THE EARTH MOVED

   What about that earthquake!  I didn’t think I’d survive the shaking, and screamed in bed for the full twenty-two seconds that felt like the end of the world.  Luckily, my house and I, as well as my neighbors, made it through unscathed.  We gathered in the parking lot and comforted each other, checking to be sure everyone was accounted for and ok. 
  

     What a great bunch of neighbors I’ve got.  I’m grateful to this community of good people, and to this place where I live.

     Visits to the grand-kids make everything worthwhile.  Solid Gold.  Now I’m trying to learn the Pokemon card game, but nothing in my long experience of game-playing has prepared me for that.  I don’t believe anyone truly knows how to play the game but the kids make it up as they go along.  I think it’s all a hoax designed to sell expensive cards. 

    

     I attended a forum of school board wannabe candidates.  It seems our badly run Vallejo schools cause underpaid, unappreciated teachers to run away, and keeps new families from moving in to our fair city, holding real-estate values down, crime high, and causing hard times for many.  Gotta work hard to change that.   Gotta speak up, and vote. 

     I like Shellee, the young college board fellow, and the one who didn’t show up (why not?).  We can’t keep anyone who’s already on the board because they’ve amply proved their incompetence, and worse.  At the participatory budget voting, I voted to turn that field of dust and grime, between the road and the river, into a park, but alas, not enough people care about this like I and a few of my neighbors. do.

    I went to the Poetry by the Bay Open Mike event at the Hub one night, got on stage in front of what I believed would be an illustrious audience of poets and other lovers of the muse.  What I learned, alas, is that in Vallejo, as far as poetry is concerned, anything goes.  Not my cup of tea; I don't belong to this group, and I'll say no more on that subject, but I read my poem anyway.  I also promoted my memoir, sales of which haven’t exactly been soaring recently.  I'd hoped for a group of poetry lovers with the literary inclinations of book buyers, but not one of them bought my book.  (I know, believe me; Amazon tells all.)

    Now I hope the well-read, intelligentsia who read VIB will check it out.  Please!  You can read the entire Prologue on my website: FLATBUSHPRINCESS.COM, for free, and buy it, if so moved.  You will love it, I promise.  Only $2.99 – a bargain for tens of thousands of good words.  Lots of sex, too.   If you don’t like it I’ll return your money.  How’s that for a deal?   

A ROAD RUNS THROUGH IT

      A squad of sea lions hoots and honks in front of my house, luring me out of my kitchen to the living room window that faces the river.  Sex, I think: hanging up my apron.  What else?  A shiny black head explodes out of the water with a fish in its mouth, dives back under, and returns to the air yelping and chewing his dinner with complete abandon.  Ahhh, food, of course; why didn’t I think of that?  Hopeful after-work wanna-be fishermen gather behind the railing and watch the swimmer with and admiration; their pails are empty. 

     Hot pink and orange clouds are tinged with gold; the color intensifies while I watch the blinding sun veil itself behind the cranes of Mare Island.  Once again, the infinite azure shamelessly shows its divine unique masterpiece at the end of the day.  I step out onto the patio, alone in the world; just me and the sky and the river.  The wind picks up and my new ten foot parasols, bought on sale at BBandBeyond tremble like billowing sails; the glistening water turns into a million peaks like frosting on a cake.  A great flock rises and swoops across the canvas like a flying carpet.

     I’m loving it, obviously.  There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and the road, with its traffic, noise and dust is the price I pay for this thrilling ritual that plays out every evening on the banks of the Napa River right in front of my house.  I’m taking a Zen attitude and accepting what IS; paying it no attention to motor vehicles.  I hardly hear them now, except for the buses; don’t get me started on them.   I’m living in the right place, and the right space, in spite of the road that runs through it – and the dusty field beside it that no one cares to clean up.

     I’m learning how to be a home owner.  Mainly, it involves regular trips to Home Depot and running up big credit card balances.  I’m nearly settled in now, getting more established in my home, dealing with smaller details, organizing closets and shelves, although it still feels surreal when I think that a mere three months ago I lived in a glamorous West Hollywood rent-controlled apartment, near Trader Joe's, Crossroads Trading, and the Korean Spa I loved so much. 

     I finally found a reliable handyman to put up shelves, and a mobile welder to fix my thrift-shop patio chairs – both fellows were on Craigslist and live in Vallejo -- but got screwed by a nasty crook (also from Vallejo) mentioned earlier, who finagled money out of me, never showed up, and hung me up for more than a month.  I’m afraid to do anything about it for fear he’ll drop a load of manure on my patio.  My neighbor assures me Karma will take care of him.   

