The First Journey...part 2

Shortly after orientation, my trainer arrives.

At this point, after orientation, you've heard tons of horror stories about trainers.  All you can do is hope beyond hope that the person you're matched with to 'train' you is someone who will be an effective teacher, a nice person, and someone you can have a good time with.

Well....that wasn't the case for me.

My trainer was an Italian man from Jersey.  This in and of itself isn't a bad thing.  The bad thing was that every ugly stereotype you could ever think of, this guy had.  He kind of resembled Danny DeVito in the worst possible ways (think of his role in Batman as the Penguin).  There were traits about him that made my abhorrence worse.  Perhaps the fact that he never seemed to actually close, zip, and button his pants was a major contributing factor.  I think that disgust also set in when I first learned that when he ate, he made noises.  Not....regular smacking or the occasional slurping, but he had this strange, *ghurnn*, *grunt*, *moan* selection of noises that he made.  Very, very disturbing.  There was more than one occasion that I opened the sleeper bunk, and seeing this man with his pants open and his hand down in them, turned away and suddenly found something else I needed to do other than see that.

I probably could have overcome all the personal hygiene and disgusting little quirks, but as a teacher, he was lacking too.  In fact, whatever summation I received was pretty much a blatant lie.  It passed me, but it was still a lie.  Whereas a lot of the book keeping I kind of know in theory, this person actually leased a truck from the company, so the habits and responsibilities are similar, but different in a lot of ways.  As cheated as I felt, I was more than happy to agree that I'd had a great time, a wonderful experience, and that things went swimmingly.

I mean really, would you want to be trapped for longer on a truck with someone like that?  I could go on about the bad habits, but really, the guy, bless his pointed little head, probably had a good heart.  He was at least kind enough to make sure that I showered as close to every day as possible (which, if you know anything about truck driving, you will get it).  He was the owner-operator, he's the one that had the showers on his membership cards, and ultimately, he's the one who decided whether or not I paid 10-13 a night for a shower.  There were a couple of instances where I paid out of pocket because we were at a stop that did not have 'team shower' or points to use or anything, to which he scoffed.  But I didn't care.  I wanted to be clean, damnit.

There were a LOT of random experiences and some of the most amazing scenery I've ever seen before.  

For instance, along the lines of experience, interstate highway construction is perpetual.  Indiana and Illinois in particular.  Which means long lines of traffic.  This isn't so bad, but it can be if you have a CB radio.

So for some truckers, there's a vast gulf of boredom which overwhelms them.  Their creative outlet is the CD radio.  Much like trolling on the internet, these guys make high school look pristine.  I never risked speaking on the CB, but I have to say that it was as amusing as listening to the stupidity in high school too.

One of the more bizarre moments was that someone called me out later at a truck stop.

Apparently in Indiana, during construction stretches, they shut down at least one lane.  During this time, the sign had said the Right Lane was Closed.  This is fine, but as we were watching the traffic, three school buses and a Swift truck jumped left.  Seeing this as being unusual, I moved our truck to the left to.  The response over the CB might have made your hair curl.  People began talking mad shit about the move.

I roll my eyes and eventually still have to get back over right.  The reasoning was that further up the line, a man had hit one of those patches with the sign BUMP....and bucked his boat right off of the boat trailer attached to the back of his truck.  We inched along for about two and a half hours, my leg getting sore from holding in the clutch.  At some point, the guy in the Swift truck explained exactly why I had jumped over - he did the same thing after seeing the buses, thinking that something had happened and the buses were trying to go around.  Later on, kindly, the Swift truck let me back over to the right lane (under much protest) and we kept inching our way along.

At the next truck stop, we pulled in to stretch our legs, take a break and get our things together.  As I walked by the case that held all the expensive electronics, the man in the Swift truck recognized me.

He was sympathetic, talked to me for a bit, asking about me.  I'm not a person that just randomly talks to strangers, although they seem to want to do that to me.

I came to realize this, later on, that he wouldn't be the first person to just stop me.  Trucking is a lonely lifestyle, even if you have a running partner.  The best you can hope for is someone to get along with, but really, ideally, you find a good friend that doesn't mind spending so much time with you.

It happened in various places, really.  Men, the majority of what makes up the trucking industry, would stop me and ask me something, or they would strike up conversations that would last quite some time.  Most of these conversations, I spent listening with the occasional word of agreement.  I don't think that any of them really inquired about me as opposed to sharing their thoughts, feelings, and wisdom (some would discover I was new to the gig).  For the most part, I think I'm a decent listener, and all of these people spoke kindly and respectfully.

One man, an older man (maybe old enough to be my grandfather), did have a habit of patting me on the shoulder.  Leaning on me a little.  Brushing against me.

Generally, some people might freak out about that.  Me specifically, because I'm not a touch-feely person. But I realize that along with the isolation from people, that also includes the touch of people.  I didn't, however, realize it until I met up with a friend of mine in Utah.

