First Job

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When my kids were teenagers, I frequently accused them of being lazy and ungrateful. (I know, I know—I’m a terrible mother.)

In an effort to stoke the guilt fire and motivate them, I did not have to make reference to some faraway third world country where children lacked basic necessities—food, heat, running water, their very own cars. I only had to point to the hardworking families in Fort Bragg where Dad and/or Mom worked two jobs and their children had to work and take on domestic duties from a young age.

I never admitted that I was a lazy, self-absorbed teenager. Outside of babysitting, I managed to stave off gainful employment until the summer after I graduated from high school and took a job as a janitor.

Ask my mother how she enjoyed the irony of my being employed to dust, vacuum, mop, and clean toilets. She never laughed in my face, but I’m certain she had moments of hysteria in her basement sewing room.

I’d applied for several jobs (okay—two) during the last month of my senior year, but never got an interview. I complained to my buddy, John Donner, whose dad owned a janitorial business. The week after graduation, John’s dad offered me a job. I would work from 6:00-9:00pm five days a week for $1.60 an hour.

The first night, John’s dad met me at a small insurance office building near Deaconess Hospital and offered a 15-minute orientation. An hour later, I met him at Valley Volkswagen where he spent another brief period showing me what to do. He gave me keys to both buildings, and forever after left me alone.

The first week was a challenge, as I took care to do everything perfectly. After that, the job became a dull routine. I brought along a portable radio and tuned it to my favorite rock ‘n roll station. The music allowed me to sing and dance which spiced things up and made the time pass quicker.

One night, Stairway to Heaven started to play as I feather-dusted desktops near a wall of windows that looked out on a grassy area. As the song shifted into high gear, I grabbed the industrial-size dust mop and started on the floors.

And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.

The dust mop handle became the microphone through which I belted out the lyrics. I worked that mop across the floor with the wild abandon of a rock star. Turning to the audience on the window side of my stage, I saw a tween-aged boy, frozen on the lawn, gaping drop-jawed.

I stopped my performance, lowered the microphone to waist level, turned my back, and slowly pushed the mop around the remainder of the floor. “Little turd.”

Another night, I met an employee of the insurance company who was working late. She was friendly, about my mom’s age, and chatted as I went about my business. She told me she had a son five years older than me.

A week later, her son just happened to drop by the office. She was all atwitter over introducing us and tried to motivate conversation. He and I exchanged smiles, and avoided eye contact. He was well groomed, gainfully employed, and not a musician—definitely not my type. I’m certain he wondered if I ever combed my hair or changed my artfully patched plumber’s jeans.

The matchmaking did not go well and I thought that was the end of it. A month later, when I began a new job working the cafeteria line at Deaconess Hospital, he appeared across the steam table.

He asked if I remembered him.

I had tried so hard to forget.

He wondered if I’d like to go to a movie. I told him there were strict rules against socializing on the job. He apologized and asked for my phone number. I gave him a fake number. I felt guilty, but it was the only tool available to my 18-year old self to tell this guy I wasn’t interested.

The entire time I worked as a janitor (three long months) I suspected the experience would prove advantageous in later years. And so it did—it became my I walked six miles each way to school through knee-deep snow story related to my children more times than they cared to hear it.

In comparison to subsequent jobs, being a janitor wasn’t that bad. It allowed me to laze around all day, work for a few hours, and party afterward. (My kids don’t need to know that.)

Occupying Fort Bragg

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It’s Friday afternoon and I feel the need to occupy someplace other than my home office. I grab my camera and head downtown.

I walk by Bainbridge Park and a cryptic message catches my eye.

From there, I continue to the Mendocino Cookie Company where I occupy myself by purchasing two chocolate chip cookies and a latte. I know, I know—I’m playing with fire by ingesting caffeine and chocolate so late in the day, but I’m itchin’ to live large.

