The Art of Trolley Tripping

You might think this story is a cautionary tale of carbon footprints and global warming, but to assume so would be wrong. Before you rush out and wave your plastic around wildly as you search for the perfect Prius, or don your snappy bike helmet and super sexy spandex and mount your ever so earth friendly bicycle, please heed the story of the Misadventure of the San Diego Trolley.You see, for all you novices in public transportation out there, there are a few rules and guidelines to which you must adhere should you choose a life of eco friendly commuting. This handbook may also become known as "How to Get from Point A to Point B Without Getting a DUI" or, my personal favorite, "The Art of Trolley Tripping".

First things first. If you are anticipating utilizing the San Diego Trolley, you must first gather a group of good girlfriends and one trusty husband. Once you have all participants joined together, each individual must consume an adult beverage prior to walking to the trolley stop. Now, in the spirit of misadventure and just because two drinks are better than one, you should always make sure that you have at least one rowdy girlfriend and again, a trusty husband, who will be willing to break all the rules of propriety and commence drinking as the group meanders down to the ever so clean and classy trolley depot. To maximize the fun, a drinking game should be implemented. Now, of course you may use your own favorite drinking game, but might I recommend what I like to call the Just Keep Drinking Until You Pass A Gas Guzzling Parked Car game. The name is self explanatory and the rules are minimal. Please keep in mind that because, at the very least, you are projecting an earth friendly image, you must recycle your bottle or can at the end of the afore mentioned drinking game. I recommend only taking the trolley on trash day. That way, you can easily dispose of your empty beverage container in some unsuspecting neighbor's recycle bin while never breaking your stride.

Now that you have arrived at the trolley depot, please resist all urges to play Trolley Roulette, otherwise known as hopping on the trolley without purchasing a ticket. While it sounds fun, there will be no comrades aboard that trolley who will be willing to help you escape a very angry, ticket hungry conductor. Please remember to avoid eye contact with many of the trolley patrons, who may view such an act as an invitation to join your group of girlfriends and one trusty husband. The time for conversation with questionable characters will come, but you must pace yourself.

Sometimes, on busy commuting days, the trolley will be packed with the environmentally conscious, the downtrodden, and the occasional all around hostile patron. You may be forced to stand. You may tire of standing and attempt to take a seat next to another trolley goer. If you choose to do so, you are going rogue and therefore left to your own devices. When one girlfriend breaks from the pack of good girlfriends and one trusty husband, the group does not have your back. Sit at your own risk.

Once you have reached your destination, please feel free to party responsibly. Heck, you aren't driving! I recommend Coors tall boys at Petco Park. That will get the party going. So much so, in fact, that after the game you might desire a California burrito. And if you do decide to indulge your craving, you might happenstance upon the part of the night I like to call "Deep Conversations with Unusual and Possibly Dangerous Strangers". Oh yes, the segment of the epic night where one trusty husband decides that girl talk is boring and silly and so decides to strike up a completely inappropriate discussion with a completely inappropriate dude. (What was he thinking?! A Phillies fan? Mr. Greene is well aware of my long standing feud with Shane Victorino.)

And then the time comes to board the trolley once more, and let the conductor take you home safely. However, should you become bored and wish to add a little spice to your otherwise tame trolley misadventure, you can always rely on the trusty husband to find the heroin addict aboard. If this makes you feel uncomfortable, follow the lead of your good girlfriends and avert your gazes and pretend not to notice the very loud and boisterous conversation taking place about redemption. Or, if you are so inclined, join in the conversation for the amusement of all other trolley goers. And by all means, when the recovering addict leaves his pack of smokes on the trolley seat, do try and chase him down to return them.

So, as you can see, with the trolley so readily available, there is no need to slap on your hemp slippers and join your local chapter of Greenpeace. Simply buy yourself a six pack, grab some friends, ride the trolley, and please don't forget to recycle!

May the Odds Be Ever In Your Favor

When I first heard about The Hunger Games, I wrinkled up my nose in disgust and refused to pay attention. I am much too high brow and way too educated to be bothered with such things of pop culture proportions. Unless you count Harry Potter. Which I don't. Those books are pure genius. But a book with a cover that contains a girl holding a bow and arrow? Puh-lease. No self respecting adult would entertain such folly.

