Transplanted

I like the little truism "Bloom Where You're Planted". It encourages me to simply do the obvious next right thing, with what's at hand and I'll blossom. I've been back at my  much loved work (with only a slightly different flavor and location) for a month now. When I look into the mirror, whether literally or metaphorically, I am amazed at the profusion of sprouts and blooms. Oh, to be sure, there are few stalks or full flowers yet. But compared to only a short time ago, it's as if I've been given a strong application of spiritual, mental and emotional Miracle Gro. Don't read this as "everything's wonderful". Everything is not. But almost everything is much better. And that is huge.

I never really knew George, beyond the knowledge that he was nominally related to "us". I worked only for A1 Carpet Care and was David's assistant. David's preference was that I be bonded to him and to A1 and that others in the special little world give me space to do what I do. And that worked fine for us all. Now I work for both David and George, seated in the place where George can be found most times. David pops in many times a day, many times simply to read my face, and we burn up the cyberworld with text messages and emails. It is a wonderful time in space for one who loves to connect with others, such as I.

George, it is clear to me, is a man who "does for" women. He is strong, well-established, sure of himself, knows his way around the planet, and - more importantly - around Las Vegas. He is rather aggressive and confrontational with men, seemingly unprovoked, sometimes. Conversely, he is rather courtly toward women - all women. When a female openly ponders about how to accomplish some task, George gets right in it, partly advising and partly trying to shoulder some of the required action. I am of mixed feelings about this "being taken care of". Mostly I resist it, though I listen to advice. Sometimes (less frequently), I'm simply grateful for a little assist in a mundane errand or dilemma. George calls me (and other females) "darlin' " with some degree of frequency. This is something I've never appreciated from anyone in business, but I have not yet prickled about it coming from George. That's what he does, naturally. If I find it truly objectionable, I'll say so, and I am certain he would modify.

I'd worked only a couple of weeks when my birthday came. I hadn't peeped a word about it, but it was not forgotten. I was only slightly taken aback when David popped in and said, "Grab a pen and pad. Come upstairs with me." No, he's not curt or rude. We just speak in shorthand sometimes. Usually when he goes short-of-words that way, it means his brain is bubbling with the newest idea. It never occurred to me we could have chatted downstairs right where we were at the time. I just hollered out, "Going upstairs with David!" and climbed the stairs in the broiling sun. When I went back down, with David hot on my heels, I learned I'd been had. George took me by the shoulder to the embarrassing moment  . . .

Some of these made a much-
appreciated gift. Hey! I'd been
unemployed for a year. This was
exciting! My head whirled.

Edible flowers. I ate one to prove it.
I sprayed the rest with a matte acrylic
spray to preserve them for some
future use other than simply add-
ing to my momentary pleasure
and future body weight.  ;~}

I decided to put half of my windfall into savings, use some to repair some of the harm to my personal business after a year of neglect, and some to buy a couple of things I'd not been able to afford before. Part of that was easy: make a bank deposit. Some of it was glorious: I bought a modest haul of art supplies I'd hungered to own and use. Some of it was daunting, just a little, because I still cannot easily handle more than a few demands at a time. My car, Lucy Sue, looked shameful. Mostly, she had sat for a year, collecting not miles, but dust and grime and hard-water stains. A drive-through car wash wasn't going to do the job and I'm not physically up to cleaning her decently. Along comes George. "I know just what to do, darlin'!" He fumbled for his cell phone and barked out, "Get your ass down here to the office. I need you." I cringed at the approach and waited for whomever to appear. Enter Pablo, a male who has given service to George for many years. He's likely accustomed to barked orders and good pay.  An hour later, during which time George ran out into the parking lot windmilling his arms and pointing out tiny spots of Lucy Sue needing attention, the car gleamed. It smelled good. At the end of my day, George took me outside by the elbow, opened the car for me and damned nearly hooked up my seatbelt across my lap. I drove off feeling pretty happy. I'd paid the enormous sum of $20 plus tip. It was a small investment in feeling a whole lot better.