He came into a truck stop to have dinner with me.  I gave him a great big hug, kissed him on the cheek, and held his hand.  I don't normally hold hands with friends.  Really.  In fact, I don't even really touch people much.  But here I was, and just the contact of someone who cared about me was a soothing balm to the heart - I'd been out from home for just at three weeks, and I couldn't believe how hard it had been.  How unwittingly I'd missed something as simple as a hug (it really makes me sympathetic of soldiers...).

"Hell, if it made you feel better, I would have let you sit in my lap!" my Marine friend said to me later on the phone, laughing.

The five weeks away from home were hellish.  There's more to tell, but probably another day.

The First Journey....part 1

Traveler's Prayer 

May the road rise beneath your wheels
May the miles reel merrily away
May the nights and days dance by
So that you come home the sooner to family and friends
So that you love the road for bringing you home
So that your smiling face is seen again.

- Meical AbAwen

I know, I know.  I should have been posting.  The horrible part is the first time I hit the road, I forgot my charger for my laptop.  I suppose I could have done all this from my phone, but really, it's a pain in the ass to not be able to type.

This has been quite an adventure.  There's a lot of stuff that I think I could say here.

No epic adventure is static.  There must be a level of difficulty for progression, a level of movement for good storytelling, and other elements to draw people in.  I hope to be a good storyteller for you, gentle reader.  

For those that do not have my personal Facebook, they will now understand that for the beautiful sights that I have seen and all the pictures I have posted, that most people do not know the negative side of the stuff that happened to me.  So I'll try to relay the story.

My adventure started at the Greyhound in downtown Houston.  As I made my way through the terminal, I looked back to see my two beautiful children, my husband, and one of my most cherished friends waving goodbye to me.  It was heart-wrenching, that in the building full of strangers, I cannot remember any details of faces, places, or people.  Just my tribe and their melancholy smiles waving me on.  Everything else is a wash of vague color.

12 hours on a bus to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.  That trip was quiet, with an occasional picture dotting the scene.  Mainly, I listened to the music my friend had put on my phone.  Sitting out the ride wasn't important - it was when I got there that the adventure really started getting underway.

The bus arrived a little late.  It was past midnight before I departed the bus, gathering the large bags that I was told to pack in detail.  I don't know if you've ever experienced the Oklahoma bus stop, but at night, it can be a rather scary place for someone who's lived a sheltered life.  And...as much stuff as I have done, sometimes when places seem low-income or badly in disrepair, it can make me nervous.

So here I was, in the middle of some place I had never been, limited on my funds, and utterly without anyone I knew for miles.  I tried to follow the instructions on the paper.  It said that after 9 (it was well after, obviously), I should call a cab and go to a specific hotel, the company would reimburse the fare.

I called a cab, the one that was suggested, and asked to be taken to the hotel.  The taxi driver assured me he would be there very soon, he was close by.  With that done, I lugged my two large duffle bags (one had wheels, thankfully) outside to sit on a bench and wait.

A number of people were milling about outside.  Strange-looking people do not frighten me, having been employed as a piercer and tattoo artist a while ago.  It is the elements which surround those people can, however, cast very negative light and leave the mind to wander about all that can go wrong.  At the waystation in Dallas, one bus hopper came in crying that she had gotten mugged.  So...you can imagine that my tension was ratcheted up taught.

As I sat on a bench outside, waiting for the taxi, an older black man came up and sat down next to me.  I would assume he is homeless, and even in that assumption, I didn't bother to find facts.  The man was salt and peppered, his dark chocolate skin with lines etched like time wearing through canyons.  Weathered, you could say - beautifully so, with years of laughter etched into the corners of his mouth and his eyes.  He asked for change, and I gave him the change I had on me, plus a bag mostly full of butterscotch candies.  He delighted in the candies, saying they were his favorite, and he sat with me for a time as I listened quietly to his monologue.  This would be a recurrent theme for the past six weeks.

As my taxi came, I thanked the man for his company, patted him on the shoulder, scooped up my things and left.

The taxi man was pleasant as well.  He was perhaps a little older than me, and I would not exactly place him as mexican, more latino.  He was very calm, very soft-spoken and was kind enough to help me with my baggage.  The trip was short, he deposited me in front of a seedy-looking hotel, and left.

I went to the front glass doors of the hotel's lobby, which was locked.  There were a few straggles outside as well here, and I hesitated to be exposed to the night and the things which moved in the night.

A gentleman with a turban unlocked the door and let me in.

I introduced myself, asked about a voucher from my company, and the man gave me a bored look.  "We haven't had the contract for that company for six months," he replied.  

"Are you kidding me?"  I was incredulous.  Here I was, following my directions.

"Nope.  Try the Red Roof Inn.  I believe they have it now."

Shit.

During this short exchange, since the door had been open, a younger guy in a wife beater walked in.  Overhearing our exchange, he turned to me and said, "Hey...I'm headed that way anyway.  I could give you a lift and you wouldn't have to pay a taxi."