I move south along Main Street to Alder, an intersection dominated by branches of two major banks—Bank of America and Chase. I want to see how Occupy Mendocino Coast is shaking up the corner. (Their website invites people to occupy this area every Friday and Sunday from 3:00-5:00pm.)

I meet Linda who stands proud with her signs and Occupy visor. When I ask about the others, she says, “Most of them don’t show up until 4:00.” Their tardiness doesn’t dissuade her from standing alone. I’m impressed by her persistence and courage.

I seek out the Bank of America security guard hired to protect the premises from Linda. As I approach, he cautiously returns my greeting. I tell him I want to take his picture for my blog. He says, “Yes, I know. I heard you talking to that woman.”

I’m awestruck by his superhuman auditory powers (although he may have been hiding in the bushes while I spoke with Linda). It’s truly remarkable that he was able to pick out a conversation amid all the raucous protesting. Apparently Bank of America hires only the best.

I ready my camera.

“You can’t take my picture, mam.”

“No?”

“No mam.”

I’m thinking I can nab a shot, quickly bust out of Taser range, and dust him over the long haul. After all, I completed a triathlon last year and can run a few miles before falling on my face in a puddle of my own vomit. He’s on the portly side and stands around all day doing nothing besides opening the door for bank customers.

But I’m not in the mood for an altercation. I have cookies and a latte to finish.

I walk past The Purity to feel the vibe. One of my favorite street people, Hans [not his real name] is cavorting with a woman on the sidewalk. We have a fairly close encounter which allows me to recognize her, but won’t allow me to pinpoint the source.

I continue to walk north and stop to occupy the bench outside of Understuff. It then hits me—Hans’ new girl shows up in the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Booking Logs more frequently than Heidi Klum shows up on fashion magazine covers.

I place my coffee cup on the bench arm rest and spot another message.

Who is this Bean? What did J. Jones and Kaspar do to cause Bean to place these messages in such random places?

It’s nearly 5:00 and the Tip Top Lounge across the street is gearing up for a night of drunken delight. One of the outside smoking regulars hollers, “Hey! Where’s your dog?”

I shrug my shoulders and raise my hands, palms up—the universal sign that I only speak Norwegian.

“Come on over and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No takk [Norwegian for thank you],” I say with an apologetic smile.

I un-occupy myself from the bench and use my caffeinated fuel to propel me down the street. I return home fully satisfied with an afternoon spent occupying Fort Bragg. I now understand why the movement is so popular. I’ll have to do it again soon.

Solution Architect

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While shopping at The Purity recently, someone (who shall remain nameless, but is my only family member currently residing in Fort Bragg) called me a control freak because I suggested that he shouldn’t buy a bag of pork rinds to satisfy his whining need for a snack. “They’re not good for you and they smell like farts.”

This is the one-millionth time I’ve been labeled as such (I have a clicker on my belt) and I’m still not entirely certain what it means. I looked up the definition on Wikipedia: “In terms of personality-type theory, control freaks are very much the Type A personality” blah, blah, blah.

As a Type A personality, I get a great deal accomplished and successfully spur others into action (that is, until they stomp their feet in the middle of The Purity and start crying and calling me names).

My belief is, if you’re going to tell me your problem, you’re asking me to take control and find a solution. Otherwise, why would you tell me? Why would I listen? At a recent appointment, my therapist gently suggested that this approach is devoid of compassion. Sometimes people need to talk or do things without hearing my opinion.

Driving home, I was formulating a plan to fire my therapist when my son called.

I told him, “A member of our family (who shall remain nameless, but is the only one besides me who currently resides in Fort Bragg) called me a control freak.”

“I dialed the wrong number,” he responded. “I meant to call the Solution Architect on my project.” Demonstrating another stroke of brilliance, he hung up.

Solution Architect? I was intrigued.

According to Wikipedia, “A Solution Architect is a very experienced architect with cross-domain, cross-functional and cross-industry expertise.”

What a perfect way to describe my skill set: very experienced at inflicting my opinion on the way others should run their lives with all of my cross-blah, blah, blah expertise.