One finds it in the little
things, small connections.

The next day, a Friday, it was monsoonal, hell for hot and threatening rain. This did not make me happy, as my car sat out in the open. I dreamed at the window a little bit, observing the gray sky and traveling back in time. I wondered whether Vicente still cleaned cars as poorly as a car can be "cleaned", still exuded the charm that pulled me magnetically and whether he had ever received his transplanted kidney. I experienced a little wave of sadness and went back to work. How can this happen in real time, reader? For I am not even slightly fictionalizing this: a man walked past my window outside. I only had a fraction of a second to experience the lightning bolts going off in my head. He opened our door to enter. He made eye contact with me as I sat behind the desk. He nearly dropped to the floor. He began to visibly tremble. He clutched at his chest a la Fred Sanford having the big one. "Leslie! Ay, dios mio!" I vacillated between grinning and tearing up. "Hola, Vicente." "Leslie!" He came behind the counter and took me by the hand. His English has not improved, nor has my Spanish. Other than talk about car cleaning, and limited talk at that, we have trouble communicating to completed concepts. This took me aback only a little: he put my open hand on his chest - hot from hellish heat, wet from his profession - car washing involves water, even for Vicente - heart pounding nearly out of his skin. I could physically feel all of this. He continued to grin at me, trembling. I was struck - for the 9 millionth time in life - by the mystery and joy of connecting purely with one other human being whom one can't help being drawn to. I don't know why I am so bonded to a man who really does a poor job that I pay him for. He is not "hot for me", nor am I for him. It's not that. But whatever one calls it, we have it and it goes deep. After he collected himself, Vicente (of course) put the moves on me about the car. That's his livelihood. I impressed upon him that the car had just been detailed "jesterday". "Oh, jesterday?" I nodded. "Next week, Leslie?" I nodded. David walked in and took in the grand reunion. Vicente left and David grinned from ear to ear. "And you'll still be giving him a 50% tip, won't you?" I nodded. The story of Vicente's return into my small arena does not end here. He (and others) will be the subject of my next post after I grab a couple of photos I need. Across the period of a year, Vicente got his transplant and Leslie got sober. I told him, partly in pantomime, about my alcohol fueled crash and burn. "Ay, dios mio! Now better, Leslie?" I told him I was better now.

David stayed nearby, leaning against my counter on his forearms, a stance I now recognize as the newest, "Let's talk" pose. I was intrigued by his look, as he isn't the only one between us who "reads face". "What's going on, Sir? I can see you're percolating." In our little world are represented many different beliefs and belief systems. A fragment of knowledge about astrology used to make us crow about the Virgo Brigade in our world under the stucco canopy, back where the world can't see us. For in a group of maybe 25 people, several key players were Virgos: David, me, the much-loved and now gone Rudy, Cesar, the wonderful carpet technician. We knew our world ran well because of our Virgoan superiority . . I'm kidding! We thought it was interesting. "You know Trudy?" Sure, I do. She now manages A1 Carpet Care and I don't resent her for it. She was looking for a job when I surrendered mine. She seems to have done well with it and David has told me she is now "one of the family".  "Her birthday is the same day as yours, August 24th. She's exactly one year older than you are." I grinned. "Sir, how the hell did you manage that?" He grinned that slow, broad beam and shook his head from side to side, slowly. "I didn't know until a couple of days ago. I had to scramble so her birthday wouldn't go 'forgotten'." And so it goes . . .

In my ears this weekend:  Because I love just about anything he performed . .

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Things are not grand at work. We've had some issues with a couple of technicians that have cast a shadow of gloom on everyone who remains. Thursday, the skies clouded over and I sat alone, listening to the phones not ringing, and pondering what 2010 will bring. We're whittled down to "any fewer workers and we won't be able to run this rodeo". But that matches the number of jobs I'm booking, so maybe it's fortuitous the renegades keep firing themselves. At a staff meeting in November, David mused that he was concerned Mr. and Mrs. General Public would forego carpet cleaning this holiday season and tell their visiting in-laws to forgive the dirty carpets, it was a question of that or gifts. I hate it when David is right.

