Classy

I sunk to a new low and embraced my inner Tujungan today. No I did not smoke meth with the one legged guy who does donuts on his moped in the KFC parking lot.

I bought a battery operated pumpkin pie scented candle.

Here's what happens when your life begins to unravel.

It starts with a CVS being the only "store" in your town. Then, you get yourself a Saturday night alone, add one Atkins bar (hors d'oeuvre), one gluten free beer (cocktail), one battery operated candle (ambiance) and and voila, instant class!

The "best part" is that it is made out of real wax (shamWOW! Buy it today for only $19.99!), so when the candle warms up, the wax foofs out the scent of pumpkin pie spice.

Somebody give me my life back.

80

I drive home to Tujunga at 80 miles per hour every weeknight. My drive is a twelve mile, traffic-free commute. It is always the same, though some nights, it seems to take forever.

Mmmuh, trucks...
off ramp...
more trucks...
tail gaiter...
JPL...
La Canada...
La Crescenta...
Tujunga...
Datsun pickup truck with missing taillight...
my exit...
tweaker...
hobo....
clown...
dog...
open field with river stones stacked one on top of the other, like little men, everywhere...
wild horsetails growing out of a swampy spot in the gutter...
enormous lumps in the road...
day laborers...
7-11...
motorcycle guys...
Bonner's Equipment Rental...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
apartments...
tree...
more trees...
houses...
home...
neighbor...
"can I borrow three dollars. I'm outa cigarettes".

Medicine

A nap is a sacred thing. A nap should not be interrupted unless there is a big fire.

My neighbor has a sixth sense about naps. This is how it works: When my eyes close, hers pop open and something in her brain tells her, much like a pigeon's homing instinct, to come over to my house and ask for money.

Her hair is always pulled back in a banana clip. Her eyes are a shocking blue...and red. Her brown acrylic cardigan is pilled and stained. It stretches down, over her stomach and covers half the length of her shorts. Her sweater pockets are filled with handmade, beaded jewelry to sell. Stuff she made a few years ago, when she wasn't, as she explains it "depressed" because of all of her "family shit".

The husband doesn't let loose on the details of their lives but the wife does. She is usually drunk on her "medicine" (vodka and milk), so she'll say revealing things as she wanders back down my front path. Most of her remarks make me want to run screaming away from her and this town. And then she'll say "you have such cute shoes" and I'll give her a dollar.

Saturday, after a refreshing 1.5 minute nap, I stood at my front window, wifebeater on, vodka and milk in my sippy cup, and wondered WTF I was doing in this hick town.

Learning something probably.

You're Soaking In It

I hate doing dishes probably more than anything in the world. I'd rather get a mammogram. I'd rather pick up dog doo with my bare hands.

So I swore I'd do the dishes this last Sunday, it being Easter and all. I figured, if there was a Jesus, he'd probably want me to do the dishes. So I took a nap, scraped down the hideous oil painting I'd began the night before, swept the floor and did some laundry. Then I took another lie down. This is when the panic attack hit. The damn dishes. The income taxes, the property taxes, the mortgage, and the dishes. I was snowballing. I promised myself that if I ever got the dishes done, I would never use a dish again. I would buy paper plates (sorry trees) and plastic forks (sorry everything).

I got out of bed, walked past my pile of 2006, 2007 and now 2008 taxes, past my mortgage bill, past my phone where there was a message from my dad wondering what I was going to do about my property taxes, and into the kitchen, and out the back door.

My backyard looked okay. Nothing was on fire, to my disappointment. I turned around and headed back into the kitchen. Turn the water on, just turn the water on, I told myself. I turned the water on. Letting the water run (sorry ocean) I put the few dishes away that were on the drying rack from the last time I did dishes, four months earlier. Then I got down to work.

I made a deal with myself. I'd just wash the dishes that lined my counter and that was all. I'd do the rest, the stuff in the sink, another day. Just get through the overflow, that's all I had to do. Jesus would understand.

I did it. I washed those fucking glasses way deep down inside and all over the outside and on the bottoms. I washed four bowls. I did not wash the silverware. The silverware would wait for the next time.

I dried my hands on a paper towel and felt lighter as I watched my neighbor through the kitchen window. This isn't the neighbor with the blue feet, this is the neighbor to the south. A single woman, who smokes cigarettes with her son like he's her lover. But that's a story for another day.

Maybe I'll take a look at my taxes tonight. Right after I do this one thing to my painting...

Diet Coke

I've got this store down the street from me. When I first bought my house, I was convinced it was going to be a problem. I imagined bikers and gangsters and stick ups, rabid dogs wandering it's porches... and hookers. I can see the "Market" (aka Liquor Store) from the front lawn of my house.

I had just moved from South Pasadena, where I think we had one Liquor store, and the Easter Bunny or my Grandma ran it. I was in a whole new neck of the woods now- in fact this woods didn't even have a neck, just went from shoulders to chinless.

So, I sidled in there shortly after I moved in, parched from unpacking self help books. To my amazement, it was a wonderland! It was bright and cheery. There were bananas and limes on the counter and there was cat food and toilet paper and charcoal briquettes and soup and ice cream. Right there a half a block away!