On the website www.glassdoor.com, there is no job listing or salary compensation for Control Freak. However, the median salary for a Solution Architect in the San Francisco Bay Area is $108,000.

  • 24-hours in a day minus 8 hours for sleep = 16 hours x 365 days = 5,840 Solution Architect hours/year.
  • $108,000 divided by 5,840 hours = $18.49/hour
  • That’s $18.49/hour more than I make as a Control Freak.

As a newly-minted Solution Architect, I will no longer dispense advice for free. The billing clock starts when the whining starts.

But I thought about my therapist’s words and another idea entered my cross-functional brain. When people share their problems, I can shut my mouth—actually keep my opinions to myself.

This will be difficult and require scientific intervention.

I began to formulate a compassionate-pose lipstick that contains glue and doesn’t cause cancer in laboratory rats.

When someone starts to tell me their problem, I’ll take the tube out of my purse, dab a bit on my top and bottom lips, and smack them together in a kindhearted smile. This will prevent me from uttering anything more than “Um-huh.”

But the lip glue development is proving difficult. Lucy, my newest lab rat, isn’t fond of lipstick. Yesterday, after I boiled up another experimental batch, I showed her its deep fuchsia hue and she ran off. When I finally caught her, she bit me several times as I applied it to her lips.

After completing my first round of rabies shots, and waiting to see if Lucy developed cancer, I realized I should heed my therapist’s advice. After all:

(1) My belt clicker doesn’t count past one million.

(2) My friends haven’t paid their Solution Architect invoices and have stopped inviting me to coffee.

(3) Lucy’s getting quite randy. (Fun fact: Webster’s Dictionary defines the term as “a coarse, vulgar, quarrelsome woman.”) She struts about the maze with her pink lips like she owns the place. It’s time to return her to the wild where she can wreak havoc on her own kind.

When you see my lips turning blue while being pressed together between a thumb and forefinger, know that I’m sincerely trying to stifle my control freak tendencies and keep my opinions to myself. Um-huh, I really am.

Meth Head Comes A-Callin’

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Voted Fort Bragg’s Fun Couple by The Purity patrons for five years in a row, Gary and I ramp things up on Friday nights by challenging each other to stay awake past 9:00. I usually win. Gary slips into a snoring coma in his easy chair about the time 20/20 gears up.

On this particular Friday night, a knock on the door at 9:30 sends a shock wave through my heart. What the hell?

I turn on the porch light. The door’s top quarter panel is leaded glass and I can see a young man standing on our porch. I recognize him as a former high school classmate of our son. It’s rumored he’s a meth addict. I have not seen or spoken to him in at least six years. I keep the door closed.

“Are you Harrison’s mom?” he asks.

“Yes. And who are you?” (Pretending I don’t know him makes me feel like a shrewd detective.)

“I’m Fred Murphy.” (Not his real name.)

“What can I do for you, Fred?”

“Rita threw me out and I need $12 for a motel room.”

Twelve dollars? Such an odd figure. Maybe a hit of meth costs $12. I don’t know. In retrospect, if he’d asked for $20, I might have given it to him. I’ve never had anyone ask for $12.

“I can’t help you, Fred.” I remain detective cool and collected.

“But Rita threw me out. I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ll have to sleep in my car if I can’t get $12 for a room.”

“I can’t help you, Fred.”

“It’s only $12. You’ve got $12 don’t you?”

I’m growing more than a little annoyed by his persistence.

A special note to meth heads: You do not want to mess with a menopausal woman. She, like you, probably hasn’t slept in several days. She, like you, is probably not feeling rational. She seriously hates anything that stands between her and the potential of a good night’s sleep. When you show up on her porch at 9:30 at night, you’ve definitely lessened that potential and have put yourself in grave danger.

“You need to leave now, Fred.”

“But—”

“Now! Leave now!” I’m a real bad ass, my wits drawn taunt, a commanding edge to my voice. Back off, son—there’s no telling what I might do.