Monday night, Stephanie tore me up at my massage and we spent a long time trying to identify what I had done to myself to mess up neck, pectorals, trapezoids, shoulder and arm so badly. Tuesday, I was in misery from so much trigger point work. I went back Wednesday evening and she resorted to the big guns - structural massage and more trigger point work. There were probably 50 triggers to be dealt with, many of them in the pectoral muscles. Melting trigger points in the pecs feels much like being jabbed hard with a large needle. I don't care for it much. Concerned about how "crudded up" (insider massage therapist talk) I was, Stephanie pulled my chart to find out when was the last time I was so twisted up. "Limes, what was going on during these dates?" I told her and she closed the chart. "I think you have December holiday distress issues, Limes. That's why you're such a mess." Oh. She had me lie back down so she could do some craniosacral and energy work. She asked me if I'd like to tell her some of the traumas. I gave her the sanitized version of how it all happened. I delivered it without any tears or anger. Unusual for me. I was just able to tell the sad story. When I was dressed to leave, Stephanie asked me to do something. She wants me to do something nice for myself, give a holiday gift to myself, and tell her about it next week.

I had to disengage from an unhealthy situation this week. I didn't enjoy it. And I couldn't respect myself if I stayed in it one moment longer. So I took the first necessary step, at the holidays. I don't like it much. And I wasn't liking myself much, either.

It would be easy for me to slide into a puddle. I've had to work actively not to do that. When the office is too quiet, or when a potential customer has pulled me through the eye of a needle and I still didn't book the job, I get up and clean one office window, or dust a bookcase or use my weights and bands. I brought a hula hoop to work and plan to use it to get some of the good blood and energy flowing. I'm safe. I can see anyone approaching the door and can quickly discard my pink, plastic, noise-making, light-flashing CosmoHoop.

So, gathering my thoughts, planning a blog post or three, organizing my emotions on the shelf in alphabetical order . . . what am I going to do right now, today?

In a quiet moment when none of the "children" were present, David talked to me about my future if our business fails. He has yet another business venture on the horizon. He's attended the seminars, met the CEO, done his research. He will hit the ground running at the first of the year, and Limes will be building a new business from the ground up ~ budgets and systems, checks and balances, websites and marketing. He has sufficient business interests that I will not be on the streets. I am worried about home dudes. If the carpet cleaning division does not stay afloat, they will be competing in the same job market as thousands of other Las Vegans. I've stopped trying to control any of this. I don't do anything other than what David tells us to do. "Do what we do. Do it as well as we do it. Come back and do it the next day. We will get back as good as we put out." I plan to tell him today that I've never before surrendered my fears and just followed someone I believed in. I couldn't do that with/for my husband. I can do it now with/for me and with/for us.

During the past year, we've bought and swapped ever larger, more luxurious bird homes across two households and it happens that I have a very nice small-ish one cleaned and sitting empty in my living room. Yes, I know an empty bird home isn't decor. I've also had my eye on a little treat for more than a year, but when the economy scared me, I stopped lusting after it. I made that promise to Stephanie about giving myself a gift . . . . so today, that empty bird home sits in my car where Vicente will have to clean around it. And tonight I will stop at PetSmart. Bloomsbury and Benson need some feed and treats. And I need to finally buy the zebra finches. They're the most beautiful things I have seen in a long time. They are exuberant singers and tiny - not four inches long. They like to live in colonies, and as I look at the bank balance and credit cards, I'm hoping 3-4 birds might constitute a colony.

