It's our last night at our lovely abode at the Desert Terrace RV Park. We will soon join the millions of apartment residers. I am looking forward to going to the restroom at 2 am in a bathroom, not squatting outside our trailer. I am looking forward to cooking more than tomato soup, spaghetti and Trix. I am looking forward to laying down on our newly carpeted floor, even though I won't have any furniture.
Last night Crazy Doug stopped by. He was wearing a wedding dress and actually looked quite good in it; he's thin enough to pull something like that off. This morning he was taking his cat Boo-Boo for a walk in an orange stripped jumpsuit, purple knee socks and plastic heels.He told me that some friends of his gave him Boo-Boo back in the 70's; I figure that was the last time Doug had a sane thought.
Our neighbor, the one who is married to the rather voluminous woman, told me I should probably avoid Doug; he's weird. This from a person who probably hasn't brushed his teeth since the 70's and is married to a 300 pound woman with purple hair who wears sheer clothing and trust me, you do not want to see this woman's flesh.
I entered a WalMart last night for the first time in seven years; it was a cultural shock. I spent $200 on two plastic chairs, four towels, pans, silver ware, a toaster, two plates and bowls and air mattresses to sleep on. I think there were more people in WalMart than the total population of Grand County. It's a large, cavernous, noisy place full of overweight, broke and uneducated people all buying cheap stuff. What was I doing there? Buying cheap stuff. Let's face it, WalMart is "inexpensive" and you just can't be a snob about that. Hopefully I'll never have to return, although the sweet, harried checkout girl told me I should come the first week of the month when everybody has just been paid -she said it's crazier...I'm not sure why she thinks I would want to see that.
The library here is not as good as the one in Granby. They only let me check out eight items at a time. They send me emails when stuff is overdue. They charge me if stuff is overdue. They don't have a very good movie selection and THEY DO NOT ALPHABETIZE their movies...what the hell is that all about? I ask a different person everyday about that and they give me the same vague, completely unsatisfying answer of "We all kind of know where stuff is." KINDA? I said, "What if you have a request for a movie, how do you find it? "We all kind of know where stuff is." KINDA? My friends Julie and Tess at the Granby Library know how much this lack of anality will upset me. One time Julie decided to arrange the non-fiction DVDs by subject and I started arranging them by color; I figured both arrangements made about the same amount of sense. I'm thinking of writing a complaint but I'm not sure I want to be banned from the library quite yet. Since living in the tent trailer it's the only place to go to spread out my mail on a table, it's air-conditioned and until I get a computer it's the only place to write my ever popular blog.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
On Having a Job and Still Living in a Trailer Park
After twenty-three different cover letters, applications, numerous versions of my resume and twelve different references I actually, truly, really, seriously have a job. A real job. One with benefits and more than ten dollars an hour (sorry, but that's the truth in Grand County) and one where I can use my brain. My biggest problem now? Clothes. I know, I'm still stuck on the whole clothes issue. My mother says I need to "build a wardrobe." There are no books in the library on this subject so once again I've contacted my only stylish friend, Five Star Sam, who is sending me an email with detailed instructions on how to build a wardrobe. My foray into Kohl's last week only landed me one outfit for the interview - I'm assuming I can't wear this outfit every day or I will soon be the kid on the block whom everyone laughs at because her parents are too poor to buy more clothes or her parents also don't know how to "build a wardrobe."
I was at Big R buying a gift for a friend (a horsey friend, thus the shopping spree to Big R). I looked for "work appropriate" clothes (another term I'm unfamiliar with) at the feed and tack store but no luck. I really wanted this pair of pink cowboy boots with yellow flowers but I didn't think they would go with my gray slacks that I already have.
We are moving into a town home next Wednesday. My friend Dana had to explain to me that a town home has two floors whereas an apartment only has one. A condo designation has something to do with the structure of the walls. My husband started explaining this to me and even over the phone my eyes started to glaze over.
We will have no furniture although I've been told I can buy blow up furniture and mattresses at Target. I'm thinking our new home will look like something out of "Brave New World." I have visions of myself getting stuck to some sort of rubbery sofa and walking around the 640 square feet with something red and enormous stuck on my rear.
The new home will have a bathroom with no code lock on the door. It will have a refrigerator which means food will stay at the temperature it's supposed to be and I will no longer need to worry if the mayonnaise is still safe to eat. There will be an oven and a stove with more than one burner so I can make meals with more than one ingredient. Don't tell me to get a cookbook on stove top cooking or one pan meals - that would mean chopping (no knives) dicing (no knives) and mixing (no spoons)...I never thought I'd miss cooking but if I have to eat one more rice and chili dinner I may move back to Granby....
Ian and I try to do some sort of touristy thing every other day or so. Yesterday we went to Peterson's Rock Garden which apparently is famous all over the world (or at least in Central Oregon.) Basically it's a few acres of weird small structures built out of bazillions of rocks that people, like myself, walk around and take pictures of and then delete off their camera wondering "Who in the heck took all these pictures of rocks?"
Our latest adventures are to float down the river (not sure which one yet, might be the Deschutes or maybe the Crooked) on cheap inner tubes bought at Bi Mart. This is really fun for Ian since he weighs less than 100 pounds and can float over the rocks. Not so for me since I weigh more than 100 pounds and my butt hits all the rocks. So far I've popped two colorfully cheap inner tubes and ended up hyperventilating from blowing them up over and over and over again.
Wednesday we move into our new digs. It's right next to the skate park and the high school and the city bus picks up for COCC in front of the complex. I'm off to Big R to vainly attempt to buy something more of my style that I can wear to influence young people to come to COCC, come to COCC! Tomorrow we're off to somewhere that looks rather hot and deserty to find Thunder eggs - these are rocks that look like rocks but have a secret inside...okay, not really sure what they are but we have a pamphlet on them and we're going to go hunting.
Hopefully we'll make it back.
I was at Big R buying a gift for a friend (a horsey friend, thus the shopping spree to Big R). I looked for "work appropriate" clothes (another term I'm unfamiliar with) at the feed and tack store but no luck. I really wanted this pair of pink cowboy boots with yellow flowers but I didn't think they would go with my gray slacks that I already have.
