This Old Trailer, Now On PBS

No, not really, unless PBS stands for Patty’s Best Sh*t. I don’t curse out loud, so I’m not sure why I do it here. Probably a little cathartic.

For those of you who are new to our program, we own a house in Delaware and a mobile home in Clearwater, FL. The Florida house was only $8,000. There was a reason for that. It was missing quite a lot of floor in the master bath, and the entire house was decorated in early 1970s schlock. The walls were fake grey paneling. The white wall to wall carpeting was black in many areas. The homeowner enjoyed cooking with massive quantities of grease while smoking stogies constantly. The walls weren’t really grey, they were brown. The house was disgusting, but it had good bones.

We basically have treated this house as a resto-mod, if you are a car enthusiast. We ripped out several walls, got rid of the kitchen door, and put in really nice kitchen cabinets.  I bought a lot of really nice designer furniture from a Vietnamese family that was moving from their beautiful home to Seattle. We lucked out.

The Big Guy (known as TBG for you Newbies) got his electrician’s license while studying to become an engineer. Very handy. He’s rewired the entire kitchen and living room. We are still trying to figure out why two circuit breakers in the box actually melted before we moved in. Gah. We have put up insulation and getting ready to button it up with dry wall.

One thing we did last year was paint the outside of the house beachy colors: aqual and coral. After we had it painted, people would drive by the house really slowly. People happily came up to us and told us how much they hated the colors. Our 80 year old neighbor didn’t talk to us for a month.

Time does heal; our neighbors love us again. We’re always doing something bizarre outside, and everyone here does enjoy good gossip. We make good fodder for the rumor mill. That’s ok. If you are going to live in a mobile home community, you’re going to be living with some really OLD people. Really old. I am one of the youngest ones living here. The park takes 40 year olds, but the percentage of Really Old has to be 75%.

So that is the back ground on This Old Trailer. I think in between talking about my wonderful traveling childhood and anything else I can think of writing, I’ll bring this up from time to time. Remember, if you want to experience the pleasure of restoring a house without the work, do this: stand in your shower with the cold water running, now start shoving $100 bills down the drain. Oh wait, that happened when we owned the sailboat. Yet another story.

Ah… the carport. The stairs on the middle left is gone along with that door. The ceiling is painted plain white and those awful shutters are gone. That’s it for now. Managed to stab myself in the eye with an oleander leaf. If I write later, you’ll know it didn’t kill me.

wcarport 201214123561921001412356220731d.  rug view from front door1412356140359  1412356210343

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To The Person Who Drilled a Screw into My Mustang

My front left tire had a six inch screw in it today. The man at the dealership said the only way it got all the way in there was to use a power drill.

The interesting thing is that where we live in Florida, there are three Mustangs on two streets. We are all friends. We all had the same type of screws in our front tires. Are people just not raised right anymore?? Does someone have a vendetta against us?? Was someone just in a drilling mood, and thought Mustangs would be fun? We have a combined age of almost 150. Who could we possibly be threatening? Jeeze, Louise.

It takes real tennis balls to walk up someone’s driveway with a portable drill and ram in screws into a car. Who knows where the Happy Driller is tonight? I just know what I’d do with my drill if I ever find him. Insert evil laughter here.

Drill

It’s Amazing I Survived My Childhood. Chapter 3

Here’s the third installment of IAISMC. The first one was running behind the DDT jeep.

My sister told me a few weeks ago that she has competed with me since I was born. Why???? I am about as competitive as a rock.

When I was little, we lived in Red Bank, NJ. It’s a wonderful little town if you want someplace cool to go. Anyways, my sister and I had friends way down at the other corner who’s last name was Scarpelino. We were allowed to walk down to her house. This was the sixties, back when kids could just roam. A lot of the streets with houses in Red Bank have slate instead of cement sidewalks. For some God awful reason, we decided to race home on uneven slate. Call me Fleet Foot, I was ahead. Prancing and a dancing, just like Stewball.

I was only five, but I was beating my nine year-old sister, and the Scarpelinos and whoever else was with us. Maybe I should rename myself Fleet Foot.

We were just getting to the last slate before we left the sidewalk to go into my grandmother’s backyard, when I felt a leg come out in front of mine. Bam! Face plant! I remember just screaming like hell, and walking home alone because everyone.just.scattered. I needed five stitches.

Years later, I asked her why she did it. Her answer? She wanted to win. Well, that’s nice. Kill the little sister.

It’s ok. Last Christmas she felt guilty about all the wonderful ways she tortured me while we were growing up, so she bought me an IPad. She can trip me anytime. Next time, I want a pony.

I think my sister is thinking of ways she could dispose of me. My brother has his typical don’t take my picture face. My dad is sporting his Army crew cut.

Send her back