"Kinda smokey in here, ain't it?"...

My first job the summer after graduating high school was a phone operator for Lowe’s Hardware.  So you know how you’re shopping around and hear that voice paging for misc. departments over the loud speaker?  My personal favorite was “Home Décor!  Line 4!”…Yeah, I was that.

Regardless it was a pretty decent job and paid pretty well too. I worked there for two summers.  Even got a promotion to bookkeeper.  Anyway, fast forward a year and my family moved from Virginia to Lexington, KY.  My manager at my job in Virginia was nice enough to put me in touch with the manager at Lowe’s of Lexington.  I was excited at the prospect of continuing to work with a familiar company.

I landed the job of bookkeeper in the new locale and arrived for my first day of work.  Greeting me on my first day on the job was a woman who was to be my boss.  I never interviewed with her, but if I had, I likely would have had doubts about my longevity.

She was a squatty 4’2”…maybe in her 60’s.  Her polyester pants straining under the girth of her stomach…her cheap belt looking as though it was a lasso reining in as much fat as it could muster. Her grey wirey hair was yanked into a ponytail. Did I mention she was a Marlboro red chain smoker?  Yeah that added to her charisma too.  As I entered the office she snuffed out her cigarette by grinding it to a pulp in her University of Kentucky Wildcat ashtray, then proceeded to waddle over to me. 

“You the new gal?” she asked with a thick Kentucky accent, ignoring my extended right hand I prepped for a handshake.  “I’m Angie.  I’ll be yer boss.  Have yearself a seat over thay-er” she indicated my desk by waving her crooked nicotine stained finger in the direction of a table set up in the corner.  Dazed, I found myself following her direction and sat down. 

In a vain attempt to break the glacier of ice between me and my new Appalachian friend, I turned to her as she lit a new cigarette.  In my most upbeat voice I could muster, I smiled and asked, “So Angie, are you from Lexington?” as though her accent wouldn’t have tipped me off.  “Yeah, bean heere all mi life.” she said as she waved the smoke away, “Ain’t no famlee of mine that ain’t fruum heere.”, then turned back to her work.  All I could say was, “That’s nice.”  As though I was really happy to get to know her in such an intimately special way. 

By 10 a.m., the entire office was a cloud of second hand smoke.  I’m not a smoker so the experience was awful.  I felt as though I’d have emphysema by lunch.  Gagging, thick smoke.  Still I thought, “Maybe things will get better.  It’s only my first day.”  I was wrong.

Later in the day, as I sat gasping for oxygen at my desk, I heard her say through the wall of smoke that separated us, “You need to feeks the way you dray-ess.”  Surprised, I waved away enough smoke to make out the outline of her body so I knew where to turn to reply.  Confused, I said, “I don’t understand what you mean.  What about my outfit is violating Lowe’s dress code?”…She swiveled in her chair, rolled over to my desk and proceeded to show me her bloated foot jammed into an orthopedic open toe sandal….her toes with nails not unlike ruffled potato chips stretching and writhing beneath a net of reinforced nude hose.  She grabbed a pencil and used it as a pointer.  “Thayse here”, she said as she tapped her foot with her pencil.  As though I didn’t understand what footwear was,  “Hose, nee-ude, wit thees tap of shooo.  Yerra wearin’ them black sock and flats.  It ain’t professional.”  I half-heartedly agreed, as though I’d immediately go to Wal-Mart’s orthopedic sandal section so I could further my career with Angie. 

I think that day was the longest workday of my life.  5 o’clock couldn’t arrive fast enough, and when it finally did, I grabbed my purse and proceeded to clock out.  She looked up from her desk smiling.  I thought she was going to tell me to have a good night, that I did well for my first day.  “Year clocked out?” she asked.  “Yep!  It was so nice meeting you today!” I said, lying through my teeth. She held up her finger and said, “Now now, hold yerself fer jist meenit.  I got suppin’ fer yas.” 

A wave of relief came over me as I thought, “She was extra tough on me today and I passed the muster with flying colors.”  Other thoughts that ran through my head?  “Fruit basket”, “Cookie bouquet” “Job well done plaque”….Probably not realistic, but still optimistic.

No.  She returned with a dirty grey mop, a rolling bucket of filthy brownish grey water and a yellow “Piso Mojado” sign…you know, with the stick guy falling?  “Wet floor” I think it translates to. Confused, I stood there as she handed me the mop.  “What is this for?” I asked.  “Yer gotta clean dem bathrooms before you leave ya know.”  “But I just clocked out.” “I know, yer gunna do it off the clock”. 

