divine intervention or pushy lesbians?

I left my next move up to the universe and it worked; I got divinely intervened. The divine intervention first arrived in the form of Lesbian Couple #2. They are here to move into my space on March 23 when my year ends. They conveniently forgot our conversation in which I said that I might stay a month or two longer and they were "no problem, no problem. stay as long as you want. just let us know when we can move in." I could be a bitch and stay. Squatter's rights, according to Rosa who works in the office. And Rosa wants me to stay. But I merely responded to Lesbian Couple #2's pronouncement by saying "I guess you're my divine intervention."

And now it looks like I'll be meeting up with a couple of friends who plan on being in southern Arizona the end of March. Divine intervention numero dos.

There's a town near the bottom of Arizona that I had thought about moving to once before but the town never felt right, like we weren't a very good match. But that's where my friends and I will meet up so I'll bring my home along with me with the intention of hanging around for a month or so and giving the town another shot. If the town still doesn't feel right, I'll head on, maybe to another little town I like in New Mexico.

I'm being vague about the place I may go (and, as you can see, I've never actually named the place I am in). My last blog met its demise when too many people in and around The Home of Dashed Hopes got wind of it and I could no longer write honestly about them or myself. If I do continue to blog, and I most likely will, I don't want the same thing to happen.

Speaking of making moves, the Bartender's move didn't go so well. It took her nearly two months to find a job and by then she was down to $9.00 until her $123 unemployment check came in. The job she finally landed was a weeknight midnight to 8:00 a.m. bartender shift where the most she has made in tips is $55. When FEMA coughs up the money, she will move back to New Orleans.

The way the rental fell into her lap, she figured she was meant to be there. Apparently that wasn't so. Or did she somehow sabotage things by all along secretly wanting to go back to New Orleans? Who the hell knows? Spirit Guys, divine intervention, law of attraction, guardian angels - they may all be a crock of caca. But for now, because I can't for the life of me come up with a plan, I'm going with the divine interveners. We'll see how they do.

my list of non-accomplishments

My year in Mexico is nearly up and

1) I didn't learn Spanish. Oh, yeah, sure, I now know my numbers and I know a bunch of spanish words, but can I carry on a conversation with a Mexican, in his or her native tongue? No way, Jose.

2) I didn't fall in love. Not even close. Hell, I didn't even get laid, although I could've. It's funny how having sex - or even just the prospect of having sex - was a big deal for me a few years ago but now I know that I can pretty much get laid whenever I want. That's saying something for a woman my age.

Which brings me to

3) I didn't write a book. Damn, I wanted to write a book. I wanted to write a book that would be encouraging to other people my age. But then that shifted and I wanted to write a book that would be encouraging to people of any age. Especially to all those female authors who are "old maids" at 34, female bloggers who are "over the hill" at 32, and female journalists who in their 30's have to settle for "mr. good enough" because once you've reached your 30's you're not much of a prize either, so what do you expect?

Give me a fucking break. I want to slap all those young women silly. If your life is over at 36 then you better hope you're dead by 50. (You know, if 50 is the new 30 then it's looking like 30 is the new 50.)

And, lastly

4) Although pretty damn good, my margarita is not perfect.

in a unanimous decision...

that round went to the Ex Trucker. Here's what she did to start that screaming match the other morning:

When the Giant Gringo got in his truck to go to breakfast, she tapped on the window and said "Come here, I want to show you something." The GG got out of the truck and when he approached her she sprayed him with the hose, soaking him from head to toe. He then grabbed the hose and sprayed her. Then he reached for a club and threatened to bash her head in.

As childish as her retaliation was, it cracked me up. However, his reaction could've been deadly if he hadn't reined himself in.

The park owner was called and she basically told the GG that he better lay off the Ex Trucker or he would be out of here.

ewwww, I just plucked a tick off my sofa. No dog's been in the trailer so I must've brought it in. Think I'll strap a flea and tick collar around my neck.

this round goes to.....