We are moving into a town home next Wednesday. My friend Dana had to explain to me that a town home has two floors whereas an apartment only has one. A condo designation has something to do with the structure of the walls. My husband started explaining this to me and even over the phone my eyes started to glaze over.
We will have no furniture although I've been told I can buy blow up furniture and mattresses at Target. I'm thinking our new home will look like something out of "Brave New World." I have visions of myself getting stuck to some sort of rubbery sofa and walking around the 640 square feet with something red and enormous stuck on my rear.
The new home will have a bathroom with no code lock on the door. It will have a refrigerator which means food will stay at the temperature it's supposed to be and I will no longer need to worry if the mayonnaise is still safe to eat. There will be an oven and a stove with more than one burner so I can make meals with more than one ingredient. Don't tell me to get a cookbook on stove top cooking or one pan meals - that would mean chopping (no knives) dicing (no knives) and mixing (no spoons)...I never thought I'd miss cooking but if I have to eat one more rice and chili dinner I may move back to Granby....
Ian and I try to do some sort of touristy thing every other day or so. Yesterday we went to Peterson's Rock Garden which apparently is famous all over the world (or at least in Central Oregon.) Basically it's a few acres of weird small structures built out of bazillions of rocks that people, like myself, walk around and take pictures of and then delete off their camera wondering "Who in the heck took all these pictures of rocks?"
Our latest adventures are to float down the river (not sure which one yet, might be the Deschutes or maybe the Crooked) on cheap inner tubes bought at Bi Mart. This is really fun for Ian since he weighs less than 100 pounds and can float over the rocks. Not so for me since I weigh more than 100 pounds and my butt hits all the rocks. So far I've popped two colorfully cheap inner tubes and ended up hyperventilating from blowing them up over and over and over again.
Wednesday we move into our new digs. It's right next to the skate park and the high school and the city bus picks up for COCC in front of the complex. I'm off to Big R to vainly attempt to buy something more of my style that I can wear to influence young people to come to COCC, come to COCC! Tomorrow we're off to somewhere that looks rather hot and deserty to find Thunder eggs - these are rocks that look like rocks but have a secret inside...okay, not really sure what they are but we have a pamphlet on them and we're going to go hunting.
Hopefully we'll make it back.
Monday, August 22, 2011
My New Neighbors
We have settled into the trailer park and Mike left this afternoon to return to Granby. His only jobs when he gets there are to: sell the house, move the horse, move the two dogs, catch the cat in order to move him, move all the furniture 1,019 miles and try to keep my flower gardens alive until we sell the house.
Our neighbors are rather, well, let's say interesting. Very few of the people here are on a temporary basis or maybe they thought they were here on a temporary basis and now it's more semi-permanent. God help me if that happens to us.
Across the gravel road from us is a rather large woman whose wardrobe consists of either sheer shirts or leopard stretchy pants. It's rather alarming and I try not to laugh when I see her because I think she might be nice or she might be schizophrenic and if I do laugh at her she may put a hex on me. Next to her is "C2" where a faint aroma of pot is always present and the man who lives there has purple hair and black fingernail polish. There's also Doug, who for the first two or three days, I wasn't sure if he was a she or a he. He always dresses in pink and has long gray hair. He leaves early in the morning on his bike and always has on a silver ski coat (it was 91 degrees today) and has an orange cat that he walks on a leash. Last night I brought him dinner and he gave me a handful of Ruffles potato chips - kind of a trade of sorts but I slowly dribbled them out of my hand as I strolled to my lovely abode. I didn't want to insult him; again there's that fear factor going on. One of the people who runs the park is from New York and has plates in his face from a drunk driving accident, so he had to move to a warmer climate so his face wasn't cold all the time. The other woman who works here has always run RV parks; she even goes to conferences (who knew there were conferences on running RV parks??) and her husband finally died last year after multiple illnesses. There is also Mike who was a trained chef and grows squash in pots by his door but now works on apartment maintenance.
There's also a large, really, really large spider who lives in the bathroom. You have to press a code to get into the bathroom and then turn a timer switch on for the lights. The spider is usually in the middle stall or under the far sink. She's very scary, although not as scary as the woman in see-through clothes, but I think we've come to an understanding in that if I leave her alone, she leaves me alone.
I had my interview and besides the eleven or so stupid things I said and the fact that my neutral colored shoes gave me blisters, I think it went okay. Maybe. I hope so since Ian already has my first check spent on an apartment, a small flat screen TV, new running shoes, school clothes and some new violent game for his X-Box. I'm starting to understand how Mike feels; he does all the work and I get all the money.
Our neighbors are rather, well, let's say interesting. Very few of the people here are on a temporary basis or maybe they thought they were here on a temporary basis and now it's more semi-permanent. God help me if that happens to us.
Across the gravel road from us is a rather large woman whose wardrobe consists of either sheer shirts or leopard stretchy pants. It's rather alarming and I try not to laugh when I see her because I think she might be nice or she might be schizophrenic and if I do laugh at her she may put a hex on me. Next to her is "C2" where a faint aroma of pot is always present and the man who lives there has purple hair and black fingernail polish. There's also Doug, who for the first two or three days, I wasn't sure if he was a she or a he. He always dresses in pink and has long gray hair. He leaves early in the morning on his bike and always has on a silver ski coat (it was 91 degrees today) and has an orange cat that he walks on a leash. Last night I brought him dinner and he gave me a handful of Ruffles potato chips - kind of a trade of sorts but I slowly dribbled them out of my hand as I strolled to my lovely abode. I didn't want to insult him; again there's that fear factor going on. One of the people who runs the park is from New York and has plates in his face from a drunk driving accident, so he had to move to a warmer climate so his face wasn't cold all the time. The other woman who works here has always run RV parks; she even goes to conferences (who knew there were conferences on running RV parks??) and her husband finally died last year after multiple illnesses. There is also Mike who was a trained chef and grows squash in pots by his door but now works on apartment maintenance.
There's also a large, really, really large spider who lives in the bathroom. You have to press a code to get into the bathroom and then turn a timer switch on for the lights. The spider is usually in the middle stall or under the far sink. She's very scary, although not as scary as the woman in see-through clothes, but I think we've come to an understanding in that if I leave her alone, she leaves me alone.