She proceeded to take me to the store’s public bathrooms.  “See this?” she asked pointing to the disgustingly dirty floor.  “Jist take that there mawp and geeve eet a good washin’”  I looked at her blankly and replied, “Sorry Ang, ain’t happenin’” as though my putting on a Kentucky dialect would bring some type of commonality between us.  “Whatcha meen?” “I mean I quit!”  I announced as I handed her the mop….And walked out. 

Never did hear from her or the store.  Probably made up some story about why I didn’t work out.  Took me a month to get the smoke smell out of my car after driving home that night.

I’m sure a few of you have similar stories...

See ya…

I was a Master Baker...

Did you know I was the master cinnamon roll maker in my house?  It’s true.  I’m sure you’ll be amazed to know I made them every single Sunday before church. 

My foray into cinnamon roll making started in Home Economics.  Do they even teach that course anymore?  I don’t know.  They did when I was in 8^th grade.  Learned to sew crappy potholders and maybe even an apron, but cooking was my favorite.

One day we walked into class to find a can of Pillsbury biscuit dough at each of our cooking stations.  The recipe was pretty straightforward:

Preheat oven, melt stick of butter in pan.  Dip biscuit in cinnamon/sugar mixture, dip in butter, re-dip in sugar mixture.  Place in pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes.  Enjoy!

The cool part to me that was not included in the recipe above was the presentation. Very carefully with a paring knife, a ½ inch slit was cut in the middle of the biscuit disk.  You’d then fold two sides of the circle underneath pull them through the center.  You did this before baking the dough.  The end result looked not unlike what many of us know as a clitoris. 

Sure, my dad smirked when I initially made them at home.  “Why are you laughing Dad?” I’d ask innocently pulling out a tray of bubbling baked cinnamon sugar clitori. “Nothing, they just look like belly buttons.”  he’d reply.  It was only later I realized the source of his laughter.  We were all eating vajajay rolls.  Coated in sugar.  Baked with love to a delightfully sweet and light goodness. 

They did taste good.  Probably would still make them if I could keep a straight face.  If any of you host me I’ll bring them over and we’ll share a good laugh.

Jesus Christ I need help.

See ya.

If it looks like an Irishman...

Happy Saint Patrick's Day everyone!  Are you Irish?  Not that it matters because we all celebrate the day, right?  I didn't know I was Irish until I was in sixth grade.  I mean sure, St. Patty's Day always meant a trip to Hallmark to pick out a cool shamrock pin, but I just wanted to be like my friends...I didn't know I was indeed Irish.

You'd think my parents would clue me in.  I mean my grandmother was a red head who enjoyed corned beef and soda bread.  Two of my sisters with their red hair and fair freckled complexion look so Irish they could pose at Ellis Island.

My dad loved Irish setters.  Bought me one for my birthday when I turned five.  Mom made him take it back, but still...Maybe he was trying to clue me in to my heritage without mom knowing about it.  I didn't get the hint.  Bye puppy.  Nice knowing you Irish Setter.  I just call him "Irish Setter" because I only spent about an hour with him.  Didn't get the chance to name him.  Regardless because I didn't know I was Irish, I would probably would have come up with some dumb name like "Fluffy" or "Red" instead of  "O'Mahoney" or "Shamrock".  Cool Irish names.

I liked Irish novelties like green leprechaun and shamrock stickers.  I drew lots of rainbows.  I also found Lucky Charms to be my favorite cereal.  I liked to hoard the marshmallows.  Irish breakfast if you will...

I couldn't dance too well.  Don't the Irish do a little jig with their feet going cloppity clop in a cool rhythmic fashion?  Yeah, couldn't do that.  Maybe that threw me off my Irish ancestral scent trail....

I don't know why, but on a sunny Saint Patricks Day in sixth grade I approached my mom as though I was going to have the big 'talk'.  I just asked her.  Flat out.  "Am I Irish?"  I needed answers.  There had to be a reason for my attraction to all things Irish.  The answer? "Trina, of course you're Irish.  You didn't know that?  Your grandmother, her mother, her mother's mother were all of Irish descent."  As though it was common knowledge.

I shared the news with my siblings.  We were pretty jazzed to learn we were indeed Irish.  Real Irish people.  Not the ones who make the claim on March 17th.  I was a little miffed that I had celebrated my Saint Patrick's Days of yesteryear under what I thought was the guise of being Irish....

