Monthly Archives: February 2015

Feb17

It’s Mardi Gras, MotherF*%#er!

Posted on by
Standard

IMG_1792Today is Mardi Gras!

For those of you who don’t know, Mardi Gras is the French term for the time of celebration on the day before Ash Wednesday. The English term is Fat Tuesday. Ash Wednesday (in the Catholic church, at least…I don’t know much about other Christian faiths) is the beginning of Lent, a period of 40 days of fasting and penance prior to Easter. So the idea is that one goes out on Mardi Gras and has fun eating and drinking and doing all the decadent things one will then give up the next day for Lent.

The term “Mardi Gras” can also be used to describe the entire season starting on January 6th (also known as Twelfth Night or the Twelfth Day of Christmas) and ending at the stroke of midnight when Fat Tuesday becomes Ash Wednesday. This period of parades, King Cakes, and partying is also (and more accurately) known as Carnival season or Carnival time.

Sometimes people think that Mardi Gras day kicks off the Carnival season. That is absolutely wrong! If you arrive in New Orleans (or Rio, for that matter) on Mardi Gras day and think you are in for a few days of partying, you will be sorely disappointed. In New Orleans (in the 90s at least, but I suspect it’s still the case), when the clock struck midnight and it was officially Ash Wednesday, the cops would herd everyone out of the French Quarter streets. People could still hang out in bars, but the public partying was over.

So Mardi Gras is a day, (always the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday) and Carnival is a season. Got it? (I’m being technical here. The terms “Mardi Gras” and “Carnival” are in reality used interchangeably, but I think it’s important to know the distinction between the two.)

If you can’t be in New Orleans today, but you’re wondering what’s happening down on Bourbon Street, check out the Mardi Gras EarthCam. The camera is mounted on the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon Streets. When I checked it out on Saturday (2-14-15) morning, it was all still pretty tame, but folks were strolling past, and there was a Lucky Dog vendor across the street. (If you don’t know what a Lucky Dog is, look here: http://www.luckydogs.us/ or read A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.)

I mentioned King Cakes, and probably not everyone reading this knows what they are. King Cakes are pastries eaten exclusively during Carnival season. If you make your own, you can eat one whenever you want, I suppose, but that would be sort of like eating fruitcake in June just because you like the taste. And perhaps in this age of internet ordering it may be possible to buy a King Cake at any time of the year. But I’m telling ya, you’re flying in the face of the spirit of Mardi Gras to eat them outside of Carnival season.

Traditionally, King Cakes are kind of like coffee cakes with a cinnamon-y filling and decorated with (sometimes) white icing and (always) purple, green, and gold sugar sprinkles. (I must admit, at the risk of losing any New Orleans cred I may have left, I have never much enjoyed traditional King Cakes. They’re too dry and not sweet enough for me.) Of course, these days, one can buy King Cakes with all sorts of delicious fruit and/or cream cheese fillings. (These newfangled King Cakes I like quite a bit.) One of my family members makes King Cakes with frozen crescent rolls for the dough, then fills them with cream cheese and pie filling. I know they’re not traditional, but they are sooooo delicious.

The really important part of a King Cake is the baby. The King Cake baby is made of plastic and is tucked into the cake, usually from underneath. I’ve read that the baby represents the Christ Child. What it definitely represents is the person who has to provide the next King Cake. Here’s how it works…People gather in the office break room or at a King Cake party and everyone has a slice of the King Cake. The person who finds the baby in his/her slice is expected to bring the next King Cake to work for everyone to enjoy or to host the next King Cake party. (No fair waiting until next Carnival season. Everyone wants the next King Cake soon.) So while it’s an honor to find the baby, it’s also an obligation. (And yes, maybe it is a little bit dangerous to have a small plastic object hanging out in your pastry, but everyone knows it’s there and is being careful not to swallow it. Although anyone who’s gotten the baby and hasn’t wanted to buy a cake has considered gulping it down.) (To learn more than you ever thought you wanted to know about this topic, check out Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_cake.)

I’m probably not going to do anything to celebrate Mardi Gras this year. What’s the poiIMG_1831nt if I can’t get drunk and get laid? Since I’m no longer 24 years old and not likely to pull off the celebration I want, I’ll just stay home.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

I took the photos in this post.

Feb16

Being a Camp Host

Posted on by
Standard

Have you ever been to a campground with a camp host? The camp host might come around and make sure camping fees are paid. Camp hosts can answer questions and sometimes sell firewood.

