I had to taxi between bus stations in the big city, and I had no bus schedules, I arrived at all the other buses (coming and going) just a few minutes before their departures. The buses from the big city to Nogales (and back again) were nice and round-trip I ended up watching four movies, trying to pick out a familiar word here and there but getting the gist of the movies just fine.

The Bartender and I arrived at the restaurant at the exact same moment and my favorite waiter waited on us and the mole was excellent, not to mention the free shot of tequila.

Since moving to southern Arizona from New Orleans, The Bartender has not had good luck when it comes to work. She is a bartender people either like a lot or not at all. I can't quite sort it out. There are things she does well, remembering customers' drinks, introducing people at the bar, especially if they're sitting alone, asking "what will you have babe?" in that cute New Orleans' accent. But if you piss her off, she doesn't hide it. If a co-worker is a slacker, or giving away too many drinks, she lets her displeasure be known. She is a stickler for rules. I don't think I ever got a free drink from her.

She got fired from her first bartending job and was on the brink of losing her second when she decided to make her move. She thought about going back to New Orleans. A while back we had talked about Laughlin. With all those casinos, there must be lots of bartending jobs there. So here's what she did: She held a garage sale to get rid of most of her belongings. She gave her landlord notice. On a day off from work she loaded as much stuff as she could into her Mustang and drove up to Laughlin, a place she had never been to. There she met with real estate agents and looked at rentals either too expensive or too funky. She spent the night in a motel feeling very discouraged. Now what? On her way out of town in the morning she followed a for rent sign to a cute little bungalow and called the agent who showed her the house which was also too expensive. But the agent had just bought another place, a trailer on a good-sized fenced lot. They went to see it and The Bartender rented it on the spot. The realtor let her stash her boxes in the storage shed.

The Bartender went back south, worked on getting her house squared away so she could get her deposit back, sold or gave away more things, lugged more household items up to Laughlin, gave notice at work and yesterday loaded her remaining possessions and her two big dogs into the Mustang and headed to her new home. She has very little money with which to start her new life, no credit cards, no safety net. She gives herself a week to find a job.

Because of the way the rental fell into her life, she believes this move is meant to be. I have to agree. I think it took great courage on her part to make this move, as it did when Katrina rousted her from the city she had lived in all her life and landed her in Arizona. I can't wait to see how this story unfolds. I think she'll find her perfect bar and maybe even her perfect love.

I wish I had stayed another night in Arizona but I was at The Bartender's house and she has the most ill-behaved dogs I have ever met - way too big to be jumping up on people. And The Bartender smokes. And for breakfast we had instant coffee (which is okay here but in a town where you can buy good ground coffee? sinful). I didn't get to see my fellow barflies or to stop by The Home of Dashed Hopes. I did run into O, an old lover. And while I was away another old lover stopped by my trailer looking for me. These two had entered my life at the same time two Novembers ago. Interesting that they should reappear, albeit very briefly, at the same time same month two years later. That probably means something but my head is too cloudy from flu medicine to come up with even a guess.

As I sit here wondering where to go next, I look at The Bartender for inspiration. My advantages are many. After all, my home is with me; no need to look at rentals or to dig for security deposits. I have credit cards as my safety net. My work skills are robust.

Just pick a place, I tell myself. And so I pull out the map of the Southwest. Eeny meeny miney moe.

dogs and men

In my pre-trailer trash days my life was devoid of men and dogs. Then I fell in love with The Jailbird's dog. Sensing my new-found status as "dog person", dogs began falling for me.

I swear, I turned my back for one minute and somehow the big old boxer mix snuck in without rocking the trailer. The fat white one would've ventured in had there been room. Sometimes I am very appreciative of living in such small quarters.




Those two are obviously familiar with having their photos taken, unlike this poor girl, Osita, who refused to look at this thing being pointed at her. As a puppy she was abandoned at the park by gringo RVers and now her adopted family has been gone for months due to a medical emergency. Someone needs to give her love and attention so I have taken on fostering duties. Should her family not return, I would love to keep her but if I need to find a full-time job, I can't see keeping her cooped up in a trailer all day.

Now for the men.

I had more lovers in my two years at the Home of Dashed Hopes than I had in the previous two decades. Who would have thought that trailer park life would reap such benefits? And none of my lovers (I believe there were six) were trailer park losers. Well, one was close - a bad-ass southern boy who worked at the mine and who dabbled in drugs and barroom brawls. All the others were respectable members of society (oh shoot, I forgot about The Jailbird), all hot (in my humble opinion), all younger than me, and all had teeth which, believe me, has become the number one item on my list of desirable traits beings as so many men and women in that neck of the desert are toothless, or have choppers that many opt not to wear on a regular basis. Even the Lesbian Electrician.

Anyway, fast forward to my life in Mexico and the return of the man dry spell. Until yesterday. It was one of those days that prompted a middle-of-the-night outloud utterance of "what the fuck?"

I was going to walk the beach to buy a cerveza from one of the depositos. The two white dogs joined me (I cannot sneak out of this park without them noticing) but at the boat ramp I saw The Fisherman who asked me if I'd like to ride with him out to the island. I said sure. Out around the back side of the Island, out of sight of shore, with me steering the boat, The Fisherman promptly began grabbing at me. He turned off the motor and pulled me towards him. His hands were all over me and I wished I had on jeans instead of a skirt. I tried to keep the mood light. I said I would jump overboard even though I can't swim and how would it look to have a drowned gringa on his hands? I told him I would tell The Lesbians how ungentlemanly he was behaving. The thing is, The Fisherman is attractive and has a very successful business of taking tourists on fishing trips. He would be a good catch. But I'm not interested. Eventually my threats paid off and he brought me back to shore.