Ahhhhh, the serenity of life by the Sea of Cortez. The Sea's gentle breathing as the waves wash in, out, in, out. Sparrows singing in the trees. The rhythmic thump thump of pangas' prows as they hit the water on their way out to sea. The....

"You fucking bitch! I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do. You cut my cable."

Oh oh. The Giant Gringo and the Ex Trucker.

Last night, a little after 5:00, the Ex Trucker came over with a piece of cable in her hands. "Look at this, it's been cut." In her hand was a piece of the brand new cable I had loaned her a few months back. "Did you see him around my place?"

"No but I wasn't paying attention. Why would he cut your cable?"

"He was complaining that my TV was too loud."

"Are you sure Chapo didn't accidentally cut it when he was trimming palms?"

"Chapo was nowhere near this and look where it's been cut - up near the connector. No way Chapo would've cut it."

She took the cut cable around to the neighbors and we all agreed that it was a clean slice and not a tear. And even though I figured the Giant Gringo's bark was worse than his bite, I could see him coming home drunk from his early supper and snipping the cable. It did seem like something he would do.

"You bitch," the Giant Gringo yelled. "Why would I cut your cable?"

"I told you that if you messed with my stuff, I would retaliate."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I saw you," the Ex Trucker screamed. [Oops, I knew that wasn't exactly the truth.]

"I'm going to remove your "Y" from my water spigot. You're using my water." [Old battles re-emerge.]

"That is not your water."

"Yes it is."

The next thing I know, I hear water running. I finally look out my window and the Ex Trucker's shirt is soaked. "Now are you happy?" I don't know who sprayed whom but I have to admire her guts. The Giant Gringo is BIG and she is not backing down one little bit. And she is adamant that she saw him. She is a very good liar, I think.

They exchange a few more insults and threats and then the Giant Gringo gets in his truck and goes off to breakfast. A few minutes later I enter his bodega because he has said that I could use his washing machine. His bodega floor is wet. Is that how the Ex Trucker retaliated? Did she spray his porch?

Ay carrumba! I have never seen such childish behavior from adults in all my life. In a few weeks, the Giant Gringo will head back to the States. I have a terrible feeling that before he leaves, he will carry out at least one of his threats - to cut down her very nice wrought iron fence that he says is too close to his trailer.

Old farts certainly can be entertaining. Ya'll should try this RV living sometime.

"stupid VD"

Where to start?

In an effort to keep this brief, suffice it to say that at dinner last night I held true to my desire to be gracious, no matter what. I didn't roll my eyes when the Giant Gringo said that Lucia's beautiful teenaged daughter loved him...."She loves me," he said, "and I'm 50 years older than she is." My interpretation is that she tolerates him as he grabs her and forces her to kiss him on the cheek. But I might be wrong. I didn't let out a groan when with every drink he drank I got more beautiful. "You are one muy bonita senorita." Shit, just writing that makes me groan.

But I did do one of the rudest things I think I've ever done.

I left him sitting at the table while I went and joined two other men. I left him to pay the bill, not even offering to get the tip. I stayed at the bar with the two men as I thanked him for dinner. What a bitch.

You see, the meal was over and I saw this man come in who I had met before. I met him when he was with a man I thought might be my soul mate or true flame or whatever. That other man was a man whose resemblance to The Jailbird was so striking that it made my heart leap in my chest. We finally met and chatted and upon talking with him I knew he was the one for me. He had just bought a house here and so I looked forward to running into him on his next trip to Mexico.

Come to find out from the friend, my true flame just married a Mexican woman. Dang it.

But I rallied from this devastating news and ended up going to see the motel these guys (my true flame's friend and his friend) were staying in, meet the motel owner who treated us to shots of tequila, and then going over to the puta bar to dance.

My true flame's friend is very good looking. He is a very good dancer. And he is a Buddhist. Could he be my true flame? I doubt it. I think my allure (and probably my karma) lies more in the eyes of Giant Gringos with Giant Purple Bellies.

i'll try for a drunken stupor

Oh god. I told the Giant Gringo that I would go to dinner with him tonight, that I would share the Giant Steak he hand-selected for the restaurant and would partake of a bottle of champagne.