Until recently I thought camp hosts were typically older couples. I thought people working as camp hosts had to live in big, fancy RVs with full hookups. I thought the only thing camp hosts received in exchange for their hosting was a place to park their big, fancy RVs. I recently learned that the beliefs I had about camp hosting are not always true.

Sometimes camp hosts are older couples, but younger people and single people and single younger people work as camp hosts too. Some camp host jobs require a couple, but the two people in the couple don’t necessarily have to be romantically involved. The two people in the couple might be required to share a living space, but they could be buddies or best friends or a parent and adult child. My understanding is that some jobs are too big for one person, but there’s only one allocated spot for the hosts’ living space, so the “couple” shares the living space and each does his/her portion of the job.

It turns out that not all camp hosts live in big, fancy RVs with full hookups. The RVs of some camp hosts are not so big and fancy, and some have no hookups. Even van dwellers can be camp hosts! In fact, sometimes it is difficult to find people to work at campgrounds with no or only partial hookups. RVers who have all the bells and whistles tend to want to use them, so RVers with sewage/water/electric capabilities usually want to work at campgrounds where they can hook everything up. So it sometimes helps folks get a job if they have no need or desire for water/sewage/electric hookups.

At some campgrounds, camp hosts only get “paid” with a free spot to park their RV. That can be a pretty good deal if the camp host doesn’t have to work many hours a day and if s/he already has an income. (I could not meet my needs if I were not receiving monetary compensation of some amount.) However, in other camp host positions, workers receive a free spot to live, as well as an hourly wage.

I have applied for a camp host job with a company that runs campsites on federal land and is responsible for hiring all staff needed. Each campground provides a spot for the camp host(s) to park his/her/their rig, AND pays state minimum wage for every hour worked.

Of course, I have not yet worked as a camp host, so I can’t tell you all about it. Bob Wells has worked as a camp host (for four summers, I think), so if you want to read about his experiences, go to his blog at http://www.cheaprvliving.com/workamping/ and read his story. (On the Workamping page, scroll about a third of the way down to “What is the job like?”)

Hopefully I will get my own camp host job this summer, and then I’ll be able to share my experiences.

 

Feb14

Collages

Posted on by
Standard

I create collages.

(It took me a while to figure out the correct verb to use. Is “collage” itself a verb? Should I say, “I collage”? Is “I do collage” better? Maybe “I make collages”? I settled on “I create collages.”)

My last boyfriend (the most recent one, and probably the last one I will ever have) would disparage my collage work by sarcastically asking me if I was cutting out little bits of paper again. He didn’t take anything I did seriously; it wasn’t simply confusion about why I was cutting images out of magazines and catalogs.

This is a collage I did on the front of a journal I bought with a gift certificate last Christmas.

IMG_1723

This is a closer up shot of the collage on the front cover.     IMG_1731

IMG_1733    This is a closer up shot of the collage on the back cover. They are two separate collages that I think fit together as a larger piece.

Inside the journal, I did another collage called “What I Want.” Here is the two-page spread IMG_1718

Here’s a close up of the left page IMG_1721

And a close up of the right pageIMG_1722

I created five collages for an art show in January of this year at the Happy Belly Deli in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. All of the pieces in the show could be no larger than 6″x4″, postcard size. I didn’t take photos of the pieces before I submitted them because my camera had quit working, and I haven’t gotten them back yet. The last I heard, the Happy Belly Deli went belly up, and the woman who organized the show had not been able to get into the building to retrieve the art. Supposedly, the landlord did not have a key to his own property. I don’t know why the person who was running the deli didn’t let the organizer in to get the art. In any case, I hope to get those pieces back. When I do, I’ll post photos because I think they’re awesome.

Feb13

Broke Down in Redding, California

Posted on by
Standard

In October of 2012, I was traveling in Northern California with my new friend Mr. Carolina. We’d met in Colorado on Furthur lot. I traveled with him, three (sometimes four) other adults, and two dogs all the way from Red Rocks to Santa Barbara in Old Betsy, my 1994 Chevy G20 van. Two of the adults and their two dogs found a new ride in Santa Barbara, but Mr Carolina and I drove to Los Angeles to deliver L. and R. to the airport so they could catch their flight to Guatamala City.