Every nerve in my body thrummed 'Danger'.  The guy in the turban eyeballed me.

Smiling brightly, I said, "Thank you so much, but really, I need to take a taxi - I have to keep receipts because my company will reimburse me."  Before he could protest, I whipped out my phone and called the taxi back, explaining what happened.  

He paused on the phone.  "Stay inside," he said very seriously. "That's not a great hotel and I have another fare at the moment, but I'll be right back to get you."

So, I got to call my cherished friend Silver, who'd seen me off at the bus station.  As an insomniac, he was kind of the perfect person to talk to (although, I have to admit, there was probably more whining than anything else that night).

The taxi comes up, I get off the phone, hop into the taxi, and explain about the Red Roof.  It is only two long city blocks away.  Maybe.  The cabby takes me there and drops me off, tells me there's no charge.  Totally awesome.  With great relief, I go into the hotel and explain about me, the company, my voucher for the stay.  The woman behind the desk makes several phone calls.  The time is now pushing 1:30 a.m.

There is no voucher for me.  At this point, I'm about to get total meltdown.

I call the cabby again, then call up Silver.

Silver, amazing wordsmith, rogue and wizard (and I say that with much affection, those words actually having meanings which are beyond the words themselves, but summed up in my own slang language, so to speak), was kind enough to speak with me, keep me calm, and even make suggestions to get me through the night.  Again, in my head, all the dangers kept playing out and the panic, sheer panic, of being stranded in a town with little money, no one I know, hundreds of miles from home was bubbling beneath the surface.  And here was Silver, smoothing the waters, keeping me calm.

(Now, some of you might wonder why I wouldn't call my husband, the mighty Hunter, but being that he actually sleeps and requires eight hours a night to function properly, this wasn't the time and place in my mind.)

The cab driver shows up again and takes me to a third hotel.  He firmly insists that he's waiting until I find my voucher at the front desk this time, the Ramada, and the desk clerk does.  I go outside, tip the cabby 10 bucks because he hasn't charged me for the last two rides, reassure him I'm okay, and he leaves.  When I get back to the front desk, the man tells me that I have a roommate and gives me a key.

Shit.  Again.

"You mean to tell me," I start, "that it's almost 2:00 in the morning, and I have to wake someone up to get ready to sleep, to be up again at 6?"

Yeah, kinda pissed off at that.  Pissed off they couldn't just spring for another room, that someone's going to be mad that they're woken up, and I had to try to get ready for bed and get ready to wake up, cutting someone else's sleep short.

And so I go upstairs, hauling all my shit, and start knocking on the door to the room I was assigned.  Tried the key card I was given.  It didn't work.

Now....I can knock like a cop.  But I already had great reservations about waking someone up, so I knocked politely.  About three times.  I left my stuff in the stairwell, went downstairs and told the clerk that the key wasn't working and the person wasn't waking up to the knock.

The man comes upstairs, knocks some more, then leaves again.  At this point, standing outside the door, I hear shuffling.  Someone is awake behind the door.  I was frustrated beyond belief.  The clerk returns, giving me a second set of keys, and puts me up in a room by myself.  I am so exhausted, it doesn't take too long to fall asleep.

During the week I spent in orientation, I got to know the person who wouldn't open the door.  Being a trucker driver for another company on her own, she explained that her hesitation was due to the fact that could not see through the peephole, and she would not open doors for anyone, or on her truck for that matter, in the late hours of the night.  I couldn't begrudge her the thoughts on safety, and we hit it off splendidly.  After all that we did, the small tests and training, we were put up in the second place, the Red Roof Inn, to await our trainer drivers.  This place, of course, was not as nice as the first one.  But it was okay, we were on our way.

I did not have to wait long for my trainer to appear.  But really....that will be in another part of the story.

Ticket to Ride...

So....it took me an extra week to get my CDL.  

I'm both thrilled and horrified with the whole fiasco.  And fiasco is an appropriate word for it.  The first two tests I failed twice, and the last three, I failed two of them once.  On the actual, where you're driving with the person from the DMV, I failed once on parallel parking.

I'm sure you're probably thinking, "Gee, this is a crappy driver/student.  Why would they let someone who's failed several times onto the road?"

Basically, the guy said that if he didn't believe that I would be a safe driver, he wouldn't have given me the CDL.  The second time I'd taken it, he took me into a neighborhood with a posted sign that said NO THRU TRUCKS, made me do a U-turn (against the company's policy and the school doesn't teach it), then he tried to get me to make a right turn on red (against policy of the school I was attending).  I was so nervous, well, button up, I killed the truck Three. Separate. Times.  That in and of itself should have failed me.  But...as I explained to him afterwards, I know exactly where I eff'ed up and why.