I had my interview and besides the eleven or so stupid things I said and the fact that my neutral colored shoes gave me blisters, I think it went okay. Maybe. I hope so since Ian already has my first check spent on an apartment, a small flat screen TV, new running shoes, school clothes and some new violent game for his X-Box. I'm starting to understand how Mike feels; he does all the work and I get all the money.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
On Becoming Trailer Trash
We have settled in to our new digs; a 12 foot pop-up trailer immediately adjacent to Hwy 97 in Redmond, Oregon. Suffice it to say that there was so much noise that two Tylenol PMs did nothing to put me to sleep. That and the fact that I imagined everything that could possibly go wrong with this move: no job for me, house in foreclosure, working at Burger King, repossessing my car, repossessing Ian.
Ian has settled into his room. Last night he demonstrated how he could "slam his bedroom door." This entails un-tieing the curtain and flinging it shut. Unfortunately he pulled the curtain off the cheap plastic rod and now he has no door to his room; I should have thought of this when we lived in a house. No door could have eliminated many slammed ones. He was distraught because we couldn't get the electricity to work which meant he couldn't watch a DVD which meant he had to READ - it was a tragedy. I thought this was all funny until I got up this morning and realized that no electricity meant I couldn't get my Latte machine to work (the only thing I brought with me from our house). This was a tragedy and I wished there would have been a door for me to slam.
Mike is worried. He is worried some crazy trailer person will break in. He is worried we won't sell the house. He is worried our house will go into foreclosure, I will have to work at Burger King, they will come and take my car and/or Ian. Mike is a worrier because he is an ultra-responsible person.
Usually my nonchalant approach to life holds me in good stead, but that's when I have Mike by my side. He balances my tangential personality. If it wasn't for Mike I'd probably never own a home or a car to repossess and my children (wherever I got them) would be thumbing their way on I-5 to a Rainbow Family Gathering. I am forever grateful to Mike that he rolls his eyes a lot at me and then brings me back down to earth.
We will miss our 28th Anniversary - this is first time we haven't been together. I say we sell the house cheap, maybe throw in a horse or two, and get to Redmond by the seat of our pants.
Ian has settled into his room. Last night he demonstrated how he could "slam his bedroom door." This entails un-tieing the curtain and flinging it shut. Unfortunately he pulled the curtain off the cheap plastic rod and now he has no door to his room; I should have thought of this when we lived in a house. No door could have eliminated many slammed ones. He was distraught because we couldn't get the electricity to work which meant he couldn't watch a DVD which meant he had to READ - it was a tragedy. I thought this was all funny until I got up this morning and realized that no electricity meant I couldn't get my Latte machine to work (the only thing I brought with me from our house). This was a tragedy and I wished there would have been a door for me to slam.
Mike is worried. He is worried some crazy trailer person will break in. He is worried we won't sell the house. He is worried our house will go into foreclosure, I will have to work at Burger King, they will come and take my car and/or Ian. Mike is a worrier because he is an ultra-responsible person.
Usually my nonchalant approach to life holds me in good stead, but that's when I have Mike by my side. He balances my tangential personality. If it wasn't for Mike I'd probably never own a home or a car to repossess and my children (wherever I got them) would be thumbing their way on I-5 to a Rainbow Family Gathering. I am forever grateful to Mike that he rolls his eyes a lot at me and then brings me back down to earth.
We will miss our 28th Anniversary - this is first time we haven't been together. I say we sell the house cheap, maybe throw in a horse or two, and get to Redmond by the seat of our pants.
Monday, August 15, 2011
We are in Oregon....
We have finally made it to Oregon. We left Granby Sunday afternoon, it started raining then snowing going through Walden. Was this some sort of sign? I told everyone I ran into, even those I didn't know, that I was never coming back. And then I went to say goodbye to Skip and Roselle and Roselle made me promise that if she called me for their yearly BBQ, I would come back. She said I could park our tent trailer next to their reservoir. She said she never writes anything anymore, but she does like to talk on the phone, so she'll call me. Skip then proceeded to tell me a story about panning gold that included a potato, mercury and somewhere up 125. Her daughter Kim told me later that she'd never camp at the reservoir since bears hang out there at night. Her son Ben said I could turn my horses out there when I left and they'd probably be fine all winter. I'll miss them but I'm not going to promise anyone that I'll be back, even if Roselle does call me.
Yesterday after we left the snow of Walden, we went through Riverside, which is still in Colorado and has one of the spookiest abandoned houses I've ever seen. I've always wanted to stop but I'm too afraid. Stayed last night in Evanston, Wyoming next to 1-70 and took two Tylenol PMs in order to get to sleep. Wyoming is one of those states that people shouldn't live in but antelope and rabbits should. We then skirted through the top part of Utah, another state I will never live in, mainly because I'm afraid of the Mormons, We're in Vale, Oregon which doesn't seem a whole lot better than Granby, except that they have two restaurants both of which close at 7:30.
I told Mike that I think something is wrong with me since no matter how hard I try, I can't conjure up much to miss about Granby. In another two months it will begin snowing and never stop. This kind of weather is not good for a person such as myself who does not like: to ski, be cold, wear a lot of clothes, snowshoes, ice and the color white. I told my friend Sam that we'd be in Redmond in a couple of days. She laughed hysterically and told me that I chose the coldest spot in Oregon to move to. I asked our realtor how cold it gets and she said really cold, sometimes thirty degrees. "Thirty below?" "No, thirty above." That's not cold. In Grand County if the sun is out and it's thirty degrees, we take off our ski clothes and wear shorts and sweatshirts, we really do. So Sam can go ahead and laugh, but I know that if I can make seven winters of Rockie's weather Redmond is a piece of cake.
Yesterday after we left the snow of Walden, we went through Riverside, which is still in Colorado and has one of the spookiest abandoned houses I've ever seen. I've always wanted to stop but I'm too afraid. Stayed last night in Evanston, Wyoming next to 1-70 and took two Tylenol PMs in order to get to sleep. Wyoming is one of those states that people shouldn't live in but antelope and rabbits should. We then skirted through the top part of Utah, another state I will never live in, mainly because I'm afraid of the Mormons, We're in Vale, Oregon which doesn't seem a whole lot better than Granby, except that they have two restaurants both of which close at 7:30.