I got back in time to go out to dinner with one of the newly-arrived snowbirds - a HUGE man who has been coming here for over ten years and who knows many of the locals. We went to a restaurant I had not been to before and 'lo and behold it had a full bar. Shit! All that summer boredom could've been partially alleviated had I known about that bar. After a few giant margaritas the Giant Snowbird asked me if I was a lesbian and I said 'no'. Damnit, I should have lied because his next sentence was this: "I am impotent because of my medical problems but I know how to use my tongue". He must be telling the truth because I saw a photo of his "lady friend" and she is really attractive. Still, his tongue is not getting anywhere near my body. Nuh-uh.

Brother. It's one of those prime examples of 'be careful what you wish for' beings as I've just spent months bitching and moaning about being bored, being the only single person, blah blah blah. And, damn, yesterday's events put the kabash on free boat trips out to remote islands loaded with hard-to-find shells and free meals accompanied by free margaritas. Nothin's free, is it?

Revolucion de Mexico

I did not know that so many children lived in this town. These photos represent only a small sampling of the many parade participants, little mustachioed Poncho Villas and beautiful senoritas.

navidad azul

After three years of successfully avoiding the holiday blues, I can't believe I'm back in the throes of fear and loathing on the holiday trail. Thanksgiving is next week. My spirit is plummeting. It's because I'm surrounded by cheerful coupled-up gringos and their plans for a Thanksgiving potluck. I can't fucking do it!

So I'm not gonna. I'm in Mexico. Thanksgiving is not a Mexican holiday. Therefore I'm going to treat it like any other day. The Bicycle Vendor and I are going to the big city. Should be interesting beings as his english isn't much better than my spanish. I'll be sure to bring the dictionary. I think this will be a good opportunity for us to trade words. We can turn it into a game: Things seen along the side of the road like hardware store/ferreteria; dead cow/vaca muerta.

In addition to moping and avoiding people, I have been walking a lot. In an effort to remind myself that I'm in a foreign country, I have vowed to walk through town at least once a day every day. I enjoy strolling the dusty streets, looking into people's yards, hoping the dogs lying in the road are friendly. Sometimes I'll get a beer from the deposito and drink it as I return home along the beach, using the plastic bag for shells gathered along the way.

Speaking of which, the disser chime continues to grow:

Here are a couple of newly-added chimes:

The sand-dollar on this chime is awesome. It's covered in barnacles. I'll try to get a better shot but my camera batteries are no longer holding a charge so it may be a while.

These shells hang from a basket from Chihuahua bought from the Bicycle Vendor:

A close-up of the shells:

Oh, and to clear up any misunderstanding from my previous post, I am not leaving Mexico just yet. As much as I miss southern Arizona, I am going to stay here at least till March. When I do head out, I'm not sure where I will go. There are only 3 trailer parks in southern Arizona. One is pretty funky (worser than the one I was in) and one is too expensive and looks like a parking lot. That leaves The Home for Dashed Hopes. Last night Jailbird Jr. called. His life is good. He doesn't want his dad to come back. I don't want to be in that park with his dad there either. So who knows where I'll wind up. My friend the Bartender is moving to Bullhead City. Maybe I'll go there. Maybe I'll head to Alaska. Maybe I'll "work kamp" at the Grand Canyon. Shit, before I can even think about my next move I've got to get through the holidays. My own little 12-step: One holiday at a time.

the spirit guys

I wanted to live in an Airstream in the desert. I had this dream for many years, bolstered by the movies (Bagdad Cafe for instance) and by Airstream ads (See more, Do more, Live more). I didn't know which desert I would live in or what I would do once I got to the desert but the desire was strong. And made stronger when my life became just so damn boring. One more 4th of July spent bar-b-q'ing tuna for me and the cat and I would kill myself.

When it came time to act I did all the practical things like researching trailers, getting my house ready to sell, stuff like that. But I also relied on the Spirit Guides who counseled me through a channeler in Portland. Because she would say things like "the guys are very happy to talk with you today" I came to know them as my Spirit Guys. If I have any spirit gals, I hope they are not offended at being referred to as guys.

So the Spirit Guys helped set my course and gave me the confidence to act. They saw a lot of energy around Arizona. I didn't. All I knew of Arizona was the Grand Canyon and Phoenix and Tucson. I figured I would go find The Bagdad Cafe (I did; it's in Newberry Springs, CA) then go to the Four Corners area, settle in New Mexico. Ha! The Spirit Guys were right. Once in Arizona I couldn't leave and even now, sitting on the beach at the Sea of Cortez, I can't wait to get back.

One of the snowbirds at the Home of Dashed Hopes was a nice older woman from the east coast. Turned out she was a channeler only she didn't do it professionally; more like a hobby and a gift to friends. I asked her if The Jailbird and I had shared any past lives because both of us knew we had. In fact, I know that I knew him as Steve because I kept wanting to call him that, especially when we were lying in bed together. The nice snowbird channeler contacted her spirit guides and they said that we had shared two past lives together but this time around (our third!) I had chosen to follow my own path.

Thank god, I thought, or I'd probably be in the women's prison.

I've spoken with my channeler (who now lives in Hawaii) on three occasions since leaving Portland. As I fretted over my path (or seeming lack thereof) the Spirit Guys told me to relax, trust my intuition and, by the way, go find a shaman. I plan on looking into the shaman-thing as soon as I get "home". Always trust the Spirit Guys.

freebird

The Jailbird has been set free. At least according to the prison database which is amazingly accurate and timely. The Jailbird has a parole officer. Will The Jailbird have to stay in the Midwest? Will he become a parole violator and head west? Once west, will he parole violate even more and cross the border into Mexico?