As for the tests, well....as a kid, when I wanted to take shop because it 'sounded like a good idea', my Dad told me no.  His explanation?  It was a boys' class.  Little girls didn't take shop class in school.  Bless his heart. (My older daughter is poised to take engineering next year.  One of very few girls doing it too.)  And without a working knowledge of trucks, like most little boys grow up with, I was definitely at a disadvantage.  Left-handed, right-brained, and lacking a basic working knowledge, it really took me a lot to learn so much in such a short time.

The classes were good.  The instructor was good.  But what he taught me in classes, pertinent to driving, really had nothing to do with the tests that I had to pass, which was basically memorizing the book from the DMV.  (And I still have that book, because I have to get my HAZMAT at some point in the next two months).

Now that everything is said and done, I got my paper receipt for my CDL on Wednesday.  They sent me a bus ticket confirmation on Thursday and I leave for the terminal in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma on Sunday.

So this blog hits the road.  Hopefully with pictures.

failure

I was accused once of never surrounding myself with people who push my boundaries.  I don't think that's true, or I wouldn't be doing what I do.

But right now, I'm kicking myself. 

I'm trying to get my CDL, and there's a LOT involved.  At least, it's a lot for me.  A creative mind that really hasn't the first clue how engines work, trying to learn about trucks, big trucks, their rules, regulations, and test in three days.

First three I knew, the next five I hadn't even seen before.  And really, it was all downhill from there.  So I told the lady I'd be back tomorrow.

I sat in my car and let a few tears slide.  I couldn't help it.  I was so mad.  And upset.  And frustrated.

I think that most people's minds are like this:

And really, my mind is more like this:

In fact, I would have to say that where people's devils usually try to talk them into doing something they know is wrong, mine doesn't worry about that petty shit.  Oh, no.  Mine waits for me to screw something up....then gives the good me a knee check, cracks it over the head with a baseball bat, drags it down an alleyway and proceeds to beat it to a bloody pulp, then considers give it a curb-check.

So failure, especially when it's something that I'm really trying at, is almost crippling.  

But this doesn't mean I'm quitting.  It just means that I'm really 'effin determined now.  And as long as I they'll let me, I'll keep trying.  But man...it really does suck.  A lot.

Class is in Session

You know I can't generally sleep. So at 4:30, I hid under the covers for another hour, then finally got up to go get ready for school.  Class begins at 7:00.  After filling out various forms and paperwork, we get sent down to pee in a cup and hop on one foot....and all the other things that are sneakily labeled as a 'physical'. 

I was a little disheartened, because when I got to the clinic, they told me me total wait just to be seen was 2 1/2 hours. I think they wanted to give themselves space, but I think I might have been there shy of an hour. 

Our instructor, a laid back and jovial guy, told us he'd see us at 1. So....now that we are back,  I think the quirky little man will still make us wait until 1. 

Fun, fun. 

But on an up note, I passed my physical, I know I am clean for drugs and alcohol, and now I just gotta get it in my mind that I wont be intimidated by such a large piece of machinery.

Pedro ain't here, man....

"Pedro doesn't live here.  In fact, he hasn't lived here in the three years you've been coming and knocking on the door and asking for him.  I should know.  I've lived here for six [years]."

As a guest, I don't think that it's really my place to be opening the door of someone's home to total strangers, so to me the unfortunate task of bothering my gracious hosts as they try to lay down and sleep to answer the weird knock on the door.

They should really just be grateful that I didn't wake them up at 2:00 yesterday morning when the first few knocks on the door filtered in.

In fact, after geetting the bejeezus scared out of me, I lay in the darkness, debating.  My first thought was, "Where in the hell is the nearest sword?" In this particular household, it is not something which is out of the way to ask.  In fact, I'm more apt to lay my hands on a nice bastard sword or even a claymore before I can get to a 9mm. As my heart thudded in my chest in the cover of night, I rationalized two things.  If it were an emergency, like a fire, the firefighters would just kick the door in.  I wouldn't have to worry about it.  As long as they were streaks of yellow, I wouldn't have to bring the 'driver stick' across their skulls in a hurry (which, by the way, is a wonderful walking stick gifted to me by a dear friend who used to be a trucker...she carried this cane to protect herself when she was over the road.  It is magnificently topped with a skeletal hand which clutches a red glass orb).  If they were dressed for mischief, the 'driver-be-good-stick' was the handiest thing I had.

If it was someone who was supposed to be able to enter, they'd have a key, nullifying the necessity of having to even knock in the first place.  

Quietly, the knocking went away.

But as you can see, it didn't happen this evening and I get to see my friends wandering around in fluffy white bath robes.

(Maybe I should just get them some pink fuzzy slippers to match.)

The story goes that there is a woman who gets to the point of tying one on (whether it is drugs or just alcohol is unknown) and the woman has come up at all hours of the night, knocked on the door, and even made circles around the house, screaming up for 'Pedro' to come down.  This has happened on and off for the past three years.

I have a lot of questions for this insane woman.  Firstly, how can you get so shitty-faced-messed-up as to forget that someone hasn't lived in a place for years?  It has got to be drugs, because even at my worst alcohol binges, I might have all the attention span of a regal blue tang (Dory!), but I have faith that I would remember someone moved away over three years ago.