     In a futile attempt to block some of the road noise, I filled the gaps under the patio walls with bricks.  Like a warm-hued baseboard, it looked so good I decided to put bricks around the whole house and inside the patio walls, thereby cheering up the hitherto prison-yard appearance of the cold stony space that surrounds my house.

     When we had our only day of rain last week I rolled down the umbrellas and covered seat cushions with those giant plastic BBandB bags, saved just for the purpose.  Clear bags would look better.  A good neighbor suggested I hang my doormats upside down over the chairs, so they’ll be dry when the rain stops.  This neighbor also laid the bricks and planted plants, whose names I know not, in my new barrel planters, creating a beautiful space to sit and enjoy the river, while ignoring the noisy road.

CONNED

     For about two weeks, after I moved into my house, I was addicted to a “thrift store” on Redwood where I went every day, every day, every day.  Each time I found goodies for my new home at prices I couldn’t resist: 99 cents for an electric timer, $2.98 for 4 chair cushions.  Good stuff.   

     An employee, “M,” helped me nab 4 white metal rocking swivel patio chairs for ten bucks apiece and even offered to deliver them -- for a small fee, which I gladly paid.  He told me he could make or fix anything, so I engaged him to cut, paint and put up the much-needed closet shelves. 

     First, before anything else, I asked him to put together a cabinet from Ikea I'd purchased for my kitchen.  He and his side-kick worked on the cabinet for an hour, scratching their heads, trying first this way, then that, but didn't figure it out enough to finish.  He had to leave, he said, but would return the next day.  I'd given him the wood left over from the garage cabinets and half a gallon of paint.  He said he’d work on them it at his place, and asked for an advance of $100 bucks, which he said would cover all the work.

     He never came back.  For about ten days he returned my calls & texts with sad stories of  personal problems that prevented him from coming back to my house to finish the job.  Then, without explanation, no contact at all.  I went to the store where he worked, one of his colleagues told me he was in the hospital with a serious foot problem.

     I call and text daily but no reply.  His mailbox is full.  It’s hard to believe “M” is conning me for 100 bucks and a pile of planks?  I wonder if he’s lying in a hospital bed, unable to call or communicate, with some horrible problem with his feet.  
     Have I bought a line here?  Have I been had?  Now what should I do?
   
     All that follows I learned much later.  He had a fight with his girlfriend, she threw him out, he refused to leave, she called the police and they took him away.  She said he hit her.  He went to jail.   He came out and went back to work.  I reached him one day, finally, on the phone, and convinced him to bring back my wood and the paint, which he did, to his credit.  That night he called me and said I should pay him more money.  "How much?" I asked, just to see how far this crook would go.  "Fifty bucks," he said.  "Will that be enough?" I asked.  "Yes," he said.  "Thank you," I replied, "The check is in the mail.  Watch for it."
   
     I thought I was smarter than that.  

IMPATIENCE & OTHER COMPLAINTS

     Regarding my lack of patio furniture, I discovered the surprisingly fruitful dumpster bins in my complex, and a thrift shop on Redwood Avenue with fabulous stuff at cheap prices.  I now own twelve outdoor chairs, none of which afford me any moments of peace and quiet, living, as I do, on a busy road between the freeway and the Ferry.  I’m considering buying earplugs for visitors, if I ever get any after all this disclosure.  We could watch the great flocks of birds that swoop over the river at sunset, a billowing sailboat filled with wind, the silhouettes of runners and strollers, and ignore belching, booming farting vehicles, especially big buses whose drivers shift down right in front of my house as they barrel down Curtola Parkway and growl onto Mare Island Drive.

     The good news is my pulmonologist told me my lungs are already so bad the soot of the road won’t make them any worse, but I should keep up my swimming, the best exercise for me.  

     Since I arrived in Vallejo, I’ve been trying to find a good gym with a heated indoor swimming pool, which is no easy feat.  First, I had to survive the con-job hustle rip-off gangsters at In Shape, who refused to answer any of my questions, starting with, “do you have a pool?” unless I showed up at their facility, signed their waiver giving them permission to solicit me in any way they see fit (pun intended), and spoke to a “fitness specialist,” aka professional sales person who would earn a commission for signing me up.  I told them I wouldn’t step foot in their club even if they paid me.  Imagine my joy when I discovered 24 hour Fitness near Rahley’s, with its friendly welcoming staff, interesting enthusiastic members, a delightful 85 degree swimming pool.  As if all that's not enough, they offer Silver Sneakers free membership for seniors.  
  