This little fishing village is a perfect place for him. I could see him living here. He would fit right in. He would love the people and the people would love him (his racism does not extend to Mexicans). He would work hard and if he earned what the locals earned, so be it; he could live with that and on that. His mechanical and masonry skills would have him toiling alongside other hardworking men. I don't think it would take him long to find a girlfriend, maybe a wife. If she has kids, that would be just fine with him. His dog could run free but he'd have to keep an eye on her, a beautiful and healthy pit bull.

It's funny how clearly I can see this life for him. Thankfully, I don't see myself in it. According to a message from some spirit guides, "the woman has chosen a different path."

ignore or respond?

Here's the deal. For the past three years I have lived in a Red State. And not only that but I have lived amongst RVers who are mostly retired Republicans. I have exchanged email addresses with a lot of these people only to later receive emails loaded with racist/hateful/untrue/narrow-minded/FOX Noise soundbites, etc etc.

So what do you do when someone you meet (and pretty much like) sends you a "TRULY SCARY" email with a picture of Hillary Clinton as a witch flying over the White House? What do you do when someone sends you a "Win tickets to the 2008 Olympics" email that is dripping with racism? Do you respond to the sendor or ignore?

After much thought I've chosen to respond. "Dear So and So. I don't share your political beliefs so I would prefer it if you would take me off your email list. I don't find racism funny. Nor do I believe that Maricopa County's Sheriff Joe is a hero. And even though I would rather vote for someone else, should Hillary become the Democratic candidate for president, you can bet your sweet ass that I will vote for her. Also, please stop with the jokes*. I never read them. Thank you. Antonia."

I guess a more gracious person would choose 'ignore'. What about you?

*unless you're my friend Kat who is very selective about the jokes and videos she sends

Dia de los Muertes

Over on Junemoon's blog she has a great post about Dia de los Muertes' altars and some of the offerings that could possibly entice her spirit to visit. Unlike bigger cities, there are no Dia de los Muertes festivals in this little village but later, when the gnats go away (please please), I will take a walk and see if any altars have been erected. Just this week a fishing boat with four people onboard vanished and they are assumed dead. I am sure there are altars for them.

I could not place many enticements on my altar because I created it with few provisions on hand and many people in mind. My altar is a little heavy on the Catholic iconography but, hell, that's all I got. Besides, there are quite a few Catholics on my Dead list. I did find the flowers at the meat market. Tequila may not be to everyone's liking but on my altar it represents all kinds of alcohol, which many of my Dead will surely appreciate.




Along the awning I strung lights and chimes and lanterns.








Also you might have noticed that I created a shade porch. It's a little rudimentary - shade cloth clipped to the awning edge then draped over a rope we strung from my place to The Texans' but hey, it works. This time of year my patio is in full sun from 9 a.m. till sunset and the shade cloth has made a world of difference. Now if only the gnats would go away so I could go outside before dusk.



Ta-da, the Disserchime. It's not real clear from this photo but I have taken bits of a typed manuscript and glued them inside some of the larger shells. Will the tinkling Disserchime be the inspiration I need? Doubtful. But maybe the dolphins will inspire me. Yep, dolphins have wandered into our little bay and even though the water is quite shallow here, they have gotten pretty close to the beach. If the gnats would go away, I'd go out and take some photos. (Okay, 'gnats gnats gnats', it's tiresome to read about, I know, but not nearly as tiresome as dealing with them. We all hate them. The weather is perfect but we let the little fuckers chase us indoors. aargh.)

Oh, and Halloween was a blast. I haven't seen so many Trick-or-Treaters since I was a kid. I was out of candy pretty quickly. The kids came in huge groups but all were very polite, many saying 'thank you' in English, and all of them singing the Mexican Halloween song which goes something like "give us candy or you're a son-of-a-bitch" (I kid you not).

last halloween

Last Halloween was not a good one as far as my relationship with the Jailbird went. He was doing meth big time...especially big time on this night. Of course, I didn't know it. Figured he was being an asshole when he was actually being a methed-up asshole.

The thing about the Jailbird is that he is a creative devil. He can do just about anything. He can paint cowboys and indians on the side of a teepee. He can grease up wheel bearings and install rotors. He can dig ditches and ride horses. He can create something from nothing as he did with his Halloween costume. Of course when you already have the bare essentials - gun, boots, hat - there's not a lot you have to add on.

He went bar-hopping with The Navajo. He was in character. The Navajo was the willing sidekick, his very own Tonto. The Jailbird put his (thank God phony) gun to The Navajo's head and shouted to the barmaid "Give us two whiskeys or this injun dies." Funny at first, or so I gathered when I heard the story the next day, but carried over the top and in quick order they were kicked out of that bar. On to the next one where I think they were kicked out before they barely got started.

So they came back to the park. Turned up the boombox to super high volume. Woke me from a sound sleep. I tore over there like a banshee released from the depths of hell, yanked the boombox's cord from the outlet, said "You are the most inconsiderate bastard I've ever met." Hrrrmphed back to my trailer. Whereupon, true to form, he appeared at my window all "honey, why'd you do that?" and "come on and have some beers with me and the injun" and the next day I woke up thinking "what an asshole and thank god my channeler broke our karmic tie" although it wasn't totally broke. Which is obvious.

princess

"You're just like Paloma", Mr. Texan said as I walked back from The Lesbian Couple's trailer carrying two sacks of groceries, this time containing rice and pancake mix and a bottle of Cabernet. That I was compared to a dog is not flattering.