Really, I wish she would have been all crazy and shit.  It's been a while since I've gotten to call the cops on someone for displaying their ass in public.

For now, as long as the storyline stops there, we'll be doing good. 

The Ugly World of Childhood Pageantry

Several months ago, my daughter received a letter from the NAM program, commonly known as National American Miss.

In the beginning, we thought this was a good opportunity for her.  The idea of public speaking, poise, and the fact that this pageant did not do swimsuit competitions totally won points for me.  She went in, did an interview, and then paid something of the neighborhood of $50 for a photoshoot.  Okay.  Whatever.  

So we get a letter in the mail, saying that she'd been chosen for a state finalist.  That's cool.  However....there was a workshop she was required to attend which was $260 or something like that.  But she really, really, really, wanted to attend, so her father took her (because at the time, I was working weekends).  

We receive a LOT of information.  The fact the children need to find sponsors to defer the cost, all the incidental expenses that add up, and other requirements.

She does another workshop, same tune of money, and now...now I start sweating it.

But a friend loans us a dress, we shell out money, and make it through the pageant.  My daughter doesn't place, but she learned a lot of things.  In fact, she learned so much, she doesn't ever want to do a pageant again.

I don't blame her.

I think, all together, just in fees, we shelled out about $1000.  I'm grateful we didn't have to buy a dress, a wonderful friend of mine loaned us one, but those dresses can start at $30 and just go up.  Ridiculously up.  And my daughter found out later on, the concept of 'nickel and diming' someone to death.  Every extra competition was anywhere between $50-$150, with the possibility of winning a trophy.  The contests were everything from academic (you had to get people to write you letters of recommendations and have copies of your report cards) to photogenic (you could pay a professional to make you some pretty pictures) to spokesmodel (where you paid to read cue cards and things).  Merchandising - you get that kind of idea; they had shirts, sweatshirts, make-up boxes, teddy bears, and all sorts of sparkly jewelry which makes little girls squee in delight.

And a few days before, we scoured malls and stores to find shoes to match her two dresses (one formal, borrowed, and the other business-like, $60 which was used for an 'interview' process they did).  We found one pair at a place called the Buffalo Exchange, which is an excellent used clothing store to get trendy stuff at (they were chunky black heels, six-inches plus a platform base, the heel was squared off and we got them for $16.50....my daughter had huge feet, so this place would be a treasure trove for drag queens), a pair of heels for the shiny, steampunk-esque formal dress ($30), and a secondary pair of black heels she was more comfortable interviewing in ($20).  Let's not count all the food, the parking fees the hotel that hosted it charged (which was $16.00 a day, which they graciously reduced to $2.00....the Royal Sonesta was nice looking, but I was rather pissed they wanted to charge $5.00 for a personal pizza that was stone cold and $3.00 for a can of soda on their cash-only buffets set up for the event...), or even the other weird incidentals.

And even after all that expenditure, they wanted you to pay for different video/picture packages, starting at (surprise, surprise) $50 and going up significantly.  Sorry, I have a hard time paying $110 for all the video of my daughter, particularly when the MC mispronounces her name.  Even the final show had 'tickets' which should have been sold, at $15 a piece.  We had to buy three just to watch the show, and although she sold 2 more to her friend, since it was on a Monday Night, pretty much no one could attend but us.  It sucked, but the fact her little family was there to support her, I think, was enough.

I do have to interject here, I think that she made quite an impression.  She got up and, in her introduction, let everyone know she wanted to 'serve her country' and 'join the United States Marine Corps'.  She had a few total strangers come over and actually congratulate her and tell her they were proud of her.

SO...even with a lot of grumbling to myself and trying to gently express the fact that this was a business, regardless of the fact they're trying to sell it to little girls, I was rather put out.  I tried not to be too much Debbie Downer to my daughter, but I think that after seeing all the prices, she kind of got the point.  Every extra she wanted started at $50 and by the time we'd gotten to her actually having to go through the motions of doing the pageant requirements, I think she was now finishing as gracefully as she could, but really not into it anymore.  By the time we had the conversation about the event, after it was over, she said about the second workshop, she decided she didn't want to have to do it anymore.  But she didn't want to quit, because she'd known we had spent a whole lot of money on it.

I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel in frustration.

The reason being is that two days before school let out, we got a letter for Officer Training Camp for her JROTC and the costs required for it.  It was everything I could do to keep from biting her head off at that point.  Very quietly, through gritted teeth, I told her that all the money we wasted on the pageant could have been used to pay for the JROTC camp.

But...you know.  Kid logic.

I wasn't hard on her about it, I don't think.  But my kids are more aware of the realities of living in the 'burbs.  We don't really care about 'keeping up with the Joneses', never really have.  But we do try to make sure our kids get to do everything they want to do, whatever they want to do.  Most of our money goes to our kids.