I told Mike that I think something is wrong with me since no matter how hard I try, I can't conjure up much to miss about Granby. In another two months it will begin snowing and never stop. This kind of weather is not good for a person such as myself who does not like: to ski, be cold, wear a lot of clothes, snowshoes, ice and the color white. I told my friend Sam that we'd be in Redmond in a couple of days. She laughed hysterically and told me that I chose the coldest spot in Oregon to move to. I asked our realtor how cold it gets and she said really cold, sometimes thirty degrees. "Thirty below?" "No, thirty above." That's not cold. In Grand County if the sun is out and it's thirty degrees, we take off our ski clothes and wear shorts and sweatshirts, we really do. So Sam can go ahead and laugh, but I know that if I can make seven winters of Rockie's weather Redmond is a piece of cake.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Spiraling into a State of Panic
Day before yesterday my biggest concern was what to wear. Then THEY sent me my presentation question. I'm supposed to pretend I'm in front of a group of Native parents and students and in twenty minutes tell them what they need to know to enter college. Then they said I could use a whiteboard, smart board and/or computer for my presentation. I panicked. My first thought was that I needed to do a PowerPoint.
I'm one of those people who if there is something going to go wrong, it will with me, especially if it concerns some sort of electronics. Don't get my wrong, I love computers...as long as they work. The computer geeks at SOU knew my extension by heart since I called them on a weekly basis. Their first sentence to me was always, "Gina, move your hand away from the mouse." They would fix my computer remotely, which is kind of weird in a Twilight Zone kind of way. And then they would explain what happened. I did not care, I just wanted it to work. In some respects I'm like the Seniors in the Senior Computer class here at the library who get confused when the icons are not in the same spot on our computers as they are at their homes. I hate cell phones and am constantly flinging it at Jordan and Ian desperate to make it quit ringing.
So I called my friend Laura whose first sentence was, "Breathe."
She advised me to do screen shots about the website and use this as a medium to show my intelligence, passion and dedication and hopefully keep me focused to not show my sarcasm, wit and quick rebuttals. I said no problem, I can do screen shots...I really couldn't, then, but I was at the library and of course, someone always knows the answer at the library.
So my presentation is with hard copies of screen shots and their computer and their website and I'm sure it'll go very, very, very well. Mike is bringing his laptop along on our twenty-one hour journey to Redmond, so I'm fairly confident that in that amount of time I will get to know the website. If not, they probably shouldn't hire me.
My friend Sam finally called me back and gave me the low-down on what I should wear. At first she said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable. Sweats, pajamas and jeans and cowboy boots make me comfortable.
"Okay, then you should wear a gray pair of slacks, camel shirt and neutral pumps."
The gray pair of slacks I get. Camel? I saw camels in Texas and they were all different colors of brown. Does she mean beige or tan or even ecru? I hope the label says "camel." Neutral shoes? Is that like Switzerland?
I'm going to shop at Macy's because there I know the salesladies are older than 17 and aren't wearing things in their noses and having their bra straps showing. I refuse to take wardrobe advice from someone like that. I want someone who is older and can tell me what the colors camel and neutral are.
At this point all I have to do is finish my presentation and buy clothes. Piece of cake, right?
This will be my last blog from Grand County. Next time I'll be writing from Oregon living in a tent-trailer with my 14 year old son. This could be interesting.
I'm one of those people who if there is something going to go wrong, it will with me, especially if it concerns some sort of electronics. Don't get my wrong, I love computers...as long as they work. The computer geeks at SOU knew my extension by heart since I called them on a weekly basis. Their first sentence to me was always, "Gina, move your hand away from the mouse." They would fix my computer remotely, which is kind of weird in a Twilight Zone kind of way. And then they would explain what happened. I did not care, I just wanted it to work. In some respects I'm like the Seniors in the Senior Computer class here at the library who get confused when the icons are not in the same spot on our computers as they are at their homes. I hate cell phones and am constantly flinging it at Jordan and Ian desperate to make it quit ringing.
So I called my friend Laura whose first sentence was, "Breathe."
She advised me to do screen shots about the website and use this as a medium to show my intelligence, passion and dedication and hopefully keep me focused to not show my sarcasm, wit and quick rebuttals. I said no problem, I can do screen shots...I really couldn't, then, but I was at the library and of course, someone always knows the answer at the library.
So my presentation is with hard copies of screen shots and their computer and their website and I'm sure it'll go very, very, very well. Mike is bringing his laptop along on our twenty-one hour journey to Redmond, so I'm fairly confident that in that amount of time I will get to know the website. If not, they probably shouldn't hire me.
My friend Sam finally called me back and gave me the low-down on what I should wear. At first she said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable. Sweats, pajamas and jeans and cowboy boots make me comfortable.
"Okay, then you should wear a gray pair of slacks, camel shirt and neutral pumps."
The gray pair of slacks I get. Camel? I saw camels in Texas and they were all different colors of brown. Does she mean beige or tan or even ecru? I hope the label says "camel." Neutral shoes? Is that like Switzerland?
I'm going to shop at Macy's because there I know the salesladies are older than 17 and aren't wearing things in their noses and having their bra straps showing. I refuse to take wardrobe advice from someone like that. I want someone who is older and can tell me what the colors camel and neutral are.
At this point all I have to do is finish my presentation and buy clothes. Piece of cake, right?
This will be my last blog from Grand County. Next time I'll be writing from Oregon living in a tent-trailer with my 14 year old son. This could be interesting.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Yeah, a Job Interview
A community college in Oregon, who will remain nameless at this present time, called me yesterday for an interview. I was just telling a friend of mine, who is also on the job search walk, that I can no longer write a cover letter to save my life. I used to think I was a fairly adept writer and...I actually like to write. But no longer. My cover letters, if read all at once, would show me to be a schizophrenic, bi-polar, highly educated but flighty and in transient person. I guess that last one worked. I don't even remember what it was about except some vague thing about showing up to college with no money or something like that.
At any rate, it worked. They called and without jinxing my chances at this job, I think I would be perfect for it. Of course, at this point in my life, I think I'd also be perfect serving coffee at a drive-thru.
It's an all day interview. Really. Starting at 9:30 and going until 2:30. I even have to eat lunch with them. My friend Laura advised me to not eat soup since I'll probably spill it. My friend Linda said not to order anything with tomatoes since if I do spill it, it will stain. My friend Jean said to not drink any water or I'll have to go to the bathroom.