     Yes, I’m hanging in, but I still have no shelves for books or clothing, because workers constantly let me down.  I know, eventually, at least before Christmas, hopefully, I’ll finish unpacking and things will settle down, surely, but it can’t be soon enough for me.   

     And, what ever happened to summer?  

     At least I enjoy visits to my grandkids, who light up my life and make everything else insignificant.  We’ve decided to create a cookbook for grandparents and grandkids; we'll call it Chopped Pickles: the three of us will come up with ideas and recipes, the 7 year old will do the illustrations, I’ll supervise the cooking and write it all down, and the 2 year old won’t stop reminding us not to forget strawberries, chicken and rice.

     On the subject of books, a couple of VIB readers bought my book and told me they loved it.  Thank you! There are several 5 star reviews posted on Amazon’s website, but sales aren’t exactly soaring; I need more business.  So, how about it?  Buy my book.  It’s a good story well told, with lots of sex and intrigue, without whining and complaining, I swear.  You’ll get hours of entertainment, and it’s only $2.99.  A bargain!  Go ahead.  Go to www.flatbushprincess.dom.  Look on Amazon Kindle Books for FLATBUSH PRINCESS.  Buy it.  Please!

IN DEFENSE OF THE COMPLAINTS ABOUT MY COMPLAINTS

First of all, let me make it clear: I never complained about Vallejo -- the city I chose of my own free will and about which I have no regrets -- or the people I’ve met, who continue to fascinate me in so many ways.  Those who read my last story and understood otherwise need to check their reading/language comprehension skills. 

What I did complain about, above all, was my own blunder in buying a condo on the heavily-trafficked main road along the river.  I was blinded by the fine views from every room, the 2 ½ bathrooms, the fireplace and spacious patios, and deafened by what I consider a perfect location, location, location.   It was my own dumb mistake and not the fault of Vallejo, although Vallejo could certainly do something about it by diverting trucks and buses off the river drive at Sonoma, which is a business street anyway, and turn Mare Island Way into a lovely tree-lined entrance into the city, with parks, roundabouts, flower beds, fountains, and other appealing sights to welcome visitors to our town. 

Then I complained about Cathy’s cleaning service, that didn’t clean, my general contractor, “R” who spoiled my concrete floor and knows nothing about hanging wallpaper, and my pathetic lack of patio furniture – which, come to think about it, was no big deal considering the experience of sitting on a busy speedway with a roaring car-chase movie taking place just inches away.  

One of my kind neighbors suggested I think of it as crashing surf, another said plants will help, and someone even proposed a water fountain.  Yeah, Niagara Falls, maybe.  These neighbors, so kind and helpful, prove the saying, misery loves company.

For those who think I haven’t plunged into Vallejo’s life, I want to point out that in addition to writing for VIB (the best blog in town), I subscribe to Vallejo News, and Vallejo Arts and Entertainment.  I read what’s going on and dutifully mark it all in my calendar.  I came out for the Artwalk on Georgia and Marin Streets on Friday night and went to the Filipino Culture Fair on Saturday, which turned out to be more of a black entertainment event, and a great one too, featuring some fabulous musicians and singers and a couple of skinny young teen-agers in white face, who tore up the street, lip synching and dancing so fine, they could qualify for America’s Got Talent.  

 I need to point out that only a handful of people showed up for this event.  Then, on Saturday, I attended a wonderful performance of La Boheme at the Mira Theatre, together with a mere 29 other souls, all of whom left hall in tears (spoiler: Mimi dies). 

I faithfully read the incessant NextDoor emails to find out what’s on in my neighbors’ minds, I try not to miss Moschetti’s on Saturday mornings, which lifts my spirits and brings new people into my life/  Next weekend I plan to visit the Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum, the Kennedy Library and watch a HUB performance of Waiting for Godot. 

A couple of weeks ago I had a front row seat at the drag show at the TownHouse, which was rollicking fun, attended an excellent photography exhibit at ARTIZEN, on Georgia Street, heard a rocking live rock and roll concert at the Empress Theatre, watched the Wacky Races, otherwise known as Absurdium, or something like that, on Mare Island, and sat through one long inning of the Admirals, or local baseball team, who lost.  Then I shopped for vegetables at our sumptuous Saturday morning farmer’s market, and of course, as any new home owner must, made another visit to Home Depot.  

There's no rest for the wicked in Vallejo, no end of entertainment and things to do for a new resident of this fair city.  I'm busy enough, so leave me alone.

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