Which, although this post was about one of my minions getting to have her eyes open for the pageantry world, I've been kicking around the idea of trying to get my CDL.  At the very least, the kids would have more money to do the things they want, and I would get to see the states, which I've never done.

So wish us luck.  The summer is now upon us, and in the stifling, humid heat of Houston, we'll have to find other things to do.

Trashed

So this morning, we're up and about early because my brother's sold his house to move out of the country.  This means that they had to be on a plane Sunday morning and there was just those few nagging things that had been left to the last minute.  Some of my duties, being in the Kingdom of Suburbia, is making sure I'm a good sibling, being as the only one I have left of blood is half-blooded, and just left the country for at least the next few years.

So, other than random looting of what's left behind (Arrgh!), there's cleaning to be had, chucking to be had, and with these plans underway, it's time to stop for breakfast.  

We go down to Ye Olde Shipley's (If you're from Houston, it's Shipley's.  Sure, there's a few Dunkin' Doughnuts, and the occasional Krispy Kreme, but mainly...Shipley's is our mainstay....if you're fancified and posh, you'll be surpassing most of the confections for Starbucks, Einstein Bros. Bagels, or the Kolache Factory...if you don't know what a Kolache is, you're not from Texas....it's like a pig-in-a-blanket on steriods...because everything's bigger in Texas...) and get our little Soul in line, waiting patiently for our turn so I can get something for breakfast.  Everything's going well until Mom sees some guy pop out of the dumpster behind the place, hop on his bike and speed away with a box.

"What is that man doing?" she asks.

"Mom, the guy is 'dumpster diving'.  Being the fact that he's chewing, he might have gotten himself some doughnuts for breakfast.  Augh...look at the flies."  (Because maggots gross me out, and I can't imagine eating like that....I'm not saying it's beneath me, but it's just something that I associate as gross - like bugs.)

"He's looking for something to eat?" mom asks, bewildered.

"Well, sometimes people look for things they think they can sell or keep.  One man's trash is another man's treasure."

My mother is Asian.  She's worked hard all her life, and she can't read or write.  There have been many a time when my mother walked blocks at a time, just to get to work, in the rain and the cold.  She has worked in the food service industry for ever, working for restaurants in the back, working for hotel restaurants and    she has recently retired from working at a school cafeteria after 24 years.  She came to America almost 40 years ago, and there's still a lot of America that she's never really seen.  Apparently, dumpster diving was one of those things.  

At this point, a man comes out the back, carrying what appears to be empty flour/mix bags, a box, and other discardables.  My mother beings to smack me on the shoulder (it's a mom thing), saying, "Hey, tell him not to throw that stuff on top of the guy."

I kind of stiffen at this request.  "Mom, I can't."

"Yes, you can!"

"No, mom, I really can't.  Dumpster diving is illegal.  If I tell that guy he's about to throw stuff on top of another guy, he'll yell at him.  And he'll call the cops.  And that guy might go to jail, just because he was hungry enough to get into a garbage can."

"Why is it illegal?"

"Because people want to be paid for everything.  Even the food they throw away.  They'd rather throw it away than give it to poor people, because they can't make money off of giving it to the poor.  So I can't yell at him, because the poor guy might go to jail."

"But...that looks heavy.  He's going to hit the guy in the dumpster for sure."

"Mom, why don't you think that guy hasn't popped out of the dumpster to yell at him for throwing stuff on top of him?  He knows it's illegal too, so he just keeps quiet and hopes that someone will throw something in on top of him worth something good."

At this point, my mother beings to cry.  (Oh, crap.)

She begins by saying, "I came to this country with nothing.  Men threw me away like trash.  Except for my last husband.  I was really lucky to have him.  I am lucky to have a roof over my head, and food in my fridge."  At which point, she beings to pray, because she's thankful.

I can respect that, although I'm not really religious like that.  But it makes me mad, that corporations rather just chuck food they don't think is sell-worthy rather than give it away (some places used to do that when I was younger...but more and more, they say they won't because they're concerned someone else might sell their old stuff to people that need it.....hogwash, but there you are).  All this damn food - wasted instead of feeding hungry people.

a beautiful lamp

I've got two events coming up, so I'm working on building inventory.  I took my mother down to Harwin Drive with me, which is always kind of fun when you have time.  I didn't really have time, I just had to make it.

I was looking for items to add to my inventory when I decided that we needed to stop at a 'Novelty Shop Wholesale'.  Which was kind of cool.  Lighters, cigarette cases, knives and the like.  

My mother wanders up while I'm looking at some beautiful hand blown glass pieces and says excitedly, "I love the lamps!  I love the color of the lamps!  Why don't they turn on the lamps?"

Please, let me insert the *headdesk* right there.

My mother is from the eastern parts of Asia (another Asian chewed me out once, "We're not oriental....oriental is a food...."), so I figured that she would recognize a hooka.  So...of course, I'm like, "Mom....it's a hooka."