I'm extremely concerned about having to be polite and interested and considerate and smart for five hours. On a long term basis, I don't have those qualities. On a long-term basis I have sarcasm, cynicism and arrogance. This is going to be a long day for me.
I also have to do a presentation which they promised they'd send today, but they haven't. So now I'm in a state of panic. Maybe they've changed their mind? Maybe they read my cover letter again and realized I'm a rambling idiot? Maybe they found someone who is not a sarcastic cynic? Maybe they only called me because I filled in the box that said "Race? American Indian" and they decided they had enough Indians hanging around and they're tired of us all?
My friend Alicia said I need to visualize myself on the job the first day. My first day visualization is that I won't be able to find my office.
I don't know what to wear. My friend Laura said I should wear slacks since I'm going to be walking around the campus and if I wear heels I'll probably trip and break my ankle and then they'll have to hire me so I won't sue them.
My friend Alicia said I should wear a dress with a small print, not pastel, and wear pumps and a 3/4 linen jacket (what's a 3/4 linen jacket?) She says she wishes she was there to help me pick out the appropriate outfit. I do too.
I have an emergency call in to my friend Sam who is extremely knowledgeable in all things stylish (again, I have no idea why she's my friend.) She hasn't called me back, but I'm going to take Sam's advice, no matter what it is, since she always looks good, even in her zebra pajamas.
Think good thoughts for me since I'm pretty sure I'll blow it by laughing and having food come out my nose or getting my skirt stuck in the chair or going to the bathroom and getting toilet paper stuck on my brand new pumps.
If I can make it through this I know I'll be great for this job!
At any rate, it worked. They called and without jinxing my chances at this job, I think I would be perfect for it. Of course, at this point in my life, I think I'd also be perfect serving coffee at a drive-thru.
It's an all day interview. Really. Starting at 9:30 and going until 2:30. I even have to eat lunch with them. My friend Laura advised me to not eat soup since I'll probably spill it. My friend Linda said not to order anything with tomatoes since if I do spill it, it will stain. My friend Jean said to not drink any water or I'll have to go to the bathroom.
I'm extremely concerned about having to be polite and interested and considerate and smart for five hours. On a long term basis, I don't have those qualities. On a long-term basis I have sarcasm, cynicism and arrogance. This is going to be a long day for me.
I also have to do a presentation which they promised they'd send today, but they haven't. So now I'm in a state of panic. Maybe they've changed their mind? Maybe they read my cover letter again and realized I'm a rambling idiot? Maybe they found someone who is not a sarcastic cynic? Maybe they only called me because I filled in the box that said "Race? American Indian" and they decided they had enough Indians hanging around and they're tired of us all?
My friend Alicia said I need to visualize myself on the job the first day. My first day visualization is that I won't be able to find my office.
I don't know what to wear. My friend Laura said I should wear slacks since I'm going to be walking around the campus and if I wear heels I'll probably trip and break my ankle and then they'll have to hire me so I won't sue them.
My friend Alicia said I should wear a dress with a small print, not pastel, and wear pumps and a 3/4 linen jacket (what's a 3/4 linen jacket?) She says she wishes she was there to help me pick out the appropriate outfit. I do too.
I have an emergency call in to my friend Sam who is extremely knowledgeable in all things stylish (again, I have no idea why she's my friend.) She hasn't called me back, but I'm going to take Sam's advice, no matter what it is, since she always looks good, even in her zebra pajamas.
Think good thoughts for me since I'm pretty sure I'll blow it by laughing and having food come out my nose or getting my skirt stuck in the chair or going to the bathroom and getting toilet paper stuck on my brand new pumps.
If I can make it through this I know I'll be great for this job!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A Week of Lasts
This is a week of lasts.
The last time I go shopping at City Market.
The last time I go to the Granby Library.
The last time I chase the neighbor's hound dog home.
The last time I tell Doug, our neighbor, to slow down ( all he does is smile and wave - he's a nice guy, just drives too fast).
The last time I stand in line at the post office.
The last time I get a cookie milkshake at the gas station.
The last time I ride my horse to Selak.
The last time I look out my window and see Skip's goats eating my Hummingbird flowers.
The last time I look out my window and see Skip's burro crawling through the fence.
The last time I chase Skip's horses/cows/goats/sheep home down the road and through Johnny Kovak's field.
The last time I get to hear Skip sing in the morning across the field.
Some of the last times are sad. Some not.
I will never have to get out of my car in minus 30 degree weather and pump gas.
I will never have to chop the ice out of the water trough with one of Mike's golf clubs because my horse has chewed through the electric cord (he is easily bored.)
I will never have to haul hay to my horses on a sled.
I will never have to buy twelve dollar light bulbs for the chicken coop so they don't die of cold.
I will never have to call Mike and tell him yes, I do have my car stuck in the same place I did yesterday.
I will never have to walk backwards to the barn because the wind is blowing at what seems like 80 miles per hour.
Most of my not-so-sad moments have to do with weather. I'm not a winter person. The first winter I was here I was charmed by the snow...and then I realized it never, ever leaves. It snows every day. Every friggin' day in the winter and this year it even snowed on June 20.
But that's okay, it's over and I know have bragging rights...not everyone can survive the Rockies with their sense of humor still intact.
I think mine is still intact.....
The last time I go shopping at City Market.
The last time I go to the Granby Library.
The last time I chase the neighbor's hound dog home.
The last time I tell Doug, our neighbor, to slow down ( all he does is smile and wave - he's a nice guy, just drives too fast).
The last time I stand in line at the post office.
The last time I get a cookie milkshake at the gas station.
The last time I ride my horse to Selak.
The last time I look out my window and see Skip's goats eating my Hummingbird flowers.
The last time I look out my window and see Skip's burro crawling through the fence.
The last time I chase Skip's horses/cows/goats/sheep home down the road and through Johnny Kovak's field.
The last time I get to hear Skip sing in the morning across the field.
Some of the last times are sad. Some not.
I will never have to get out of my car in minus 30 degree weather and pump gas.
I will never have to chop the ice out of the water trough with one of Mike's golf clubs because my horse has chewed through the electric cord (he is easily bored.)
I will never have to haul hay to my horses on a sled.