This morning I made the predawn Wal-Mart pilgrimage. I detest giving those people my money and I loathe going there at holiday time. However, I've sacrificed some of my finer sensibilities in favor of low prices and if I go at 4:30 a.m., I can avoid the crowds. This requires me to get up at a shocking hour to fit in my walk. But the payoff is getting to watch the collection of humanity that shops at Wal-Mart in the middle of the night a week before Christmas. I'm sure they think I'm a specimen, too. I bought a basket full of camping necessities that will make for a smooth desert solstice celebration. Mantles and fuel and tent stakes . . . funny, no one else shopped in the sporting goods section at 4:45 a.m. In one week, we'll be pushing off about now. I need to organize the menus and gather the colored pencils, the books.

Happy holidays, everyone.

In my ears right now: Oh, you knew this. It's still Cyndi Lauper and Peter Kingsbury doing Walk Away Renee. I shouldn't play it any more.

Something that charmed me: Vicente and Lucy own very good mobile car detailing equipment and supplies. They wear uniform shirts and present well. They both charm me for all manner of reasons, but I have enjoyed watching them shift the way they do business in a tight economy. I was always "honey" to them. For more than two years. Take the keys, return the keys, take the check: "Thank you, honey." Most recently as we have pantomimed about hard prospects for business, I have noticed something they now do invariably. They call me "Limes". They use my name. And they take my hand and grasp it for just a moment. I like it. I respect them. They've got savvy. They're doing it just the way we're doing it. The very best they can.

Something that doesn't charm me: I don't hula hoop very well. I did 45 years ago. But I know how to learn things.

Matt's Contributions

So, home dudes are kind of getting into this blogging thing, as long as I will read the posts and point out the fine points. But each of them has picked up on saying "L-i-i-i-imes . . " when they radio me. When I hear that, it's like a sweet, invisible grin. We're sharing a laugh, sharing fun, while not in one another's presence. When I read my post aloud the other day, Matt said, "Limes, that's just like listening to a story!" "It is a story, home dude! Telling one's experiences is sharing the story of life and how it affects oneself." "You do it good, Limes." "I thank you, sir."

Friday, I brought the Badger's car to work. Vicente was to detail it. Home dudes were to clean the carpet and upholstery and apply stainguard. The Badger has nearly driven the tires off of that Prius going to and from races.

Around the Badger, a certain aura has developed. Matt asked for a photo to be posted and dedicated to him. The Badger acquiesced. Home dudes listen to me tell of his many exploits and adventures. They think the Badger is the coolest old homey because of his cycling and other aspects of his life they've heard about. His magic car was admired and appreciated by all. Limes got to show off quite a bit during the day. "Damn, Limes, you can't hear a thing!" "Limes, how can it get 100 mpg even for a moment? Is that legal?"

In the top photo is Matt hand scrubbing the Badger's floor mat in 108 degrees of heat. It is his third time scrubbing it, because this floor mat is thrashed. The young man walked up the stairs several times to show me the progress made on this one floor mat. He radioed me repeatedly to jawbone about a particular spot on the upholstery or a speck on the carpet. "Matt, he knows he waited too long and he knows it can't be perfect. We know you're doing the best that can be done." He cleaned that car so well, that to continue would have caused permanent fiber damage. He cleaned all the plastic panels with tanner to get out the accumulated sunscreen and other debris. He cares about the quality of his work. He cares about doing a good job for Limes. He cares about doing a good job for old home dude.

Today we have a very full schedule (we're thankful!) and home dudes were about to set out for a very long day that will reach 110 degrees. They are all careful to carry enough water and sports drinks to keep on their feet. They work hard. Matt was grinning, holding something behind his back. "I have something gangsta for your blog, Limes." He showed me his half gallon of Minutemaid that will only be the first of several. I didn't immediately catch on. "Made with Real Limes, Limes!" Ha! And then he proceeded to tell me how I should Photoshop it and frame it and monkey with its resolution . . . yes, home dudes are kind of getting into this blogging thing.

In my ears right now: Still Emmylou Harris singing Crescent City. I guess the needle is stuck in the groove. And Matt wouldn't understand that reference.