One day I was just browsing at Barnes & Noble, of course with no intention of buying The Hunger Games. I perused the Young Adult section, but not because I was sniffing around the overrated trilogy. Of course not. I just wanted to see what the youth of today are interested in. It keeps me young, because as you already know, I am an old lady. Please see I'm Too Old For This Stuff for further explanation.

I found myself face to face with the dreaded Hunger Games. I tentatively reached up, and began browsing through it. And then, it happened.

I had to read it.

The dangers of a bloated bureaucracy? The perils of government control over individual freedoms? A LOVE TRIANGLE? Aw geez. I'm in. You had me at Peeta.

Would you believe I finished that book in one day? True story. I immediately had to rush out to buy Catching Fire, because my life just couldn't move on in a forward motion until I found out what was going to happen to our beloved heroes Katniss and Peeta. Would they be punished for winning? President Snow can't be happy about their shenanigans in the Arena! And so, piqued with a burning curiosity, I dove right into Catching Fire and didn't emerge for air until I was done with the book. After a day and half, I came to the surface of real life and found that I was not yet ready to rejoin the world as it currently stands. I had to hop back into what the future could be if we continue along this perilous journey of surrendering our freedoms little by little to an elite few who feign interest in peace and justice for all but in reality desire power and control over the masses. (Yes, I gained all of this insight from a hipster tween trilogy with an adolescent love story interwoven into the story line - I am nothing if not a deep thinker!)

At this point, Mr. Greene sighed deeply as he watched me trudge out the door to our favorite local Barnes & Noble on a quest to acquire the final book, Mockingjay. This book took me two days to finish, and I felt a bit rushed by the author at the ending, but it did not stop me from walking around in a Hunger Games daze for the next week. In an attempt to diminish my feverish withdrawal symptoms, JayGee agreed to take me to see the movie. I begrudgingly agreed because I am a book snob, and we all know that the movie never does the book justice. But, I am pleased to report that this movie did a phenomenal job of paying homage to the storyline. It made this intellectual, educated scholar who only reads profound and meaningful works of literary genius proud.

Then again, it's no Harry Potter.

I'm Too Old For This Stuff

It turns out that perhaps I'm not as hip and cool as I think I am. Do the kids say "hip" these days? Because I might be so uncool in fact, that I use words like "hip". Maybe I have hit the time in my life where the only use of "hip" that makes sense is when it is used in sentences such as: "I go in for my hip replacement surgery tomorrow" or "I have child bearing hips". In fact, I might be so far past cool that I am really an old lady standing on my front porch waving my crooked, arthritis ridden finger at the whipper snappers who drive too fast down my street.

You might be shaking your head in disbelief, wondering what possibly could have happened that I have now resigned myself to a lifetime of early bird specials. The events that occurred will chill you to the bone.

Da club happened.

Yes, you heard me right. I was up in da club. My hoochie outfit consisted of a classy dress of an appropriate length paired with sexy but sensible slingbacks. I thought I looked okay, like a married 29 year old who still likes to get dressed up, go out, and get her party on. Well, to quote John McCain - because let's face it, I am apparently close to his age - My friends,  I might as well have been wearing my house slippers. I should have walked into da club with cold cream on my face and curlers in my hair. 29 is the new 92 when trying to back that ass up to a bar with bartenders who call you ma'am. Or was it mom? I couldn't hear a conversation over all that racket they were playing. Honestly, music these days doesn't even have a melody.

But though an old lady I may be, I am nothing if not a trooper. I was determined to celebrate this bachelorette party with the gusto of a girl of 21. I balanced my vodka tonic on my walker and shook my artificial hips to the sound of profanity laced music (honestly, can this noise even be called music? In my day, you could understand the lyrics). Just as I was about to bust a move I collided with a couple engaged in what I believe the kids call grinding. I stared in horror and yelled at the young adults to get a room. I can't be sure, as my hearing isn't all that great, but I think I heard the young man inquire who let Grandma into da club. My heavens!

Can you believe that we partied like teenagers until the wee hour of 11:00? I would have stayed longer as I was just getting my groove back, but it turns out that we can't drink like we could in the good old days. On top of that, some hooligan stole an iPhone from one of the jacket pockets in our party. He probably figured that we were too old to use such a new fangled device, and saved us the humiliation of attempting to join the young world of technology. What a nice young man.