The park dogs are beggars and Paloma is the worst. Even though her home is less than a block away, she chooses to live at the park, endearing herself to the snowbirds, getting fatter and lazier as the winter progresses until she can barely walk come June (becoming more pigeon-like than dove-like). I share that 'endearing' quality with Paloma, I'm sure, but it is my begging ability, the bags of food the travelers give me just before they head home, that most mirrors Paloma. The Skeeper has always given me the best leftovers - bacon, cheese, salsa - but not this time; this time I think their leftovers went to the Texans. I think Mrs. Skeeper didn't want The Princess to get them.

It's not that we didn't get along. I liked her immediately when the first 'fuck' flew out of her mouth. I didn't see her much over the week they were here and I worried that as a single woman who spends time with her husband when he is down here alone that maybe she would not like me too much. I don't know. It's hard to gauge these things. During this past week I did keep to myself a lot, mostly due to my loneliness mood, but mostly I wanted to stay out of their way. Maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Did my absence look suspicious?

I don't know why The Skeeper calls me 'Princess' - I've been too chicken to ask because it must relate to some princess-like behavior of mine that I don't know I possess. When I first met Mrs. Skeeper she said "well hello there Princess" in a very friendly way but maybe she wanted a little distance between The Skeeper and The Princess. There are a lot of 'maybes' here. I'm clueless because I skipped the chapter in the "RV Handbook" called 'Maneuvering amongst couples when you're not one'.

This, of course, is no different than real life wherein a single person becomes friends with a member of the opposite sex who happens to be in a couple. This can be an okay situation or not. But this feels more burdensome. Maybe because The Texan Couple made a point of telling me that as a single woman I should be careful and not get too close to the men, that the women wouldn't like that.

On the other hand, in what must be one of my Princess moments, I think fuck 'em if they get jealous. The men are more fun, anyway, going sailing and fishing and drinking while the women sit around making crafts out of seashells. Like, uh, windchimes. (Mine are fabulous, btw, especially the 'Disser chime' created with Junemoon in mind and which is nearly finished. Photos to someday follow.)

Just as I was to hit the 'publish post' button Lesbian Couple #2 appeared with a sack of goodies which included a bag of Peet's coffee! I've been out of coffee for weeks. The Princess scores - woof woof!

more lesbians! we have more lesbians!

Late yesterday Lesbian Couple #2 moved into the park. I swear, take these two women and put them in a dimly-lit room with The Lesbian Couple and you couldn't tell them apart: All four are in their 60s, 'robust' figures, short gray hair, all clad in shorts and t-shirts. But talk to them and there is one major difference: The Lesbian Couple are (is?) republicans. I never will understand how anyone in the gay/lesbian/bi/transgender (did I get them all?) community can be republican. But Lesbian Couple #2 are lefties, radical feminists, my kind of girls! Thank god there are finally people around I can talk to on a deeper level - if only for a few days as they are heading back to Canada on Thursday. They are leaving their trailer here and will move it into my space when I vacate it.

I think if they were sticking around I would feel better about sticking around. I do hate to complain and grumble when I'm living such a great life - sitting by the Sea of Cortez, not working, not worrying (not yet on both counts, the former the cause of the latter) - but I've been pretty fucking miserable lately. All these couples. All these politically conservative couples. I have no one to play with. I'm lonely. I'm bored. But my mood sure picked up with the arrival of Lesbian Couple #2.

I feel terribly sad about their departure. And not only that, but now my stellar reputation at the park has been diminished. I bailed on my videographer duties. I did fine at the church but then I got a raging headache and at the reception the loud music and The Photographer both made my headache worse. I disliked getting close to people with the spotlight attached to my camera, all the while dragging a hugely long extension cord, and so when The Photographer took my camera to shoot something, I left. I thought I'd just be gone a few minutes, until the aspirin kicked in, but then I met up with Raul and we walked over to The Lesbian Couple's bodega where we encountered them and Lesbian Couple #2 and The Texan Couple and so I stayed there. Then Mrs. Old Geezer showed up and said "there you are!" and it turned out that she and another snowbird had been helping with video duties in my absence. Busted! She seemed pretty mad. I was amazed at how little I cared, at how I felt bad but only a little. Tough, I thought, I don't like these people anyway.

Aye carrumba. Is that a crappy attitude or what?

And back to that loneliness thing....The Jailbird called yesterday on my Skype number but by the time I turned up the speakers and plugged in the mike I was too late to accept the call. I think it's a good thing that happened because loneliness would surely cause me to say something I shouldn't. This morning I pictured having The Jailbird around when Lesbian Couple #2 showed up. How would that fly? He'd probably be okay but say something stupid and my lez-cred would be out the door. So it's just as well that I missed his call.

am i this crazy?

There are two women who live in this park full-time and they are batty, both of them. Beings as there aren't a lot of single women around, much less single women who live in trailers in Mexico, I can't help but wonder if I'm as nutty as they are.

Susanne

I asked "why do you have a bandaid on your nose?"

She proceeded to tell me about her new mp3 player, the failed cd drive, customer support, a destructive restore, an angry email, a fixed problem, her 4 children, one teenaged son's marriage, the son and wife and new baby living with her along with her 3 other kids and her loser brother, the daughter-in-law playing hooky from school, she kicks out the young family, but a few months later she takes in the baby, had strict rules, bedtimes at 8:00 even for the older kids, her second husband the SOB who left her to go to Korea (the best thing he ever did)...

She leaves a half hour later; I never did hear about her nose.