I shut off the porch light and tiptoe into my dark office. I peer out the window and watch him move slowly down the stairs and along the walkway. At the gate, he stops and turns towards the house.

I duck down and grab the phone, prepared to call 9-1-1. My heart races and my breath comes in short gasps. Piddle leaks into my pajamas.

I slowly raise my head above the window sill and watch him get into his car. I wait until he drives away.

I race to the living room. “Gary!”

“Huh? What?”

“Fred Murphy was just here asking for $12.”

“Who? What?”

“Fred Murphy! He used to go to school with Harrison. He’s now a meth head.”

“Oh him,” Gary says, as in no big deal. “Why are your pants wet?”

“He asked for money!”

“He’s gone now, right?”

“Yes, but he wanted money for meth!”

“Call the cops.”

I’m certain the cops won’t do anything more than what I did—with the exception of peeing their pants.

They’d probably refuse my request for 48-hour surveillance even though I fear retaliation in the form of Fred breaking in, tying us up, setting the house on fire, and letting our bound bodies fry to a crispy crunch.

I change my pajamas and go to bed, but don’t fall asleep until well past midnight, setting a personal best record in the Friday night challenge.

My Huckleberry Friend

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On Tuesday, Andy Williams died at the age of 84. To me, he’ll always be the handsome crooner who offered up sweet pabulum to my young, chaotic life each week in the form of the Andy Williams Show.

Yes, that’s me on the far right, the 1968 Claudine Longet lookalike.

In the sixties, he married the darling Claudine Longet. As she grew in popularity, my friends and I tried to imitate her doe-eyed looks and sweet soft voice, stopping just short of the French accent. (French was not widely spoken in Spokane, Washington.)

Moon River was Andy’s theme song. For a brief time, it was also mine.

Pupils in my third grade class were offered the opportunity to learn how to play the violin. The smarter students declined. I readily accepted. Why? I do not know. Every Saturday morning, five budding violinists from Franklin Elementary gathered with a larger group from two other elementary schools. I learned how to tune strings and apply resin to my bow. I also kind of learned how to play the thing.

We were required to practice an hour a day. To my young ears, I was a maestro. To the ears of my four siblings, I was a set of fingernails scratching on a chalkboard. They’d shout at me to stop. Defiantly, I’d continue to play in our cramped upstairs hallway, frequently begging my overburdened mother to intervene and kill them all.

By fourth grade, our violin group had mastered Farmer in the Dell, Lightly Row, and Three Blind Mice. We were deemed capable to train for the spring citywide concert. We would perform Moon River.

Each time I played that song, I envisioned standing by a river on a cloudless autumn night, the full moon reflecting on the water’s rippling surface. I fantasized that Andy was my father; he crooned that song to me each night as I fell asleep.

(A few years later, after Claudine dumped him, I imagined he could become my husband—either him or Mick Jagger. This was cause for many internal debates until I reached high school and Andy was no longer cool, but Mick had grown even cooler.)

I did not put in anything close to the hours of practice required to be prepared for the spring concert. How could I? The idiots I lived with did not appreciate orchestral music. They did everything they could to interfere with my practice sessions. I’d fight off the three younger ones by threatening to stab them with my violin bow, but was no challenge to my older brother who would eventually sock me in the arm, rendering me handicapped.

In the car on the way home from the concert, my mother said, “When the bows of the other kids’ violins went up, yours went down, and vice versa.” She chuckled.

I sat in the back seat brooding, gazing out the darkened window at the full moon, and making the bitter decision to give up the violin.

Long ago, Moon River made Andy Williams my huckleberry friend. It makes me sad that he, like so many others of that generation, is gone.

Hoarding

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When “Hoarders” premiered on A&E, it caught my attention. I love to see how other people live, especially dysfunctional people. It makes me feel better about myself, which saves me thousands of dollars in therapy.  However, I wasn’t prepared for how nauseating it felt to witness the conditions under which hoarders live. I gagged when a mummified cat was pulled out from under several feet of rubble.