Something that charmed me: I am surrounded by a very diverse group of people. We differ in age, gender, interests and many core values. But there is a common thread I love. "If it matters to her, then it matters to me . . if he cares about it, then I care about it." It's a beautiful thing!

Vicente

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

In June in the desert we get dramatic skies and days that alternate screaming wind (which flings dust into crevices everywhere) with spitting rain. This morning's raindrop count in my part of the valley was 147 on my front windshield, 19 on my rear windshield, 1 on my eyelid behind my glasses as I got out of the car. Speaking of that car, it looks like someone has thrown mudpies at it and that makes me unnappy. The inside is pristine, the outside looks like hell and where the Sam Hill is Vicente?

Vicente is a tall, stocky Mexican-American man who drives his rig around Las Vegas, pops into businesses and asks if people need to have their cars washed or detailed. He is not young. His black eyes dance. His dentistry includes gold "frames" around all of this front teeth and he has a smile that must make his face ache. His rig is quite presentable and the signage on it is expensive. It's my sense that he does well in his business. He wears good clothing - appropriate to what he does for a living, but good quality, clean, decent. Even a small woman alone would not be concerned about giving her car keys to Vicente - one is certain he will only drive it around the corner of the parking lot and return it to its parking stall.

To say that English is Vicente's second language would be saying too much. He has mastered every phrase he needs, however: "Need car wash?" "You're beautiful." "$20." "How's business?" If one tries to engage him in conversation, perhaps to suggest that she would like her car washed every other week rather than most Fridays . . . . his face becomes the perfect mask of puzzlement. Now I'm pretty good in a pinch, so I tried to show him that every other week thing on a huge calendar posted in the office. Uh-uh. No comprende. So, OK, it's not like I'm spending grocery money on car washes. I'll stick with the convenience of it and continue on with it most Fridays.

The trouble with our 2-year tango is this: Vicente is the poorest car washer in the world. He must like to vacuum the carpet, because it always has those cool diamond-shaped pattern from the vacuum attachment. I know he goes after the windows with vigor. On them he uses the towels with oily substances, so when I get in to drive it, I get the bright shiny grease slick effect. Never ever has he lowered the windows to get to the entire glass surface. I can tell when I lower the windows by the colletion of dust on the top strip. My windshield wipers always have threads of white towel flapping. My spilled Starbucks seems destined to remain on the console forever. My boss had Vicente clean his car once and has never repeated the experience for all my reasons stated.

And then there's his schedule! He says "every Friday". But it's more like every Friday when there's rain promised for Friday night, and never on the Friday when the week-long rain showers have ended. It's like "this guy washes cars - that's his livelihood. Doesn't he know when people want to have their cars washed?" So why do I put up with it? There are other options.

Except Vicente has charmed me. First he shared some new English words with me that he has learned. "Kidney dialysis" and "want to see my shunt?" When I heard that, I knew I'd be buying these car washes for as long as he can deliver them up between dialysis visits. My co-workers shake their heads on the Fridays that I write the check with the 50% tip. Even I have thought of asking my co-worker Cesar to speak to Vicente in Spanish and tell him our small business is feeling the pinch, and I can only afford car washes on a less frequent schedule.

And then he charmed me further. Two weeks ago Vicente chugged up the stairs to my second floor office to return my keys and collect his check. My iPod was playing and his face kind of lit up. "Beatles?" I smiled and nodded my head. And the man opened his mouth and let fly with a list of perfectly prounounced names: Jim Morrison, Mick Jagger, Herman's Hermits, Dave Clark Five, Gerry & The Pacemakers, The Animals, Jefferson Airplane . . . . . I am sure my jaw dropped, literally. And I haven't seen him since. I hope I do, and soon.

In my ears right now: Emmylou Harris - Artist's Choice

Why I like it: These CDs sold by Starbucks feature music selected by various well-known artists. I own a number of them and they always lead me to new, interesting performers. Musician's musicians.

Something that charmed me today: Remembering Vicente's recitation of every known music group of the 60's-70's. In perfect English.