Virginia

"Susanne! Susanne!"

I poke my head out the door. "Are you calling me?"

"You're Susanne aren't you?"

"No, I'm Antonia."

"Gail Susanne ______" she reads from the piece of mail she holds in her hand as if by saying my full name I'll remember who I am.

"That's not me."

"Oh, oh, okay. I know that," she says as she walks over to Susanne's trailer.


Susanne

Three days later.

"Here's your change for the groceries. It only came to $13."

"I don't think that's right," I say. "The cheese alone cost nearly that much."

"Oh. Maybe I added wrong. I'll double-check. The bandaid is because my glasses cut into the bridge of my nose and so I just leave it on even when I have my glasses off. No sense removing the bandaid each time I remove my glasses."

"Okay."

Virginia

A truck comes through the park. "Are you looking for someone?" she snarls at the driver.

Then she turns to me (I'm sitting outside reading) and yells "Susanne, Susanne, they're looking for you."

And I shout "I'm not Susanne" at the same time I hear Mrs. Texas shout "she's not Susanne" and Virginia goes "oh, I know that" and directs the truck to Susanne's trailer.

you're gonna make me lonesome when you go

I am really going to miss The Lesbians when they return to the States.

Our little group is an odd assortment: The Old Geezers, The Texan Couple, The Lesbians and Me.

The Lesbians have a trailer with a big bodega next to The Old Geezers' place. For weeks The Old Geezers would say "the girls are coming" or "the girls' departure got delayed" or "the girls should be here on Saturday." I was looking forward to meeting the girls and they did not disappoint. Wonderful generous women in their early 60s who own a successful gallery and have been together about 20 years. They plan on selling their home and business and living here full-time. I'll be here when they return for a visit in January but I imagine I'll be gone by the time they retire.

As with The Home of Dashed Hopes, I often marvel at the diversity of people gathered around a campfire or around a bodega table. Retirees, conservatives, liberals, gringos, hispanics, hippies, construction workers, all the rest. Even though someone may say something that makes my liberal nerve-endings recoil in fear ("that camel-driver" Mrs. Old Geezer said when referring to a Middle-eastern doctor), mostly we're fairly tolerant of the other and let such comments go unremarked.

Also as with The Home of Dashed Hopes, I'll probably never again see the people I've gotten closest to and I fear that will be the case with The Lesbians. Although maybe not. I'll know where to find them unlike some of the construction workers who moved on to new jobs or snowbirds who returned to the northern parts of the US.

If I could make some money, let's say over the internets, would I stay here? I'm pretty sure the answer is 'no'. At least not while I'm living in this trailer which is too confining when the summer is here, and not while I'm sola. As a single woman I need a bar. I need a place where I can sit and talk to people and even if they have spouses waiting for them at home, at least for the time in the bar I am conversing one-on-one and not feeling like an intruder or a 3rd, 5th, 7th wheel.

Last night The Lesbians grilled steaks and potatoes for the above-mentioned group which included Raul, the fisherman who had taken them out in his boat that day. Not that it mattered all that much, but I was glad there were 8 of us, a nice even number.

My contributed appetizer was a success, a most brilliant idea (#4) that came to me in the middle of the night. I made California Rolls with tortillas instead of rice. I called it "Mushi" instead of "sushi". Crab, cream cheese, cucumbers and avocados. I made quite a production of displaying my dish to the group, setting the plate on the table, pulling a matching set of big clam shells from my bag, then soy sauce and.....wasabi lime mustard! We used the shells as dipping bowls and mixed the soy sauce with the mustard and even Mr. Texas tried one and liked it. Raul liked it, too.

The Skeeper and his wife get here Saturday for a week or two. The Lesbians will leave on Sunday. A revolving door, people moving in and out of my life.

432 miles

I ate a late breakfast at a little cafe I had never been to before. As I sat eating a cheese omelet, bacon, refried beans, flour tortilla, drinking instant coffee, listening to Mexican music from the boombox in the kitchen, I thought "I've never been happier."

Yesterday I wasn't so happy. I was unable to entertain myself. I couldn't find a spot out of the sun. I didn't know what book to next start. Nagging doubts - why did I stay here? did I fuck up? - were as pesky as the gnats.

There is no discernible difference between today and yesterday. Each day is the same when you have no job, no lover, no co-workers, no leaky roof, no unpaid bills, no broken-down car, no friends, no boss, no garden, no appointments. When you have NOTHING but yourself you can't help but notice that you and only you are responsible for your own happiness. Shit. How I would so love to blame others for my crappy moods.

So lesson #432 will be to carry this knowledge into the everyday world when I'm back in it. I will need to remember how easy it is to shift my attitude when I find myself bored with my job or feeling lonely or my van has broken down or when I am especially hard on myself because another day has gone by and I haven't done flabby underarm exercises or practiced spanish or done any of the other 'shoulds' some nasty beast in my head tells me i should be doing. With practice, should anything dire come along (ill health, death, bankruptcy, heartbreak) I 'should' be able to deal with it rather nicely. At least that's my goal.

On July 29th after my return from Portland I filled up the van's gas tank in Tucson and drove south to Mexico. I have not added one drop of gasoline since. The trip-o-meter reads 432. I think I can get somewhere around 450 miles on a tank of gas. My goal is to see if I can make it to the end of October before I reach that mark.

I have one more goal: To read my daughter's entry without rolling my eyes about why she let the cowboy punk rocker back into her bed. (Actually, I understand all too well why she did it; I think I'm just jealous.)

my brilliant idea (#3)

These are in rapid succession so I don't forget. Wine will do that...inspire brilliant ideas and then with one fell swoop (i.e. one too many glasses) make them disappear. Grab onto the brilliant idea while the iron is hot.