"What?"  Confused look creeps across her face.

All I can do is laugh.  (Have I mentioned that the world fascinates me?  Amuses me?)

So I try to whisper really quietly, "Mom....you smoke pot out of those things..."

She starts laughing too.  I'm very quietly trying to shush her while we're giggling and the little Indian guys are just kind of ignoring us.  "Man....I need to pick one of those up for a friend's birthday...."

The harder you try to repress your mirth, the more out of control it starts to get, so we decided to leave then.  The minimum purchase of $150 prevented her from getting one for her friend, but always a team player and willing to take one for the team, I told her I'd buy enough to make that $150 minimum and let her get a beautiful bong if she wanted it.

I think she was almost tempted. Heh.

I do have to say that some of the creations were amazing, particularly the hand-blown glass.  Everything from multi-chambered water pipes to pinch hitters.  They were cool.

But it makes me wonder....do I have to have a license in Texas to carry those kinds of things or can I carry paraphernalia without having licensing for tobacco?  Curiouser and curiouser. 

Estate Sale

My brother and his wife have decided that they're going to open a bed and breakfast somewhere in the jungles of southeast Asia.  Well and spiffy, and they decided to ask me to help them host an estate sale.  No stranger to the retail game, I thought I could do this and haggle effectively enough to get them at least a bit of change for their global-collection-life purchases.  But as the weekend looms close, I am getting a bit nervous.

You see, the original witch I'd asked to help me in the matter fell off my broom and twisted her ankle so hard that she's going to be doing a keen verision of a tri-pod for the next eight weeks.

Yeah, that's right.  You read it correctly.  The witch fell off my broom.

And I meant that in the most literal sense of the phrase.

The blue witch was helping me sand and mud the walls in the shop (which are looking fabulous, by the way, because of all the painting I've been doing).  We took a much-needed break, and to celebrate, she grabbed my broom, whooped and hollered and ran out the front door....tripping on the driveway in such a way as to get a bad effin' sprain on an ankle.

The crappy part is that she lives on the second story of an apartment, and short of instantaneous teleportation, I'll probably not get her help this weekend.  (I mean, she's a wonderful person and when she helps, it's whole-heartedly...not like some jackasses who will say, "Sure, I'll help..." and instead think it's more important to go out on a date instead of helping your dear friends move a house full of furniture...but I digress...that's me being catty...)  So....kind of at a loss as to what exactly I'm going to do. 

But there's going to be stuff for sale, which is always good.  It just breaks my heart to see all the bric-a-brac from all these other countries being scattered to the winds.

they sky in the shop (you read it right...not the shop in the sky...that's ridiculous...)

At one point, I'd really like to go back to college (I know, I know....minus college algebra...I'm left-handed, which means I'm in my right mind - there is NO REASON that there should be letters in math...Just my personal opinion), but right now, I'm starting my own business venture.

I'm kind of scared, because running a business and owning one is very, very different.  I've worked as an assistant manager for a big-box kind of place, and dealing with things like personnel, scheduling, HAZMAT (and to digress a moment, ladies...if you wear make-up, do you realize that if you return it, that some of that crap has to be processed as hazardous chemicals for disposal?  And you're putting that sh!t on your face!), fundraisers, morale boosters, hiring, firing, with training on everything in between.  It's not easy.  But owning your own business is a different kind of crazy, I'll tell you.  Permits, insurance, licenses, advertising, promoting...there's a whole slew of things that you didn't do with a business that's already established that you have to do to establish a business.  No wonder small businesses have a hard time of it!  

But at the moment, the look of the business is  being formulated.  I'm kinda artsy, kinda spiritual.  So to me, I really have to put some heart and soul into it.  And it hasn't been without it's weirdness.

At first, I was gonna put spellwork in the walls (that's the kind of things witches do sometimes, so if you buy a house that's old, and you find things like bottles behind the sheetrock, or feathers tied to the rafters in the attic, don't freak out and automatically assume devil-worship or evil bull....we make things that protect and things that bless...), but I thought that it would freak out the handyman that was doing the job (and really, sometimes it's hard to explain why there's piss and blood in a bottle, but that's one person's version, not necessarily my own...although I've seen it done before).  Same thing with carving into the woodwork, etc.  So instead, I have just sated myself with waiting for completion and adding my items of blessing along with those that my wonderful friends have given me.  

The house is within the city limits, so it's being converted (because any house within the city limits, if it doesn't have a nazi homeowner's association, then you're good - there's really no deed restrictions) into a shop (part of it, anyway).  I've already had old sheet rock fall off and hit me in the face, so it's a job that's been blooded as well.  Literally, blood, sweat, and tears.

And the best part?  Friends and family are helping me along.

Perhaps that sounds like mooching.  It's not.  Not really.  I've worked my ass off, and my husband has been very supportive.  My kids are all a-dither.  I've had people donate items, building materials, inventory, and even a few kilns (that I don't know how to use them, but by the gods, this is gonna happen!) and boxes of glazes.  Everything's coming up Millhouse!