My anger melted away once I put on that green construction paper hat...with the buckle.  Truly Irish indeed...

Outta here...

Wait, this looks familiar...

I used to love french braids.  I toiled and practiced hundreds of times to learn how to do them and eventually mastered the craft.  My favorite look was a single braid down the back of my head.  With pouffy bangs.  Not unlike what I now know as a polygamist.  Please see Exhibit A below:

Exhibit A:  Polygamist Hair

I also loved Gunne Sax dresses.  A very special day was when I wore my red one with a french braid.  Not unlike the styles worn by what I now know as a polygamist.  Well, ok, maybe a sexy polygamist.  But still...See Exhibit B below:

Exhibit B:  Polygamist Dress, sexy style

Somewhere there's a picture of me in a red Gunne Sax dress with a french braid, holding my flute while sitting in a winged back wicker chair.  Good grief.

I mean, really..Anything else to add here?  Aside from telling you I was an idiot?


Outta here....

Things I thought were cool, but probably weren't...

Here are a few things I thought added to my coolness factor when I was a kid:

I used to like roller skating.  No, put the visual of white leather skates with a stopper to rest.  I liked it more dangerous than that.  Metal skates.  Ones that were adjustable by loosening a wingnut.  You'd wear them over your sneakers.  Mine just didn't seem fast enough so I snuck into my dad's WD-40 to grease the skids so to speak.  My neighbor used to say, "Wow, Trina!  You're a daredevil! SO FAST!" as I raced downhill.  You know how those ski jumpers pose just before they take off from the platform?  All bent at the knee? I'd do that...

I liked riding my pink bike with a denim banana seat over plywood ramps.  Did I mention the chain guard read, "Sweet and Sassy"?  It did.  Anyway, I was always trying to catch some air...is that how you say it?  Glide across like a professional BMX-er.  Pretty dumb.  I didn't even have a dirt bike.  Lame.

I orchestrated neighborhood parades.  Yep, sure did.  I'd make all the neighbor hood kids pull out their wagons, big wheels (green machines were preferred), bikes...We'd tell our parents a big parade was coming down Sherwin Circle...Get out your lawnchairs cause it's gonna be great.  I remember one year dressing my sister and brother as clowns.  I used upside down Ohio State pom poms for their clown hair.  Yep, I did that.

I liked rolling up aluminum foil and placing it across my teeth.  Like braces.  I thought my friends looked cute with braces.  I wanted them...I actually needed them.  My parents kept taking me to dentists until they found one who said I didn't need them.  But I digress.  I loved braces.  Girls who had braces in Junior High climbed to the top of the "Most Beautiful and Popular" list.  The best foil to use for faux braces was Wrigley's gum wrappers by the way.  By today's standard's I was actually creating a grill, but no one knew about those back then, did they?

I was good at making fart noises with my armpit.  You know, how you place your palm in your pit and then pumped your other arm as its bent at a 90 degree angle?  Really, it was a hoot.  My siblings will tell you I was the best.  I thought that was cool too.

I went through a rhythmic gymnastics phase too.  I wasn't good enough for the real flippy, bendy stuff.  I felt rhythmic gymnastics looked pretty easy by comparison.  I especially loved the ribbon on a stick deal.  You've seen that right?  The girl does all kinds of pretty poses and dance moves as she twirls the ribbon?  I fancied myself like that...Only I used toilet paper.  Would it have been to much to ask for some standard ribbon?  Probably not...But if I was lucky and the toilet paper came in a pastel color, I felt it made a nice substitute for the real deal.  Floated through the air quite nicely.  Only downside was it tore pretty easily if my leg caught it during a spin on my mother's linoleum floor.

I'm sure you have a few of your own things you thought were cool.  Right?  Come on, out with it!  Make me feel a little less weird.

Later!

Everyone take cover, I'm prepping dinner...

My dad enjoyed cooking once in awhile.  I think mostly because he enjoyed buying and experimenting with different culinary tools...He had an ice cream maker, a deep fryer...His favorite though was a pressure cooker.

Maybe you've seen one.  I couldn't tell you what a modern pressure cooker looks like, but the one we had was a stainless steel pan with a latching and locking lid.  There was a little gizmo (no idea what to call that thing on top) that like a spinning top balanced atop the entire contraption.  

I also couldn't tell you of any delicious meals he made in there.  Never do I remember getting wide-eyed in anticipation of the meal that was to come from that thing.  I think he made cow tongue in there once.  Liver and onions...In fact, I'm kind of getting that gaggy reflex just recounting his pressure cooker meals.