Here it is.

In internet-searching mosquito repellent I came upon Vick's VapoRub which works as a mosquito deterrent but, not only that, if I smear some on a bite, the itch goes away.

Currently we have a gnat problem. You gotta love the gringos and their extensive knowledge database: The gnats are here because the winds bring them in from the island (which is covered in bird poop), and the gnats will go away when we get some wind. So is the wind good or bad when it comes to gnats? (I'm in a pissed-off-at-gringo-mood...can you tell?)

I have some bug spray - Off mosquito repellent (with West Nile protection!) which also keeps gnats, flies and anything else that is airborne at bay (hummingbirds beware). This evening as I sat outside grilling fish, reading, swatting gnats, I had BRILLIANT IDEA #3: I grabbed my Vicks VapoRub, dabbed some under my earlobes, on my elbows, behind my knees (all those sexy places) and then dripped some into a candle I had burning. Was it my imagination or did the gnats disappear? Try it. A DIY version of a citronella candle...a Vicksonella candle. Send the royalty checks here so I can put off REAL JOB for just a while longer.

my brilliant idea (#2)

To this I owe The Bartender.

She called last week and went on and on about how much she loves her dentist in Nogales, Mexico. He did x-rays and didn't charge for them. A crown is only $200. Blah blah blah.

I bit down on my tongue so hard that there was blood in my mouth (okay, so I kind of ripped off some lyrics). The Bartender is of the "you're in America, speak English" school of racism - uh, I mean thought - and, believe me, I have called her out on this a couple of times before. This time I kept my mouth shut. Gosh, that hurt so damn bad.

Then I had this BRILLIANT IDEA. What if all the border towns in Mexico had a "Speak Spanish" day? What if the vendors and waiters and dentists and farmacia workers and taxi drivers and store clerks and whores only spoke Spanish? For one day? Can you imagine the blank looks on gringos' faces when confronted with "¿Qué querría usted beber?" instead of "What would you like to drink?". What about "¿Está usted listo para ordenar?" ("Are you ready to order?") Aye chihuahua! And we haven't even delved into "Where do you want to go?" or "Would you like a blow job with that?".

Hey, I'm no linguist. Learning a new language is HARD. But please, people, quit being so damn hypocritical. Do not go to a foreign country expecting people to speak your language. Do not expect new immigrants to come to yours knowing your language. I swear, my mellow detachment totally gels into liquid nitro when I think about this shit.

Peace out.

my brilliant idea (#1)

I decided to go in search of a blanket to hang from my trailer awning in an effort to block the sun as it travels around my trailer. I wanted one of those brightly-colored Mexican serapes. I went to a little shop on the edge of town I had never been to. It's a sprawling ramshackle place and as I walked through the first open room I came upon three handicapped young adults (early 20s maybe) sitting in wheelchairs. I smiled and 'buenos dias'ed' them. The girl was able to smile back; the two boys merely looked at me with their heads resting at an angle against the wheelchair backs. Finally a short round couple approached and they took me to a back room containing shelves and pallets loaded with plastic bags filled with rugs and blankets. I found a blanket I liked and the man scribbled the price in the dirt: 450 pesos. egads! That's almost $45. I thought these things would be a dime a dozen! If I bought two, I could have them for 700 pesos. Still too much I said and so I told them no.

Out the room's window I saw a woman making hammocks. "You make hammocks here?" I asked and the woman said "Si, we make them by hand" (all in Spanish, mind you; I'm getting better). The man then showed me that the stick he had been writing with is the tool used in hammock-making.

That afternoon the Photographer came by and I asked her about that place and the handicapped children.

"This is a really sad story. I mean a really sad story," she said. "All those kids belong to the same couple. Can you believe the luck of that? Having three kids with cerebral palsy? And then last year the mom was coming home from town on the bus, there was an accident, and she was killed."

"My God. Is that an aunt or somebody taking care of the family?"

"I don't know for sure but I imagine so."

The Texan Couple had bought their serapes online from a distributor in the U.S. and had paid about $25. With shipping that brought the price to nearly $30, not much less than the blankets at the ramshackle place if I could get one for $35. I figured I'd probably go back and buy one.

"Someone told me that I would be shocked at the mark-up on these things, how cheaply the vendors get this stuff," Mr. Texan told me.

The second time he said this I had to respond. "Apparently you never worked retail. Do you know what the mark up is at Wal-Mart? It's not like these people are living high on the hog off what they make off us. I'd rather support the local economy."

This "bleeding heart liberal" crap makes him crazy.

That night one of my less than one year old Wal-Mart chairs broke, the metal frame ripping through the cushion and with nothing to hold it in place I knew that when the fabric tore all the way through, my ass would be one with the ground. I wondered if the hammock-makers could weave seat and back support. I went back to see.

"I have a question," I said. "One moment." And I went to the van and pulled out the chair.

"Oh, a chair for me!" exclaimed the man.

Another man came out and cut the cushions from the chair and talked to the others and they came up with a design plan and a price: 200 pesos. I said okay and could I see the blankets again? They definitely have a bottom price line and they stick to it. I got the blanket for 350. No amount of pleading on my part could get them down to 500 pesos for the whole shabang. So I agreed to their price and I broke one of the gringo rules: Never pay in advance. I did and they said the chair would be ready the next day.

When the woman brought out my chair I was so stunned that I hugged and kissed her. I had expected some sort of rudimentary basket weaved straps that would be used as support for cushions; not a chair so pretty that I wouldn't dream of covering it.