After our brief stop in LA, Mr. Carolina and I kept heading north, eventually making it all the way to Mt. Shasta, California.

In Laytonville, we met a young French Canadian man and invited him to our cheese party. (By “cheese party,” I mean that Mr. Carolina and I were sitting in the van eating cheese.) The French Canadian man was heading north to Redding to catch a bus and offered to help pay for gas if he rode with us.

My van broke down in Redding, after we dropped the French Canadian guy at the bus station. By “broke down,” I mean we let her run out of gas. It was really my fault. The directions to Wal-Mart I got on my phone were wrong, or I misread them. In any case, we headed off in the wrong direction and ended up on some side street with no gas.

We pushed the van off the road, into the gravel between the road and the fence of the closest house.

We had not money. I flew a sign for a while and collected $24. (Blessings to the kind strangers who handed me a $20 bill.)

My gas can only held one gallon, so we walked to the closest gas station and back twice.We put in the two gallons of gas, and the van still didn’t start. We thought we had fucked up the fuel pump.

At that point, I gave up for the day. I just didn’t have the energy to figure out anything else. We walked back to the Jack in the Box near the gas station to use some of our meager funds to buy dinner. We met a really nice guy named Bernard there. He was in his 50s, maybe his early 60s and had been out to The Hog Farm back in the day and had seen The Grateful Dead a handful of times. We bought him a couple of tacos out of the little money we had gathered up, and we ate together. After dinner, he smoked his roaches with Mr. Carolina. He is one of my very few nice memories of Redding.

After dinner, we went back to the van and  slept right there on the side of the street, me in my bed and Mr. Carolina on the floor.

Here’s a poem I wrote about the first night of the experience:

This Night

We sat in my broke down van
pushed to the gravel
next to a random street
on the West side
of Redding, California
and said good-bye to the sun.

Without my glasses,
distant headlights became
vivid bright snowflakes
with blurred edges.

Raindrops pinged randomly
on our metal roof
while the scent
of nag champa
soothed me.

You smoked fresh Cali weed
in the dark
and a train whistle blew
far away and lonesome—
the exact sound
of this night.

My car insurance covers roadside assistance. I don’t even have to pay up front and get reimbursed, it’s just totally covered, so the next day I had the van towed to a nearby mechanic.  It turned out that once Old Betsy was out of gas, it took seven gallons to get her started again. My sweet friend KJ  called the mechanic shop with his credit card and paid for the gas and the jump start we needed after killing the battery with so many false starts.

By the time the van was running again, it was late in the day. Mr. Carolina and I each had one McDouble for dinner, and we saved the rest of our money to put into the gas tank when we headed toward Mt. Shasta the next day. We ended up spending that night in the parking lot of the Redding Wal-Mart. There was such a weird vibe at that Wal-Mart. People at the entrance were pulling some card trick hustle, and a guy in the parking lot came over and tried to make very fast small talk with us while we were playing cards in the van. (In all the Wal-Mart parking lots I’ve slept in, no one else has ever approached my van and tried to get friendly.)

Redding was my #1 Let’s Get the Fuck Out of Here town. The energy there was very harsh, angry, negative, dark. I said to Mr. Carolina, It’s starting to seem like everyone in this town is on meth. He said to me, That’s because everyone in this town is on meth.

Feb12

Princess Tooth

Posted on by
Standard

Image result for tooth with royal crown     I had my first of two dental appointments dealing with my crown. (I’ve been calling the tooth that’s getting the crown my “princess tooth.”) The visit went pretty well, considering I’ve had a cold for about a week, just started breathing through my nose again yesterday afternoon, and started coughing last night. Sigh.

The good news is that the nerves seem to be working, and it doesn’t look as if I’ll need a root canal right now.

My mouth hurts, but it’s a dull ache. Day before yesterday, the tooth was causing a LOT of pain, and I had to eat nothing but totally soft foods. The dentist said there was yet another crack in the tooth this morning, which is probably what was hurting two days ago. It sounds as if I were on the very brink of losing the tooth, so I’m glad I made the decision to go with the private dentist instead of waiting around for the dental school to get to me.

Every time I try to drink out of my water bottle, I dribble cold water down my cleavage. I need to venture to the kitchen in search of a straw. I’m getting hungry too, and I think I can manage some mashed potatoes now. I am longing for the day I can eat regular food without ouch!