I will never have to buy twelve dollar light bulbs for the chicken coop so they don't die of cold.
I will never have to call Mike and tell him yes, I do have my car stuck in the same place I did yesterday.
I will never have to walk backwards to the barn because the wind is blowing at what seems like 80 miles per hour.
Most of my not-so-sad moments have to do with weather. I'm not a winter person. The first winter I was here I was charmed by the snow...and then I realized it never, ever leaves. It snows every day. Every friggin' day in the winter and this year it even snowed on June 20.
But that's okay, it's over and I know have bragging rights...not everyone can survive the Rockies with their sense of humor still intact.
I think mine is still intact.....
Monday, August 8, 2011
Ian and the Law
Mike came home from golf early last night which was my first hint something was wrong. He never comes home from golf early unless there is lightning or it gets dark. He doesn't even answer his phone when he's golfing; apparently a phone ringing for a dire emergency will disrupt his concentration.
He walked in and said, "We have to talk."
I was watching a movie with Ian and went upstairs where he proceeded to tell me that he got a call from one of the town police officers and he was coming over to talk with Ian about a report that he was selling "drugs" at the skate park. What a cliche. I was disbelieving, after all, Mike and I are pretty much perfect parents, except when I might say things like "Stay away from girls, they're evil" or "go ahead, drop out of school and be stupid all your life." Not my best moments.
So this very nice police officer shows up and talks to Ian about a report about a girl who will remain un-named since I know her and her flaky mother and do not want to be a mean person.....Ian apparently gave the girl a Vitamin C and told her it would make her "feel good." She then told her mom that Ian gave her this pill and told her it would make her "get high." I figure the truth is somewhere in between.
Needless to say, Ian has been banned from the Granby skate park for two weeks. I don't care. He doesn't care. We'll be gone in five days. But here are my questions....
When do 14 year olds become smart? When do 14 year olds quit saying stupid things? When do 14 year olds learn that girls are nothing but trouble? When do 14 year olds learn that being cool is not the same thing as being stupid?
Needless to say, after the lecture on felony charges and the juvenile detention home in Grand Junction, blah, blah, blah, Ian did indeed have the fear of God put into him.
Here's the funny thing about the whole incident...knowing the mom (last week she had me fax an application for medical marijuana into the state, she's 25, what could possibly be wrong with her?) it really ticks me off that Ian gets punished for this. Okay, I know he should be punished for being stupid, but I don't think there's a law against that otherwise half the population of the United States would be in prison.
But, maybe he will think twice before he opens his mouth to try and impress a girl, or whatever he was trying to do. It definitely won't hurt Ian to learn to think before he speaks (although I still haven't figured that one out.) Oh well, if he wants to skate I'll take him over to Winter Park and what the hell, I figure everybody should go out with a bang and Ian has certainly done that!
He walked in and said, "We have to talk."
I was watching a movie with Ian and went upstairs where he proceeded to tell me that he got a call from one of the town police officers and he was coming over to talk with Ian about a report that he was selling "drugs" at the skate park. What a cliche. I was disbelieving, after all, Mike and I are pretty much perfect parents, except when I might say things like "Stay away from girls, they're evil" or "go ahead, drop out of school and be stupid all your life." Not my best moments.
So this very nice police officer shows up and talks to Ian about a report about a girl who will remain un-named since I know her and her flaky mother and do not want to be a mean person.....Ian apparently gave the girl a Vitamin C and told her it would make her "feel good." She then told her mom that Ian gave her this pill and told her it would make her "get high." I figure the truth is somewhere in between.
Needless to say, Ian has been banned from the Granby skate park for two weeks. I don't care. He doesn't care. We'll be gone in five days. But here are my questions....
When do 14 year olds become smart? When do 14 year olds quit saying stupid things? When do 14 year olds learn that girls are nothing but trouble? When do 14 year olds learn that being cool is not the same thing as being stupid?
Needless to say, after the lecture on felony charges and the juvenile detention home in Grand Junction, blah, blah, blah, Ian did indeed have the fear of God put into him.
Here's the funny thing about the whole incident...knowing the mom (last week she had me fax an application for medical marijuana into the state, she's 25, what could possibly be wrong with her?) it really ticks me off that Ian gets punished for this. Okay, I know he should be punished for being stupid, but I don't think there's a law against that otherwise half the population of the United States would be in prison.
But, maybe he will think twice before he opens his mouth to try and impress a girl, or whatever he was trying to do. It definitely won't hurt Ian to learn to think before he speaks (although I still haven't figured that one out.) Oh well, if he wants to skate I'll take him over to Winter Park and what the hell, I figure everybody should go out with a bang and Ian has certainly done that!
Friday, August 5, 2011
Moving and My Husband
I am a "thrower-away" and my husband is a "keeper." This makes it difficult when you are moving. Last time, when we made the ill-fated move to Grand County, I was back in Oregon for eight months before moving here. During that time I got rid of a lot of stuff of my husband's; mainly T-shirts from college and wood.
My husband keeps all scraps of wood in the innate fear that he will need a piece of wood for one of his many un-finished projects and he will not have it. We've only been in Granby six years but we have enough scrap wood to build a large, two-story home. I have asked him to "go through his woodpile" and get rid of wood. He came up with seven pieces that he figured he doesn't need to put in a U-Haul and drive 1,121 miles. I reminded him that I WILL NOT be here to help him load the truck. He then wandered out to the garage again, spent 45 minutes and found four more pieces that he could part with.
When I was in Oregon and he was here I burned all his wood. Really. It was a huge bonfire that almost caught the pump shed on fire (don't tell him that) but, I got rid of all his wood. When he returned to Oregon for a short visit in April, he needed to repair one of the horse stalls and almost divorced me over the fact that he had to buy a 2 x 4 ( $4.95). There were possums living in his woodpile. There was wood left from when we did our first remodeling on the house, seventeen years previous.
For about a year after we moved here he kept saying things like, "Where's that T-shirt I got when I ran in the Pear Blossom Run in 1973?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
"Where's that poster of the space shuttle that my college roommate gave me?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
"Where's those boots I got when I went to Austria in 1976?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
Those poor movers; if I had been foolish enough to show Mike where the forms were to claim lost items, they'd be shaking their heads, people would be fired and they'd wonder what kind of a person claims a raggedy old T-Shirt.