The owner, Mike, said "Hello" and I said "Hi" back. This was fantastic! Man I had a lot to learn about this town.

I thanked Mike and stepped out into the fragrant May sunshine with my Diet Coke, smack into a hooker, an old biker and his rabid dog. They were sticking up a gangster.

Pool Man

My pool guy is a waifish Tujungan saint. He wears a gigantic, stoic wedding band on his left hand (I know wedding bands can't really be stoic but I swear this one takes it's job very seriously). I got his name, Greg, from the last owner of my house. I used to shoot the breeze with Greg, ask him all kinds of pooly questions, thinking I could eventually clean the pool myself. I was wrong. A pool is a beast you don't want to mess with. Right after I bought the house, I discovered the pool had a leak in it. Greg taught me a trick using a bucket to figure out how big the leak was, then he gave me the number of a reputable pool repair man. Pool got fixed, I learned a lot, done.

Then one Tuesday he didn't show up. I was like, what's the dealio, where's my Pool Guy. It's Tuesday and I don't want my pool to turn green. When you first own a pool, you're paranoid like that. So I think I called him and left a few messages. But I didn't see him until the next week.

It was cold out the following Tuesday. When I saw him, Greg had water all down the front of his sweatshirt and shorts from cleaning the pool. I asked him how he was. He said he was freezing. He stood there by the stubby January rose bushes and shivered a little. Then he apologized for missing the week before and for not calling back. He explained that his son had been in the hospital with LEUKEMIA. Oh ghad. Suddenly my jack ass pool seemed stupid and ridiculous and I didn't care if it turned green any more. The man looked tired and small.

After that Tuesday I took to hiding out in the house when he came by. Instead of going out to talk to him about algae as usual, I'd skulk around like a coward, getting ready for work with the curtains drawn. My fear was that the worst had happened and that his son had died. My fear was that I'd say, "How is your son?" and he would say, "My son is dead".

I was 22 when my mom died of cancer, and when she was dying I thought, "why aren't people talking about this with me? I'm never going to be afraid to talk about illness or death after this". And now check me out, years later. All of that clarity and fire, the truth about death and dying and love has grown a filmy cataract. I've become afraid again.

It's Sunday night. Greg comes to clean the pool the day after tomorrow. I can continue to hide or I can talk to him. I don't want to live my life with fear trumping my empathy for people. So I won't.

Compassion replenishes the spirit of the receiver and the giver.

Shut It

My sweet, blue footed neighbor has a laugh that echoes through the neighborhood like an exotic bird's cackley call. Mostly I hear him at dusk when he's ha haaaaaing over a DVD rental. First comes the surround sound(tm) rumble of some high-tech Hollywood explosion, then comes his roaring laughter, childlike and unfettered.

The same neighbor has a indoor dog and a yard dog. The yard dog is part Chow and is well cared for in a stepdog sort of way- kind of the way Tom Cruise's other children get treated now. What other children. I know. Like that.

The indoor dog lives in the house and the Chow lives in the backyard. The indoor dog is a Wiener Dog. The Wiener Dog is named after a famous brand of hot dog. Let's call him Ball Park. Ball Park gets treats like fried bacon. The Chow gets left over dry cat food bits that have skittered across the deck and into the backyard weeds.

Ball Park and owner, look let's just call him Gary, spend a lot of time out in the front yard shooting the breeze. Sometimes guys pull up in their lifted 4 x 4s to talk to Gary about cars. Gary used to do body work on cars for a living until both shoulders gave out. Now he's on disability. He also has blood clots. I think that's why he doesn't wear shoes. So guys pull up and most of the time, if Gary is in the house, they'll honk. This makes the dogs, inside and outside, go crazy. When the dogs go crazy, Gary gets loud like one of those fake/real locomotive car horns. And it is this that he shouts: "SHUT IT!" "SHUT IT!" "SHUT IT!" "BALL PARK, SHUT IT!" And then the screen door clacks shut and Gary and Ball Park bounce down the steps and across the lawn toward one of their many friends.

Someone says something about tie rods. Gary breaks out in laughter. Ball Park barks. Gary shouts "SHUT IT!". Everything is right in the world.

I Love It When She Calls Me "Honey"

11:15 pm
Knock knock knock! Out of bed, feet on floor, stumble to front door and flick on the porch light. No fear, just incredulity and annoyance because I know it's my neighbor wanting a) money or b) beer. I've learned to keep neither in the house. You'd think it would be easier for me to just learn how to use the word "no".

"Hi Honey, I need you to turn on your pool light because I gotta catch some cats". This doesn't register and I think of soup. "What?", I ask her, squinting through my security screen. "I have to trap those cats so I can get them spayed in the morning and I need the light from your backyard so I can manage the traps". Sounds reasonable. She thanked me and shuffled off into the night.

I turned the light on, went back to bed and haven't seen the cats since. I realized today that I've been telling myself that they are still at the vet recovering from being spayed. It has been two weeks. I'm so stupid. They have obviously been relocated.