Tomorrow I start a 3 night/4 day house/dog/cat sitting gig for some friends. I plan to take at least one long, hot bath; watch a lot of cable TV; and write more.

Feb12

My Teeth

Posted on by
Standard

Was anyone wondering about what’s going on in my mouth?

I’ve been neglecting my teeth for a long time.

There was a time when I had dental insurance. Those were wonderful days. I had my teeth cleaned twice a year. A dentist peaked in to see how things were going. I had any cavities filled and a night guard made to fit my teeth and keep me from grinding while I slept.

Then I hit the road with my boyfriend and dental care pretty much went out of the window. Brushing our teeth was hardly a priority, much less going somewhere for a dental check-up and cleaning. We were seldom anywhere long enough to find a dentist, much less make an appointment and get our mouths in there.

I will admit here (with much embarrassment) that I sometimes went days without brushing my teeth.

I began paying for this neglect in 2011. My teeth hurt. I thought it was from grinding at night. I often fell asleep without putting in the night guard, and I suspected sleeping without it was making matters worse. The pain went from bad to intense, and I was taking a lot of ibuprofen to get through the days and nights. I started making an effort to put the night guard in before nodding off, and my teeth hurt less. I thought that meant things were better in there.

In December of that year, I found out that the state of my teeth had actually gotten worse. A lower molar was infected and needed to be pulled. The tooth had quit hurting because the nerves were dead. There was no saving it.

I got a referral from a poor people’s dental clinic. They sent me to a dentist who pulled it for the low, low price of still more than I could really afford. Here’s a tip of the hat and big thanks to family members who gave me the money I needed to join the masses missing teeth.

I hit the road again (thankfully, alone this time) and while I was a little better at brushing my teeth every day (and sometimes at night too!), I wasn’t exactly paying close attention to my oral hygiene. When day-to-day survival took priority, it was easy to stop thinking about my teeth.

In the July of 2014, I started having excruciating mouth pain. I was back to taking ibuprofen several times a day.

I couldn’t tell what exactly was happening in the depths of my mouth, but it felt like my bite was all wrong and my uppers and lowers were no longer meeting up correctly. It felt as if my upper back molar, instead of resting on the lower back molar, was banging around on the gum behind the lower molar.

I drove a friend to an area dental clinic. During her appointment, I asked if someone could take a look at my teeth . I was allowed to self-report my poverty, and I was squeezed in. The dentist buffed down a tooth (the top one, I think), and that helped a lot, at least in the moment.

I thought I was all better, and I celebrated with a bean burrito. My relief was short-lived. The next day, I was in pain again.

When I probed with my tongue, it felt as if the gum around my bottom back molar was separated from the tooth. I could flap it around with my tongue.

I couldn’t chew and reduced my diet to instant mashed potatoes, smoked kippers, egg drop soup, mashed tofu in broth, chocolate pudding, and refried beans with cheese. Slowly, the swelling went down, and my gum quit flapping. The pain lessened. One day in August, I could eat regular food again.

Sometimes the pain would flare up. I’d pop an ibuprofen and eat mashed potatoes until I didn’t hurt anymore.

In late January 2015, I went to a dental clinic where folks train to be dental hygienists. The trainees who see patients are close to graduation and are under close supervision. All services are free. During my first visit,  twenty x-rays were taken. Then my mouth was examined prior to making an appointment for a cleaning.

I explained the problems I’d been having to the student hygienist, her supervisor, and an actual dentist. The dentist said that my wisdom teeth (which are still beneath my gums) had become active. He said  this activity had caused the swelling and pain. He recommended I have all four wisdom teeth removed.

Before I took any action regarding my wisdom teeth, I was back at the clinic for my cleaning. Moments after the student hygienist began poking around my teeth with her metal instruments, she started apologizing that she had flaked off a piece of my tooth. Soon the instructor was peering into my mouth, then the dentist. Long story short, the dentist determined that the student hygienist had actually flaked off a seal or a filling that had probably been loose, and I now had a deep crack in my tooth that needed attention they couldn’t provide.

I contacted a dental college with a clinic. The college requires payment of $69 before they consider accepting someone as a patient. They wanted me to have three consultations before they did any work on my mouth. They wanted to do another series of x-rays. I made an appointment, but I was unsure if this program were right for me.

In the meantime, The Lady of the House called her family’s dentist to find out what she charges for a consultation. The verdict? FREE consultation. AND the office manager was able to squeeze me in the next day.