Unfortunately, Mike will be here in Granby by himself for a short time trying to move everything. I've already packed MY stuff, so I don't need to worry about the movers "losing" it. I'm just afraid that when we get to Oregon we will have paid oodles of money to move scrap lumber, old shirts and ski passes from 40 years of skiing (don't even get me started on that....)
Mike also had about 100 skis that he is insisting on moving. He has removed the bindings and taped them in bundles of ten (this took him two hours). He tells me he's going to make furniture out of them since now that he's retired he'll have lots of time for projects. I'm not sure whose house he thinks his ski furniture is going in. He says you can also make fences out of skis. I'm not sure what neighborhood he thinks we're moving to.
All I know is that I'm looking forward to him arriving in Oregon and me flinging open the doors of the van and saying "You packed this????"
My husband keeps all scraps of wood in the innate fear that he will need a piece of wood for one of his many un-finished projects and he will not have it. We've only been in Granby six years but we have enough scrap wood to build a large, two-story home. I have asked him to "go through his woodpile" and get rid of wood. He came up with seven pieces that he figured he doesn't need to put in a U-Haul and drive 1,121 miles. I reminded him that I WILL NOT be here to help him load the truck. He then wandered out to the garage again, spent 45 minutes and found four more pieces that he could part with.
When I was in Oregon and he was here I burned all his wood. Really. It was a huge bonfire that almost caught the pump shed on fire (don't tell him that) but, I got rid of all his wood. When he returned to Oregon for a short visit in April, he needed to repair one of the horse stalls and almost divorced me over the fact that he had to buy a 2 x 4 ( $4.95). There were possums living in his woodpile. There was wood left from when we did our first remodeling on the house, seventeen years previous.
For about a year after we moved here he kept saying things like, "Where's that T-shirt I got when I ran in the Pear Blossom Run in 1973?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
"Where's that poster of the space shuttle that my college roommate gave me?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
"Where's those boots I got when I went to Austria in 1976?"
"I don't know, I think the movers lost it."
Those poor movers; if I had been foolish enough to show Mike where the forms were to claim lost items, they'd be shaking their heads, people would be fired and they'd wonder what kind of a person claims a raggedy old T-Shirt.
Unfortunately, Mike will be here in Granby by himself for a short time trying to move everything. I've already packed MY stuff, so I don't need to worry about the movers "losing" it. I'm just afraid that when we get to Oregon we will have paid oodles of money to move scrap lumber, old shirts and ski passes from 40 years of skiing (don't even get me started on that....)
Mike also had about 100 skis that he is insisting on moving. He has removed the bindings and taped them in bundles of ten (this took him two hours). He tells me he's going to make furniture out of them since now that he's retired he'll have lots of time for projects. I'm not sure whose house he thinks his ski furniture is going in. He says you can also make fences out of skis. I'm not sure what neighborhood he thinks we're moving to.
All I know is that I'm looking forward to him arriving in Oregon and me flinging open the doors of the van and saying "You packed this????"
Monday, August 1, 2011
On Being Old and Trying on Clothes
The good, no great thing about Grand County is that there is no shopping, unless you're looking for fishing rods, guns or ice chests for beer. But if you want to buy clothes, you have to drive East to Denver or West to Silverthorne and both of them are a day long field trip.
When you go East to Denver everyone in Grand County stops at the Colorado Mills, which is the first shopping center off of I-70. I have never been to Target in Denver without seeing someone from Grand County there, seriously. It's because for those of us who live in the mountains and are not used to cars, people, stop lights and Starbucks, we stop at the first place available, which is Colorado Mills. I'm sure that twenty years ago the planners of this mall had the foresight and understanding of human nature to know that people who live in the Rockies are afraid to go out of the Rockies, thus if we build a mall as close enough to the mountains so that THEY see them, they will come. Which is why I always see someone from Grand County at Target.
As you know, my shopping in Parker with my $25 Target gift card did not go so well...what kind of a mall doesn't have a Target? The kinds that I can't afford to shop at. So last weekend Ian and I went to Georgetown for the orthodontist then made a big circle back to Silverthorne and Target.
All I wanted was a pair of summery pajamas. I've still been wearing my polar bear flannel pajamas which are getting a little frayed around the edges since I often tuck them under my snow pants to go out and feed the horses in the winter.
I hate to try on clothes. Internet shopping was invented for a person such as myself. My only requirements for clothes are that they fit loose enough so that I can continue to eat too much. Many years ago my mother, who still is trying to make me into someone I'm not (isn't that a mother's job?) had my "colors done." What this entailed was money exchanging hands and a heavily made up woman held color slabs (OK, maybe slabs is too strong a word) up to my face to determine what colors looked best with my hair, eye and skin color. I am an Autumn. This means I can wear browns and oranges and some yellows - basically the colors that you see on dead leaves falling off trees. This is too hard to remember.
I am a big fan of "What Not to Wear." I know that if I got on that show and had a few simple rules, I could get my dream job, dream house and dream kids. But I don't think I dress as bad as some of those women, after all, I have given away my clothes I wore in high school, not so with many of the women who get on this show.
When I buy clothes on the Internet, I shop at one store - Sierra Trading Post. I love this site. The clothes are cheap and if they don't fit I can send them back, but rarely do. I keep telling myself I'm going to lose weight - which is something all women tell themselves all the time, and don't say "I don't," if you do, you're lying.
So here I am in Target looking for pajamas and my only rule, because it's the only one I can remember, is that I can't buy something for full price. I have to shop exclusively on the sale rack. Not only does this mean I can afford it, but it limits my choices. I hyperventilate when I have too many choices. You do not want to see me at Costco - it's scary.
So I finally find a pair in my size, on the sale rack and looking rather summery. Of course I don't try them on...who tries on pajamas? When I get them home and put them on (even though it's the middle of the day, I've been in some too-tight jeans and after eating an entire bag of cranberry chocolate trail mix on the drive home, they're really tight)and they not only make me look fat, they make me look old. They make me look like my mother or even my grandmother. At this point the cheerful colors merely look like some wallpaper that my grandmother had up in her kitchen. The one button in the front is poking me. The no-sleeves style shows that my arms are not the slender brown ones they used to be. And they come above my knees which is not the right length for me - I need full length, that way you don't see my varicose veins and the age spots, which I was really wishing were cancerous at my last checkup in the hopes they could be removed, unfortunately they are just signs of age.
