Managers Special

Saturday I went to Trailer Park School (TPS) and quickly realized not everyone is cut out for this game. Believe it or not, there is ALOT to learn. Our teacher was an old sock and sandal, pleated front Docker, loud cotton plaid shirt wearing kind of hippy trained in the ways of space rental and knew the answer to every tough question thrown at him. He was good, reaaaaal good. He knew everything anyone would ever want to know about barking dogs and cars in the yard. Domestic violence? Been there. Meth labs? Done that. Trust me when I tell you, this man had mad skills.

The class started at 10:00 and we broke for lunch somewhere around 11:00. I was already feeling drained and we still had another five hours to go. I knew I was going to have to fuel up on our Costco "catered" lunch and drink as much of the burnt no name coffee as my taste buds would allow. It was going to be a very long day and I had forgotten the attention level required to keep up on such an intense course of study. That, and I haphazardly chose a bad bra that morning that was relentlessly poking into my armpit.

Our trailer park, "Aching Acres" was constructed in the late sixties or early seventies by my Grandfather who understood that the right and only way to do things was his way. This entire farm was built on the understanding that if it works, it's good enough. Come to find out some forty years later, that may not always be the case when it comes to state standards. Needless to say I have been graced by our local government on the ways and costs of bringing things up to code.

Ok, ok, ok so back to TPS. Everything was going smoothly, except for this one old seasoned PM (park manager to those of you out of the TP lingo loop) decided to pull rank on me and let her inner bitch out. I am telling you, this old bag reeked of Pall Malls and gin and wouldn't crack a smile for love nor money. As soon as she found out I wasn't using official Oregon lease agreements or using any other official documents or even doing anything officially she almost lost her mind and quickly decided it was her job to let me have it. All day. Her retinas must have burned to the point of blindness from giving me the stink eye for over four hours, and I don't know if her face hurt or not, but it was killing me. So, I just kept smiling and asking stupid questions to see if she would implode and melt into a puddle of cheap booze and ash. I think the elastic in the waistband of her stretch denims must have been to tight, because there's no other reason to be that big of a bitch.

Anyway, I made it and I'm now "certified" by the state of Oregon and the powers that be to correctly run a mobile home facility.



On a sad note, our one-legged chicken died last night. I guess it's for the best as it would have been difficult to find crutches or a prosthesis that small, but we are all still very saddened by her passing. The utility room just won't be the same without her peeping and flopping.

R.I.P Lucky ❤