What I can tell you is that my dad, when he did use our pressure cooker was a 6 foot 3 inch, 198 pound tower of chicken shit.  Really.  He'd pull the pan out from the least used cabinet in the kitchen and ask that everyone remain out of the kitchen for the duration of its use.  I actually remember getting nervous when he used it.  I envisioned the pan blowing up, liver and onions all over mom's white ceiling.  Pressure cooker shrapnel in the cabinets that absorbed the impact of the explosion.

After evacuating his family, he'd proceed to assemble his recipe inside the pan, then lock and load.  Meaning he'd check and recheck to ensure all parts of the pan were assembled safely.  Then he'd crank the heat.  I remember that dumb thing making this god awful hissing noise.  A constant reminder to us that some disgusting cut of meat was in there, simmering, and I'd be forced to choke it down.

Dad's usual routine also involved relieving the pressure valve once he thought the food was ready.  He look for the longest BBQ tongs he could find, stand at arm's length away, and squint his eyes as he cautiously opened the pressure valve.  Steam would come hissing out.  He'd look relieved to have escaped injury.

One day after Dad went through the entire pressure cooker routine, I happened to walk into the kitchen as he was relieving the pressure with his BBQ tongs.  I have no idea what came over me, but I screamed in the loudest, deepest voice I could muster, 'BOOOOOMMMM!!!!'.  I scared him so badly he threw the tongs as though he had expected the explosion...knew his safety plan to escape the aftermath.   He went to hit the deck.  The only glitch in his evacuation route was he forgot he left the dishwasher door open.   He tripped over it during his escape and landed face first in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I knew it wasn't wise, but I couldn't help laughing my ass off.  Yes, he was mad.  No, I didn't get dinner that night...

Thank god...It was probably liver and onions.

See ya!

We've got nothing for you Trina...

I don't need to tell you my name is Trina.  You already know that...But did you know I used to have a deep seeded resentment toward companies who made personalized name stuff?

You know the drill...Placemats, mugs, keychains...with your name.  As though there was a person who held up the trinket and said, "Now THIS looks like something a "Jeff" would like!" then proceeds to print Jeff's name on the item.

I remember my first dose of non-Trina reality when I was in kindergarten.  My mom went shopping at Kmart.  There in the middle of housewares was a rotating display with placemats.  A buttload of them....with names.  For some reason, the thought of having something with my name on it really got me jazzed.  And so I rotated the display, carefully studying the names, "Tina, Tricia, Trish, Tracey, Tamara..."  No 'Trina'.  Oh, but there was "Katrina"...May as well call me "Kathy"...Close?  Yes, but no cigar.

I became somewhat fixated on finding something, anything, with my name emblazoned on it.  You could have handed me an oil drip pan with "Trina" engraved on the bottom and I would have been flipped my lid with joy.  An oil pan, ridiculous, but I also know if they did make monogrammed ones,  you'd never, ever find one with my name.

Every time I was out with my mom I found myself checking keychain displays, mugs, magnets, mini license plates.  I'd get excited with anticipation as I'd slowly turn to the 'T' section and go through the same agonizing search...Jack diddly squat.

I used to ponder why my parents gave me the name "Trina" in the first place.  I was the first born...I guess they thought it was special.  "No, no...Not 'Katrina'...let's be more progressive than that..." I envisioned my mom saying.  Maybe they had high expectations for me that I would break the non-Trina monogramming glass ceiling.

No, maybe my name was just fucked up.  Like the companies who made the custom stuff at one time got my name as a potential candidate for a "(enter any name in the world except 'Trina')'s room.  KEEP OUT!" type of sign.  The CEO scoffing as he reads it...then says, "Who the hell has the name 'Trina'?  Add a 'Ka' to the beginning please...get it right for god's sake."  Someone has their ass handed to them for even suggesting it.

When I was finally old enough to drive, I convinced my dad to allow me to put 'TRINA' on my license plates.  I was so psyched as I went to the DMV to order them.  Finally.  Something with my name...I will have arrived.  I went to the custom license plate computer and entered, "TRINA".  The response?  "Plate already taken.  Please try another."  Every combination of "TRINA" I could think of was taken.  Awesome.  I understood why though.  Those girls named Trina wanted something with their name on it too.  I felt their pain.

To this day? Nothing...Yes, I still look.  I'll let you know if I ever find anything*.

Later...


*No suggestions of ordering custom stuff.  I'm talking about merchandise on demand...in stores.