Oh god.

I had been feeling bad because I've turned down every one of his invitations, to dinner, for a margarita, for a shot of Laphroaig, and so when he invited me out for Valentine's Day I thought what the hell, I haven't had champagne in nearly a year. What the hell, indeed. The man makes me crazy.

The fact that I find him physically unappealing is not the worst of it. It's his personality and his overblown ego that cause me to behave badly when I'm in his presence. And in spite of my downright nastyness, he still invites me out.

I never should have said yes.

But I did and so for two days now, since the invitation, I have told myself that at dinner I will be gracious. I will clamp down on my tongue to keep from saying things like "God! You act as though you're some great white hope come to save all the little brown people" or "You need new material; I've only known you for a month and already I've heard your stories a gazillion times" or "You're an asshole"....all things I have said. And still he invites me out.

Certainly it's because he's desperate for female companionship and not due to our sparkling repartee. The only other single woman in this park is his neighbor the Ex Trucker and they hate each other. Their latest spat was over the mangy dog the Ex Trucker's been feeding - and truly that dog is one nasty-looking beast what with a missing ear and atrophied penis. Anyhow according to the Ex Trucker the Giant Gringo told her that he got scabies from that dog and he raised up his shirt and exposed his Giant Purple Belly and yelled at the Ex Trucker "look what I got from that damn dog!" Later, when he told me about the scabies, I told him that I didn't think humans could get scabies from dogs and so I googled it and sure enough, I was right but I haven't wanted to broach the subject. If he brings it up again tonight, which he will undoubtedly do beings as this is his "new material", I'll wave the scabies article in his face - all the while keeping my mouth shut, of course.

God. What a girl won't do for a glass of the bubbly.

my 6-word memoir

"We will be your representatives," Juan said and then he repeated in Spanish for the benefit of Carlos.

"In America we call that 'pimps'. You will be my dancing pimps!"

I had been telling Juan and Carlos about my night out at Bar Diego (the bar where the putas hang out) and that I had had a great time dancing not only with my fellow Americans (and the Fat Pigeon of a dog who since her outing on New Year's Eve has become a dancing fool) but with many of the Mexican men as well. That's when Juan came up with the idea of charging for my dances; I'd be like one of those old-time Dime a Dance girls.

I love to dance. It is the one thing I do well. It is the one activity I would do every day if I could, if I had someone to dance with. The Jailbird said that he is a good dancer and he told me about the time he taught the 8th-grade boys how to dance so that they could more actively participate in the 8th-grade graduation party. He used Samurai movements as the basic moves so it didn't seem so "sissyfied" to the boys. Alas, I never did get to dance with The Jailbird.

But I am happy to report that at Bar Diego I mastered that held-tight-bodies-as-one dance the Mexicans do. (We may have to charge more for that one, what with all the physical contact.) With a good leader, I can grasp almost any dance. I used to watch the ballroom dancing competitions on PBS, knowing that with training I could have been just as good as some of those salsa dancers. Or quicksteppers. Or tango-ists. Dang it, I coulda been a contender, but I was too short. Short women cannot be successful at ballroom dancing competitions which was always pointed out by the dance competition color commentators. "She just doesn't have the long flowing lines of the other dancers," Juliet Prowse would say whenever a petite dancer was on the floor.

Smith magazine held a contest a couple years ago and has recently published a book of entries. The competition was this: Write your memoir in six words. Here's mine:

Not tall enough to dance professionally.

But hell, now that I'll be charging for my dances, I'll be considered professional, right? Comment on that, Ms Prowse!

all the pretty horses

All the pretty cowboys!