Here's what the chair looked like:












And here's my new chair:

When I showed the chair to the Texan Couple, the first thing Mr. Texan said was "How much did that cost?"

"I knew you would ask that and I dreaded it because you would say I had paid too much. 200 pesos."

"No, no, that seems about right. That chair should hold up for a good long time. A nice seat on a $10 frame..."



I think I'll take my other chair to the hammock-makers and have them remove the cushion and weave the seat and back in green. Both chairs will look so pretty under my new rainbow-colored serape.

generally speaking

"Never get involved with a younger man. Younger men will always leave you for younger women. Trust me, I know."

I'm walking on the beach with one of the truly crazier-than-most-persons I've met. Her sentences rasp out between sucking on her cigarette and yelling at her dogs who belong to that breed which has won 'ugliest dog in the universe' two years in a row.

"I got married to my second husband when I was 34. He had lied about his age and it wasn't until after we were married that I found out that he was 31."

"But that's just 3 year's difference. I mean, you were practically the same age."

She stops walking and glares at me. "He was younger and he eventually left me for a younger woman. They all do that."

And thus a generalization is born. A more appropriate generalization would probably be "When you're an angry mean-spirited bitch men will leave you" but, shoot, even that one doesn't hold up given all the mean people I know who are in relationships with their opposites. Crash goes another generalization.

When I took off with my trailer, thus becoming a part of the RV'ing lifestyle, I knew from demographic studies that I would be in the company of mostly older conservative people. In my mind "RV" stood for "Republican Voter" and I figured there was no way I could affix my favorite decal to my van window: A picture of Bush with the caption "like a rock only dumber". Not only that but I was leaving the warm embrace (albeit a wet one) of liberal pacific northwest for the desert southwest, rumored to be populated with nothing but narrow-minded, gun-toting, fuck-you cowboys and rednecks.

Here's what I've learned from living amongst "the others": Most RVers and desert southwest dwellers are, indeed, conservative, republican, christian but they are not all cut from the same cloth. Some are really nice people (gasp!) and some even possess traits mostly ascribed to liberals and progressives: They care about other people! I'll be damned.

And here's something else. In my two years of Red State internment I did not meet one person who admitted to having voted for Bush. Not one. An example is The Rancher who said "I grew up in Texas and know just about every ranching family in Texas. I can't stand the Bush's; most people I know can't stand 'em. I didn't vote for Senior and no way in hell would I vote for the son." The Rancher didn't like environmentalists. He thought everyone who lived in the southwest should learn spanish. He was not a man who fit neatly into a stereotype.

Neither is Mr. Texan who says "I was a Southern Baptist until I saw how hateful those people can be. And even though I'm conservative, I voted for Ralph Nader in the last election because I couldn't bring myself to vote for Bush...and I HATE Ralph Nader." (This, of course, is fodder for another entry: How in the hell did Bush get elected when no one voted for him? And don't say it was because of Nader.)

We feel comfortable with stereotypes. We define ourselves against "them", those others who are all rude or bad drivers or suckers (aka 'bleeding heart liberals'). If we hang on to our generalizations, then we don't have to question our beliefs.

Sometimes it helps to gain a wider perspective when you are on the receiving end of a stereotype. I was in Europe and met a great bunch of people from all over the world who were staying in the same pensione. I was having a great time with a very handsome man from Switzerland until he found out I was American. "I thought you were Canadian!" he said. "I have no use for Americans." I was a tad bit stunned but later we were able to converse and I pointed out that all Americans weren't alike; for instance, we hadn't all voted for Reagan.

There are truly a bunch of assholes in the world. The thing is, you can't always judge a book by its cover. Or by its voter registration card.

trading words

This is not a fair trade. My Mexican friends give me 'mira' and I give them 'look'. The word sounds ugly. It clunks on the table between us. I want to apologize, say I'm sorry for such an ugly word. The Bicycle Vendor does not even attempt its pronunciation.
Libro. Book. clunk
Viento. Wind.
Fuerte. Strong.

The Bicycle Vendor asks "Como se dice 'esta muy bonita' in Engles?" I tell him and then he asks me to write it down. As soon as I write the word 'beautiful' I know we're in trouble. We agree that in English the words use too many letters. No necesito. That is the beauty of Spanish and Italian; every letter in a word is used. They are very efficient languages in that way.

These days I don't feel so bad that I'll probably never be able to roll my r's. After all, I don't think the Bicycle Vendor is going to do much better with look and book.

mija

In a lot of ways my daughter is like me. But in a big way we are totally different. Her recent blog entry points to this difference. Where she is comfortable moving through the lives of the rich and beautiful and famous, I am a total inept. Plop me down in an unknown town, a dive bar, a trailer park from hell, and I am at home, confident, happy. The thought of landing somewhere near LA and my throat constricts in panic. My daughter, on the other hand, laughs easily with these people, massages their naked bodies (and egos?), listens to their deepest secrets, becomes their best friend and confidante.

I can sit at a bar where I know no one and be happy as a clam. I can chat with vendors who come through the park or gringos who happen upon my site. I can happily dine alone, go to movies alone, travel to foreign countries alone, strike up conversations...with normal run-of-the-mill people. But if you seem perfect - lasered and suctioned and snipped and capped - then I cannot be around you. Because you have worked so hard to make yourself perfect, you will concentrate on my flaws. You will wonder "why hasn't she had her eyelids lifted?" which, and this is the truth, an acquaintance asked me not too long ago. She said "It's time for me to get my eyelids done again and by the look of it, you need yours done too." Great. Another flaw to focus on that I hadn't even thought about.