But I'm scared as hell.

It's something I've always wanted.  How silly is that?  I've dreamed about doing something like this since I was 11.  Which is funny to me.  As kids, they give us aptitude tests.  They test, and test, and test, and try to peghole us into what they think we will be most productive in.  And really, I suppose I could be 'productive', but why the hell do I want to go to a job that I hate to make my living, to buy stuff I don't need to impress people I don't like?

I saw an article in Yahoo Spark! where a user was dissing a woman who lived in a tent.  The woman had chose to live simply, in a tent, and as able to pull it off.  She called people who lived in tents 'bums' and was rather condescending.  I don't know.  I think that Eustace Conway probably have a better idea of living than some and other people need to shut the hell up (I love people who give their opinions...they don't offer any solutions or help, they don't offer anything but criticism or self-righteous banter).

But I digress....although during the process of creation, sheetrock fell off and hit me in the face (my lip was rather swollen), we've finally progressed to the point of painting!  There's paint everywhere.  At the moment, if I own a pair of jeans that don't have a speck of paint on them, I'd be surprised.  But I'm slow-going, in that artsy manner...the ceiling is going to be like the night sky, with bits of mirror and shiny-ness everywhere.  I'm excited.  Scared, but excited.  I just hope it becomes a place people love to come to.  Maybe I'll even post pictures.

Japanese Festival in Houston

So, after days of painting, the family went down to the Japanese Festival at Hermann Park near the Theatre Under the Stars.

Apparently there was some sort of cosplay contest, but really, we must have missed it.  But it tells a lot, walking through the crowd.  A lot of kids were there, in their costume kimonos, ears, and handmade costumes.  There was even a booth selling tickets for a 2014 anime event - two weeks after they'd just finished this year's event (so, you gotta admit, at least they're on the ball).  

The Japanese Garden, which is attached to the park, was open.  I am sure it's rather Zen and peaceful when it's not being overrun by thousands of people, and we did a few photo-ops there (there IS a posting that you're not allowed to take professional pictures there..).

I was kind of disappointed that there was so much cheap Asian crap there.  Cheaply made wholesale order junk, and stuff that really was non-related to Japanese culture.

I will have to interject here, that a group of people showed up and started doing African drumming and dancing.  They even had their little wicker basket out for 'donations'.  This...really pissed me off.  It was more disconcerting than the silly little anime kids.  I mean, it was NOT a multi-cultural festival...it was Japanese.  How dense and how much of a jerk do you have to be to crash someone else's celebration?  What kind of butthead does that?  I wanted to slap that little stupid little kufi right off their bezels.

The very best thing?  The Taiko drumming. Taminari Taiko was the group that played.  I mean, I didn't realize that they taught that kind of drumming outside of Japan...so I was like, "Hey....Look at that group of really white Japanese drummers...."  But they did such an amazing job.  I was amused that when they started the composition dealing with the Thunder God that the clouds covered the sun (and the day before, it rained when they did it. heh.), but you could see the energy of the group, how they were really working at it hard, but it was a labor of love.  They had a good time, they had high energy, and they played with their hearts and souls.  We got to see the last show, the closing show, the drumming - and it was phenomenal.

Hopefully, we can go next year.  I would love to see more traditional things, like dancing and pageantry (you know, the traditional dances which tell lore of old gods and goddesses).

The modern fairy tales of a neo-pagan in the conservative south.

So my husband and I go to the new German markets that have opened in Houston.  The chain is called Aldi, and they opened five of them about two days ago.

In the grande 'ole South, a regular 'market' is few and far between, unless you live out in the sticks.  I'm a city gal, so I'm used to really large supermarkets or high-end specialty stores.  So we decided to go to this German market and have a look-see.  We arrived casually late the second day it opened, at about 8 pm, and left at 8:45 pm....trying very hard to dodge the totally-full parking lot.

The first thing we noticed is that the little carts have these interesting chains.  You have to put a quarter in the chain to release the cart for useage....and if you want that quarter back, you've got to shag your own cart and lock it back up in the large chain of carts. (I bet if they used more of those, they'd have to worry less about people wandering off with them...but in Houston, it's one of those cities that if you don't have a car, you have a hard time getting around.  A lot of poorer chaps will swipe a cart to push it seven blocks home...then not bother to return it).

Produce prices were decent, and the idea of charging for plastic and paper bags was actually kind of cool to us - it forces people to be more 'green' and tote their own bags.  And they should.  I hope this place is a smashing success.  We realize that there are a lot of items which are just the same as other name brand items, just named differently than what we are used to seeing.  I hope this place opens more, particularly on our side of town.

So with all the cold items, we skipped a trip to the sex shop, Eros, but only because we had some cold items.  Tomorrow I've got spaghetti to make, a kiln to mend, and some witches coming by tomorrow.

(And honestly, this first blog is a test blog, but true nonetheless.)