So here’s what’s wrong with my tooth: it has both a crack and a hole in it. It needs a crown. The crown costs $900. Sigh. I called the dental school and asked them for an estimate of the cost for the same procedure. Their charge is $700, plus $69 for the consultation. I’d still have to go to the three initial appointments, and I have no idea when the work would actually start (or finish). Also,The Lady and her family trust their dentist and rave about how gentle and nice she is. I’m not sure I want a student learning to put in a crown using my mouth as the practice ground.

Today the dentist starts work on my mouth.  In about two weeks, she’ll be able to do the second part of the crown process. Hopefully, my nerves are still alive and kicking and I won’t need a root canal. A root canal would involve another dentist (a specialist) and more money.

I just want to be able to eat with no pain and not worry that I’m going to end up spitting my tooth into the palm of my hand.

And good lord, yes, I’m brushing my teeth at least twice a day now, and flossing as well.

Feb11

What’s important to you?

Posted on by
Standard

For the New Year of 2013, I challenged folks to get in touch with what was important to them. I wrote to friends, After you know what is REALLY important to you, I challenge you to figure out how to make those values/ideas/people/things/places central in your life. (This challenge comes from running around Vegas high as a kite  and seeing all these people looking unhappy even though they were in this place that was supposed to be so much fun. A tourist guy in town for a bachelor party ended up sitting next to me in a hippy circle while waiting to buy some weed [not from me or any of my people] and I tried to talk to him about something real, just piercing him with my eyes and saying, “What’s important to you, Rob?”)

It’s 2015 now, and I’m challenging you (again or for the first time) to figure out what is important to you and then make those values/ideas/people/things/places central in your life. If you’re not already living with what’s important to you at the center of your life, now’s the time to do so. What’s stopping you? Whatever it is, I suggest you get rid of it.

Feb10

Red Letter Day

Posted on by
Standard

This encounter happened during the summer of 2014.

Today was a Red Letter Day for a gal who sells macraméd hemp products by the side of the road. In one day, I experienced a trifecta of the things people have said to me repeatedly over the course of three summers. (This is the first time they’ve been said to me all in one day.)

#1 Someone offered to sell me weed and seemed surprised when I said I don’t smoke it.

#2 An old man joked about smoking hemp to get high.

#3 A woman told me she used to do macrame and (bonus!) said she’d even made a macrame owl wall hanging.

To make the day even weirder, an older (at least 60 years old) man (who looked like a white guy to me) told me (as he was trying on one of my necklaces) that he used to be an Osage Indian. I was under the impression, once an Osage Indian, always an Osage Indian, so I asked him what he is now. He said his wife made him move to Dallas.

Then he said (slyly), My wife’s a cougar. Do you know what that is?

I said yes, while in my head I was thinking, if she likes younger men and she’s married to you, she must be 85 years old.

At that point, he told me he likes younger women. I wondered if he was hitting on me, but I kept that in my head too. To sell a $20 necklace, I’ll let some old guy married to a cougar hit on me. So he bought the necklace and seemed less weird. We chatted a few more minutes, then he walked on.

I saw the woman he met up with. She didn’t look 85 (or like a cougar, for that matter). She looked like your average uptight 65 year old Texas lady.

Was he fucking with me?

To learn more about hemp go here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/11/19/hemp-2/.

To read more about customers, go here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/12/09/selling-hemp-again/, here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/12/14/mean-daddy/, here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/11/12/hard-times-on-the-highway/, here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/09/26/turtle-ass/, and here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/03/17/how-much-are-these/

Feb8

Sunday, Sleepy Sunday

Posted on by
Standard

I woke as sunlight was just making its way into my room.

I’ve been working on a post that will magically pop up when I am no longer in my current location. Oh the joy of  the “schedule a post” feature.

Much to do today.

I bought a camera yesterday, and I’m still trying to figure out how to get my computer to recognize it. I think it will take more time on the internet, researching and downloading.

I have a phone date with the charming Miss Kitty at 10am.

I’m going to deliver lemons to the lemonade stand ladies early this afternoon. (I filled the tote bag so full of lemons that one of the handles ripped off!)

Late in the afternoon, The Boy and I are going to Dairy Queen to use my buy one/get one free Blizzard coupon.

The Lady of the House and I are going on a short road trip tomorrow, so I must prepare the vanhome.

Much to do…I can’t linger in the bed and write any longer.