A couple months ago the Bicycle Vendor asked if I'd like to go to the rodeo. He said that it was a big event, that there would be a lot of music, a lot of dancing, that people would come from all over the state. I marked the date on my calendar and so on Saturday we lead a caravan of gringos to Suaqui, a tiny pueblo which sits about 30 miles down a dirt road in the middle of the desert. Quite a few of the park residents - mostly Oregonians and Californians - went to the rodeo but nary a Canadian. The Canadians said they had seen the Calgary Rodeo, the granddaddy of all rodeos (at least according to them) and so why did they want to go to a Mexican rodeo. Did they miss out! Believe me, this was not your mother's rodeo - unless she happened to be Mexican.

First off, there was a group of musicians in the announcer's booth and they played music throughout the entire 5-hour rodeo. As it turned out, the music was an integral part of the day's events. After all, the dancing horses needed music to dance to:

And between bull-riding competitions, the young men and women needed musical accompaniment as they leaped off the rails and danced in the arena:

Even I got in on the dancing, held close by this young cowboy (who thankfully was wearing boots as I stepped on his feet about a gazillion times):

I don't imagine that rodeos in Canada or the U.S. let people sit on the rails while bulls try to buck their riders. Can you say LIABILITY?


This particular roper was one of my favorites. Not only was his horse beautiful, but between roping duties he sat astride his horse with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.


And of course there were the children. They, too, were cowboyed up and they, too, danced in the arena between bull-riding competitions.


Considering that some of the people danced in the ring before the bull was caught and led back to the gate, and considering that they danced among the dancing horses, it is a wonder that only one person got hurt. A young cowboy got gored by the bull. I was very close to him and it looked as though he took a horn in the eye. I hope not. I hope the blood was from a gash in his forehead.

There was a big fiesta after the rodeo but we didn't stay. Driving Mexican roads in the dark is not a safe thing to do. But next year, next year I will be back for the rodeo. I will throw sleeping bags in the van and camp out at the rodeo grounds. By then the Bicycle Vendor will have completed his self-imposed three years of sobriety and so we will dance together (he said he only dances when he's been drinking). And if I can't get him to dance, hopefully I'll be able to fall into the arms of another pretty cowboy.

nada nada nada

Que pasa? Que tal? What's up? No matter how you ask, my answer is always the same: nothing, nothing, nothing.

I went to the US because I had to do that six-month Mexican visa thing. I had to deal with the State of Arizona which had revoked my vehicle registration because my Oregon vehicle insurance wasn't good enough for them, the bastards. I had to do something with the color of my hair - the gray roots and screaming white blond ends was not a pretty combination. I had to stock up on supplies for every fucking gringo in the park.

So I went to Tucson where I accomplished all of the above. In addition I got to see my niece for the first time since her trip through a car windshield. She is doing great. For the first time since his leaving The Home of Dashed Hopes, I visited with The Rancher at his new trailer park. He is still one of my most favorite people. I caught up with him in the billiards room where he shoots pool with other old farts every single morning. I had a beer with Jailbird Jr, caught up on the whereabouts of The Jailbird (stuck in the Midwest), and was thrilled that Jailbird Dog went nuts when she saw me.

I checked out my feelings as I drove through southern Arizona. Is this my home? Is this where I'm meant to be? Will I return there?

The Home of Dashed Hopes looked sad and depressing even though it is fairly cleaned up; the piles of junk and burnt out RV's the old owners left lying around have been removed but still most of the trailers in the park are old and beat-up adding to the air of dereliction while the rigs in the park next door are all new and grand.

I visited my fellow barflies and they seemed sad and depressing, too. One with good reason (like an impending court case where he may lose everything he's worked so hard for) but most because they spend their days inside a dark bar drinking Budweiser and telling the same old stories over and over again.

I don't want to go back to that trailer park or to that bar. However, southern Arizona still has its draw.

"How long will you be in Mexico?" people asked and I said only "I don't know."
"Where will you go?" and I said "I don't know."
"What kind of work will you look for?" and I said "I don't know."

All I do know is that things will work out without much intervention from me. At least that's my plan if you can call it a plan. What's going on? Nada nada nada.