With the help of our housekeeper, Carrie, we keep a tidy home. It’s not so sterile that brain surgery can be performed, but I’m fairly certain there aren’t any cat mummies lying around.

Our detached garage is another asset in controlling much of the house clutter. Into the garage goes holiday decorations, planter boxes, household sundries (cleaning products, toilet paper) and anything else that I don’t know where to put. The garage is conveniently located several feet from the house, making it easy to ignore.

A few weeks ago, I had to retrieve wrapping paper and ribbon from a shelf out there. I climbed over a pile of items to reach the gift wrap, balancing one foot on a suitcase and the other on a case of toilet paper. The load began to shift. I was barely able to scramble to solid ground before it collapsed.

I stood for a moment, evaluating the mess. For the past decade, the garage has morphed into a navigation challenge worthy of one of those outrageous Japanese game shows. I reasoned that the obstacle course (along with the burned out light bulb) is important to keeping me alert and agile. I must watch my step, and feel my way through the dark.

I asked myself, “What would I say if I saw someone else living like this?”

I would say they were a hoarder.

I do not like to think of myself as a hoarder. I like to think of myself as a professional woman who, in her spare time, likes to hang out with family and friends, go to the gym, sew, and knit. I simply do not like to do domestic chores.

I hired a young friend to help me organize the garage. At the end of the day, I asked, “I wonder how many cans of paint the average American household stores in a garage?”

I’m hoping the answer is 85 because that’s how many cans of paint were hiding in mine. (This does not include the bag of 20 bottles of craft paint and one can of spray paint.)

Oh my God. I’m a hoarder.

In my defense, most of the cans are quart-size, and 24 are essential for touching up existing colors inside and outside the house. The remaining 61 accumulated over the past 10 years. I’d complete a project and put the can into the garage as the first step in a plan to donate it to local theater productions or take it to the HazMobile for disposal.

But you know how it is (or maybe you don’t if you’re more organized and don’t have any friends): a new painting project popped up and another paint can was added to the forgotten garage collection.

Within a week, I’ll hand the cans over to the HazMobile and I vow—listen to me, I vow—to never put another item in that garage that won’t be used within a year. (I just heard the Christmas decorations issue a sign of relief.)

I’m fairly certain that one of the steps in recovery is public admission of the wrong I’ve done. So here it is—I admit it. I once hoarded 85 cans of paint. Take it and feel superior.

I wish I could say that my organized garage has filled me with serenity. In truth, it’s thrown me into a case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. I enter, ready to navigate the landmines, but the landmines are gone. The open space, illuminated by the bright light bulb, feels too expansive. The neatly stacked shelves and hanging garden implements watch my every move. I run to the car and lock the doors, anxious to get away.

Stayin’ Alive

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I’m sitting in my car parked in the strip mall lot in front of the health food store. A large pickup pulls into the space across the narrow asphalt behind me, adjacent to the movie theater. I’m waiting, impatiently, while the very busy Los Gallitos Restaurant takes 20 minutes to prepare my “to go” burrito.

About ten minutes after the truck occupants enter the movie theater, the vehicle alarm goes off. Honk. . .Honk. . .Honk . . . .

I’m hungry and tired. I do not need to be further annoyed by a vehicle alarm.

I look in my rear view mirror for the truck owner to come out and stop the noise. By now he is ensconced in the soundproof cinema watching movie trailers with a bag of popcorn on his lap.

Honk . . .Honk. . .Honk . . . . After two minutes, another sound mixes with the honks—a flat blasting sound—to create a sort of rumba pattern: honk. . .blast. . .honk. . . .

I absently keep time to the rhythm by tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel.

In my rear view mirror I see my two favorite street people—Hans and Franz—appear on the sidewalk next to the theater. The rumba beat of the vehicle alarm draws them.