So I wandered out into the living room where my very kind and sweet husband is watching "The Bourne Identity" for the twenty-seventh time and ask, "Do these make me look fat?"
"Of course not, they're cute."
Notice how he doesn't say I'm cute, he says the pajamas are cute...and anyways, do I want to be cute? I'm 52 - I want to be confident and sexy even in grandmotherly pajamas.
"Do they make me look old?"
"You're not old."
"I'm 52."
"That's not old."
"Well of course not to you, you're 56."
"You're not old and you're not fat. You're perfect."
His eyes haven't left Matt Damon jumping from train to train, holding on to the hand of a thin, blond- haired, size 4 actress whom I hope has to throw up after every meal to look like that.
I don't want to be 52 and trying on ugly pajamas in Target. I want to be the actress holding the hand of Matt Damon and not have to throw up. I want to be thirty or maybe twenty five again and this time I promise I'll appreciate that I can eat half a Canadian pizza with tomatoes or two Dove bars in a row and not even worry about unbuckling my jeans so I can sit. I want to be eighteen and trying on size 6 bikinis and not even looking in the mirror to see how it makes my butt look. I want to be comfortable in jeans, not sweats and I don't want to see other women and say "Well, at least I look better then her...."
Oh well, I think I'm probably doomed to a life of Target or online shopping and trying to be comfortable with my age and the aches and pains I have from that age and secretly hope that the girl holding Matt Damon's hand is lonely and miserable and sees me and wishes she could have a great husband and two pretty good kids.
When you go East to Denver everyone in Grand County stops at the Colorado Mills, which is the first shopping center off of I-70. I have never been to Target in Denver without seeing someone from Grand County there, seriously. It's because for those of us who live in the mountains and are not used to cars, people, stop lights and Starbucks, we stop at the first place available, which is Colorado Mills. I'm sure that twenty years ago the planners of this mall had the foresight and understanding of human nature to know that people who live in the Rockies are afraid to go out of the Rockies, thus if we build a mall as close enough to the mountains so that THEY see them, they will come. Which is why I always see someone from Grand County at Target.
As you know, my shopping in Parker with my $25 Target gift card did not go so well...what kind of a mall doesn't have a Target? The kinds that I can't afford to shop at. So last weekend Ian and I went to Georgetown for the orthodontist then made a big circle back to Silverthorne and Target.
All I wanted was a pair of summery pajamas. I've still been wearing my polar bear flannel pajamas which are getting a little frayed around the edges since I often tuck them under my snow pants to go out and feed the horses in the winter.
I hate to try on clothes. Internet shopping was invented for a person such as myself. My only requirements for clothes are that they fit loose enough so that I can continue to eat too much. Many years ago my mother, who still is trying to make me into someone I'm not (isn't that a mother's job?) had my "colors done." What this entailed was money exchanging hands and a heavily made up woman held color slabs (OK, maybe slabs is too strong a word) up to my face to determine what colors looked best with my hair, eye and skin color. I am an Autumn. This means I can wear browns and oranges and some yellows - basically the colors that you see on dead leaves falling off trees. This is too hard to remember.
I am a big fan of "What Not to Wear." I know that if I got on that show and had a few simple rules, I could get my dream job, dream house and dream kids. But I don't think I dress as bad as some of those women, after all, I have given away my clothes I wore in high school, not so with many of the women who get on this show.
When I buy clothes on the Internet, I shop at one store - Sierra Trading Post. I love this site. The clothes are cheap and if they don't fit I can send them back, but rarely do. I keep telling myself I'm going to lose weight - which is something all women tell themselves all the time, and don't say "I don't," if you do, you're lying.
So here I am in Target looking for pajamas and my only rule, because it's the only one I can remember, is that I can't buy something for full price. I have to shop exclusively on the sale rack. Not only does this mean I can afford it, but it limits my choices. I hyperventilate when I have too many choices. You do not want to see me at Costco - it's scary.
So I finally find a pair in my size, on the sale rack and looking rather summery. Of course I don't try them on...who tries on pajamas? When I get them home and put them on (even though it's the middle of the day, I've been in some too-tight jeans and after eating an entire bag of cranberry chocolate trail mix on the drive home, they're really tight)and they not only make me look fat, they make me look old. They make me look like my mother or even my grandmother. At this point the cheerful colors merely look like some wallpaper that my grandmother had up in her kitchen. The one button in the front is poking me. The no-sleeves style shows that my arms are not the slender brown ones they used to be. And they come above my knees which is not the right length for me - I need full length, that way you don't see my varicose veins and the age spots, which I was really wishing were cancerous at my last checkup in the hopes they could be removed, unfortunately they are just signs of age.
So I wandered out into the living room where my very kind and sweet husband is watching "The Bourne Identity" for the twenty-seventh time and ask, "Do these make me look fat?"
"Of course not, they're cute."
Notice how he doesn't say I'm cute, he says the pajamas are cute...and anyways, do I want to be cute? I'm 52 - I want to be confident and sexy even in grandmotherly pajamas.
"Do they make me look old?"
"You're not old."
"I'm 52."
"That's not old."
"Well of course not to you, you're 56."
"You're not old and you're not fat. You're perfect."
His eyes haven't left Matt Damon jumping from train to train, holding on to the hand of a thin, blond- haired, size 4 actress whom I hope has to throw up after every meal to look like that.
I don't want to be 52 and trying on ugly pajamas in Target. I want to be the actress holding the hand of Matt Damon and not have to throw up. I want to be thirty or maybe twenty five again and this time I promise I'll appreciate that I can eat half a Canadian pizza with tomatoes or two Dove bars in a row and not even worry about unbuckling my jeans so I can sit. I want to be eighteen and trying on size 6 bikinis and not even looking in the mirror to see how it makes my butt look. I want to be comfortable in jeans, not sweats and I don't want to see other women and say "Well, at least I look better then her...."
Oh well, I think I'm probably doomed to a life of Target or online shopping and trying to be comfortable with my age and the aches and pains I have from that age and secretly hope that the girl holding Matt Damon's hand is lonely and miserable and sees me and wishes she could have a great husband and two pretty good kids.
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