I awoke with creaking bones but hey, any day I wake up above ground is a good day. I folded myself into my rocker, covered myself with my knitted afghan, and dozed off with dreams of da club.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

As you may have read in The Coffee Cup Caper, my husband is a bit of a hoarder. Hoarding conjures up images of piles of junk items stashed and stacked all over the house. Thanks to yours truly, Mr. Greene's hoarding has not been permitted to escalate to emergency situation standards. Buuuut....I do find very strange things in very strange places.

Like today. I found a pair of pajama pants for which he has been searching fruitlessly. In a bush. In our front yard. Of course.

This pants situation baffled me. Since the husband wasn't around to interrogate, I turned to the besties. Thus this mystery became the sisterhood of the traveling pants.

Why on earth, I asked, would one put a pair of pants, pajama pants no less, into a bush in the front yard? Well, perhaps it was a treasure hunt, said one friend. Interesting. We are nearing Easter, so perhaps this is a Greene version of an Easter egg hunt? Said the same friend, it could be a cut and dry case of pants trying to escape! Hmmm...And just what could the pants have seen that would make them fly the coop? I won't ask.

This mystery proved to be helpful to another friend. She had lost her yoga pants and didn't even think to look in the yard! That husband of mine...always so helpful to others in their times of need.

And yet another friend sent encouraging words about the joys of gardening, for oh, the things you can find! Thanks friend...But I still hate doing the "boy" jobs Mr. Greene once did before he joined the dark side of 80 hour work weeks. No matter how cool I try to make it, yard work makes me itchy and irritated. And, quite honestly, confused, now that I've found pajama pants in the planter box.

That's What's Up

This was a weekend wrought with misadventures, which has prompted the following musings. I can attest that over the years, I have been on many a misadventure with many a poor soul, and I have found that these misadventures usually result in the maximum amount of fun. This weekend was no exception.

It all started when the always entertaining Kat rolled into town. For those of you who don't know, Miss Kat is my fabulous sister and partner in crime. These days she goes by the name of Dolly. The afternoon began with a light lunch followed by a pitcher of beer margaritas. Beer Margaritas, you exclaim! And rightfully so, because if you haven't tried a beer margarita, then really, you have no idea what you're missing. I suggest that you make yourself some before reading any further.

www.allrecipes.com

One pitcher became two, and before you knew it we were sound asleep. The following morning, we awoke bright eyed and bushy tailed - Just like you always do after consuming copious amounts of tequila, right? Okay okay, I admit it. We might have looked like something the margarita fairy dragged in. It wasn't pretty. But we had places to go and things to see, so rally we did! A little makeup and a breakfast burrito later we looked great. Presentable. Whatever.

Off we went to our next misadventure, a San Diego bay cruise on the Hornblower. Now that's what's up. I think I may have found the perfect hangover remedy. Fresh air and mimosas! Eureka! Get me the US Patent Office on the phone. We learned many things aboard that ship. Did you know that the Navy trains dolphins to scope out enemy submarines? Those cute, cuddly creatures are actually military combatants specially trained in espionage! Another fun fact we learned that day: The Hornblower sells hot dogs. It was the world's best kept secret, and yet we discovered this blissful fact thanks to an overzealous passenger with a fondness for Stella with Sprite and sausage. And finally, I learned that if Kat could be any sea creature in the world, she would be a seahorse. You learn something every day - even those about whom you thought you knew everything.

Now, sadly, it was time for Dolly to say goodbye. She had cotton candy to twirl and happiness to spread. In strolls the husband, with wonderful news that he (finally) has a weekend off. WooHoo! Already I have visions of spending long, lazy hours together, exploring San Diego and remembering why we got married. Imagine my surprise when my wonderful, hard working husband declared that he would like to spend the weekend refinishing the hardwood floors in our rented (yes, RENTED!) house. After a few choice words and an hour (or more) of the silent treatment, I decided that we should probably make the best of this misadventure. We couldn't stay in the house while the floors dried, so we decided to head on up to the Thompson Tavern in Huntington Beach. Aka: Mom & Dad's. Hey, you gotta do what you've gotta do.

Many misadventures ensued, but like most of the best memories I have, the actual events are foggy. However, I am certain that there was a boat, Captain Jack's, and some serious dancing to Rocket Man. I know how to get down.

We returned to beautiful floors, to which I begrudgingly had to agree were worth the weekend of dust and chaos. I awoke this morning to the delivery of our first ever, matching, grown up furniture! After the weekend I had, it's good to have an adult living room to remind me that all good things must come to an end. It's Monday again and I am obligated to put my adult face on.