They reach the side of the truck and, like children, spontaneously burst into dance. They throw their arms up, pointer fingers to the sky in John Travolta versions of “Saturday Night Fever.”

As they dance and whoop, the sun pauses its descent into the vast Pacific Ocean, bidding farewell to the western hemisphere and signaling mid-morning to Chinese factory workers as they toil to make crap for American consumers.

One final beam travels over the Fort Bragg headlands, intensifying as it moves through the strip mall parking lot to focus an amber spot of light on the unbridled joy of Hans and Franz.

Moments later, the light dims. They stop and resume their walk: Hans with his confident swagger and Franz with his dignified step.

They have banished my annoyance and replaced it with happiness.

[Whenever you need annoyance replaced with happiness, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_izvAbhExY]

Got Pot?

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There are two men in front of me at The Purity checkout line on a Tuesday afternoon—two of the legions of young adult males with no visible means of employment. Pot growers? Occasional construction workers? Drug dealer?. Who knows?

My mother is obsessed with reading bumper stickers. Since I am no way like my mother, I obsessively ignore bumper stickers. However, wear a tee-shirt with something written on it and I’ll follow you around until I can decipher what it says.

One of the gentlemen is wearing a black tee-shirt with bold white lettering. He stands sideways to me, but as he moves, I see the “F” word.

He picks up his soda and chips, turns to his friend, and all the words are revealed:

I will never move away from here.

I Want Some of That

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It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve just had my taxes done (the only day my preparer and I could find in common). I’m self-employed and fairly accurate when it comes to estimating my liability, but was shocked to learn I owe hundreds of extra dollars.

I’d forgotten that our youngest had graduated from college in June 2011, gotten a good paying job (damn her!), and we aren’t entitled to those juicy tax credits. I’m pretty much hating life when Wilson reminds me it’s time for our walk.

It’s Fort Bragg. It’s Sunday. It’s Easter. It’s 3:30. You could lob cannon fire down any street in town and no one would be harmed. I’m looking forward to a peaceful outing with my dog.

We head west on Fir Street. At the Episcopal Church, we encounter a couple walking south along Franklin. The woman looks like a gypsy—black peasant top rolling off her shoulders, poufy black skirt hanging in layers. Bracelets—lots of bracelets. Black hair pulled into a sloppy bun to reveal a neck tattoo. The man is handsome under a grizzled layer of thick tanned skin and dusty clothes.

“HAPPY EASTER,” the woman shouts.

I owe hundreds of dollars in taxes. This is not a happy Easter. However, I do my best to return her greeting.

“This is my dad.” Her laugh is a cackle.

His chuckle is more of a growl. If a lion could laugh, this is what it would sound like.

I take a long, hard look at them. I suppose he could be her father if he was five years old at the time of conception.

He gives her a sexy glare.

She swishes her skirt and offers a saucy flip of her head. She cackles again.

Barf.

They take up position behind Wilson and me as we walk south on Franklin. She tells the world, “I feel great . . . just great! This is the happiest Easter ever!”

She’s euphoric, the kind of euphoric I get when I combine the Barefoot Contessa’s Outrageous Brownies with Alden’s Organic Vanilla Ice Cream and a cup of strong coffee.

I wonder about her menu for euphoria. I want that happiest Easter ever feeling to unravel the tangled knot of IRS debt squeezing my heart and lungs, reducing my breath to shallow gasps. I want euphoria now.

A social worker once told me that some women in this town trade sex for drugs. I wonder….

They are walking from the railroad tracks that run through the north end of town, past the cemetery and into the wilderness. One doesn’t have to go far to be in total isolation. All manner of whatnot goes on in that area, the details of which I don’t want to know. There are concealed places that might be ideal for trading sex for drugs or drugs for sex.

I turn my head and take another look at the Grizzly Guy….

Nope.

I’ll stop by The Purity and pick up Alden’s Organic Ice Cream and make the brownies when I get home.