So I stay away from people who seem perfect. And rich.

Not only that but I have a fear of parties, of dates, of going to peoples' homes. If someone plops down on a barstool next to me and a conversation evolves, great; if not, that's fine too. If our meeting is less than organic, if it is planned, then I can't do it. For example, on Sunday I had a date to go to the Bicycle Vendor's casa to converse, to trade words and questions. In anticipation of our get-together I was a wreck all day. I had a near panic attack. When I did go to his house, I knocked lightly on his door, once. No one answered so I scurried back to my van and drove away. Today he said "I was in the shower but when I came to the door you were driving away."

The photographer asked if I would assist her at a local family's son's wedding. She asked would I shoot video and I said I would. Immediately I thought "shit, why did I say I would do that?" and began thinking up excuses.

I am a total fucking nutcase.

Which brings me to the subject of change. What does it take to change this kind of insane behavior? I guess it starts by saying 'yes' and then following through with the commitment. I went to the Bicycle Vendor's house yesterday and it was fun. I won't back out of my videographer duties. I'll try to learn by my daughter's example. However, I will not be going to LA any time soon. And if she doesn't come back from Atlanta, like if the reformed mafia guy ain't so reformed, then I think I'll be happy sticking with my cowboy bars and fellow trailer trash.

shrimps and shells

The trawlers are here. I have now seen firsthand why their fishing methods are so controversial. Yesterday when I walked the beach it was covered with dead fish. Not fish which had been cleaned, their bones and heads thrown overboard and washed ashore. No. These were perfectly good, healthy, robust fish lying up and down the beach. They had been caught in the trawlers' nets and tossed into the sea. The air stunk to high heavens with rotting fish. Today I counted 25 trawlers. I also counted 25 turkey vultures doing their part to clean up the beach. Unfortunately I have no photos of the fish or the buzzards but, unfortunately [again], I imagine I'll have another opportunity for such a photo shoot.

Shrimping season opened for the local fishermen on September 18, giving them an almost two-week jump on the big guys. A kilo of of fresh shrimp is running around 70 pesos (that's $7 for 2-1/2 pounds).


The sea did its part to reclaim the fish and so the beach in front of our park is pretty much clear of dead fish this morning. And pretty much clear of shells. Even though I felt like an idiot collecting shell after shell ("ahh, mucho conchitas" the vendors would say), I'm glad I did because having been so abundant after the storm, they are very scarce right now. Unlike my other fanaticisms, I mean hobbies, this one is free, provides exercise, and what I don't need I can return to the sea, money-back guarantee.









My goal is to cover my little palm tree with windchimes. After the tree disappears, I'll gather up the chimes and send them to my daughter who hates kitschy seashell shit as much as I do. Actually, I like these chimes, the combination of beads and stuff, the tinkly sound. But still, she'll hate them. I guess her Santa Monica neighbors may hate them too which might make my daughter like the chimes - just a little bit.


Little Ricky Retardo is still around. I'll try to catch a shot of his begging technique, all humpbacked and eeping like a pathetic drunkard harrasing people under the Burnside Bridge.

generosity in a third world country

Seems everyone's got their own rules. Here they range from "don't tip them; it will only spoil them" to the woman who every night makes supper for the homeless guy. About that no-tipping thing, I'm going to try that when I'm back in the US. Damn spoiled servers! Especially in Arizona where they make about $2.30 an hour. But I digress. A few weeks ago a young couple with a little girl came through the park looking for food. Mr. Texan sent them to the office. He said that the people who run the park will feed them and give them work if they have it. Mr. Texan followed up on the young couple and learned that they had come here to work in the orchards but when they got here, there was no job waiting for them. So he hired the man to wash his rigs and Mrs. Texan had the woman help with some needle-work. Two more of us hired the man to wash our trailers and trucks.

Their little girl is almost 2; the woman then hugely pregnant.

The day the baby was born, while the woman was still in the clinica, the father came by with the little girl and I gave him money for food and diapers.

Yesterday we were having our after-swim cerveza and I asked if anyone had seen the couple and the baby. The Old Geezer said the day the baby was born he had given the father 150 pesos but said he expected his truck to be cleaned in return. That seems to be a common 'rule' - you should expect something in return. Just then I looked up and saw the family walking towards us. I jumped up and the young mother handed the 3-day-old baby girl to me. We sat the family down in our chairs and oohed and ahhed over the baby. Well, me and Mrs. Texan did; the men disappeared. I grabbed my camera and took a family photo, printed it up and gave it to the family with some food. Later Mrs. Texan told me that she had given them 100 pesos as a gift.

I gave the family a ride home. They live at the far end of town, having found a rather large uninhabited shack made from cardboard and blankets. There is no electricity, of course; no water or sewer. I marvel at the ability to take care of two children under those circumstances but, of course, that is the norm here.

I do realize that the problem with saying 'yes' once makes it more difficult to say 'no' the next time. But I've gotten better because, really, I have only so many pesos to go around and I only have so much room in my little casita for "mexican yunke". Besides, in a few weeks some of the more generous gringos will be here to pick up the slack: the man who brings computers and sewing machines, the couple who loads up on clothes and household items, the woman who fills her truck with ironwood for the carvers, the ironwood becoming harder to come by down here.

The young father has lived in the States before. I don't know if he got kicked out or came back to Mexico on his own accord. The number of Mexican women who die crossing the desert has increased dramatically because there are more families than ever crossing together. I pray that this family can make it here and if a sewing machine or a job washing trailers or a few gifts help, then all the better.