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“Diary of an Accidental Car Saleswoman” — Excerpted from “How to Stay Broke and Influence Nobody”

Kaboom! Thwap! Thwap! That’s what I heard as I sat behind the polished walnut steering wheel of a brand new, shiny, black Jaguar XK convertible–an $80,000 car–a car that was not mine. I knew it. Of course, something horrible would happen if I were to get anywhere near a luxury vehicle. What fools would ever trust me with this car? I wondered. The fools at the car dealership who just hired me to sell cars, that’s who.

One of my co-workers, also a recently hired salesperson, Marcelo, sat in the soft, tan-hued leather passenger’s seat beside me. We weren’t even out of the dealership lot, on our way to get familiar with this Jaguar convertible on a test drive, when we heard the horrific kaboom! The car shook. Then another thwap!

The car shook again and again.

I sat in the driver’s seat. Marcelo sat to my right in the passenger seat. After the first Kaboom, I looked over at Marcelo, a Brazilian whose chatter was as fast and plentiful as the Samba in his home country. He just stared straight ahead, eyes wide open and his mouth closed.

“Marcelo,” is all I could say through clenched teeth, too petrified to move even my jaw.

After sitting momentarily frozen, the two of us gathered enough courage to look back through the rear window. We discovered what had happened. The guard at the gate had clumsily released the heavy wooden arm of the gate before we moved the car forward as we were about to leave the lot. The Kaboom we heard was the gate arm slamming down on top of the trunk of the Jaguar.

Marcelo and I both jumped out of the car to survey the damage. After thoroughly examining every inch of the metal exterior, we looked at each other, and laughed hysterically, the way people do when they realize they just escaped something horrible. Incredibly, there was no damage–nothing but a dusty smudge from the padding on the gate arm. After I pushed my heart back down into my chest, I looked over to the guard who was at fault. She just shrugged her shoulders and shuffled back to her booth.

It was only my second day on the job, after two weeks of training. What else could happen in the days to come?

That morning, I had awakened at five am, still in a foggy sleep state. I was so certain I had only dreamed I worked at a car dealership, that I pulled the covers back over my shoulders to return to sleep. I quickly bolted upright when I realized it wasn’t a dream–I did work at a car dealership.

Once I’d wrapped my head around that fact, I crawled out of bed and dressed myself in a gray pencil skirt, black high heels, crisp, white, a fitted, cotton shirt, and a black blazer, complete with my shiny new metal car name tag. I pulled my shoulders back and prepared to be the best car salesperson ever.

After parking, I walked two blocks to the car dealership with a bounce in my step. It began to rain. Prepared, I popped open my red umbrella. This was the new me, the new organized Michele. The old me would never have prepared for rain. As I approached three stairs, I caught the eye of a fellow car salesman. He smiled at me, and said, “Good morning! How are you today?”

I smiled back, about to answer him, when–clunk, clunk, clunk–I slid down three rain-slick stairs. “It is a good morning! I didn’t fall,” I said as I walked away, glancing back to see the car salesman’s mouth hanging open in disbelief. His expression said it all: our dealership hired her?

I entered the luxury showroom where I worked, ready for an exciting new day. Today, I told myself, would be the first day I’d sell a car, as I walked toward my office with chin up and arms swinging confidently.

The receptionist stopped me. “Uh. Your name tag is upside down.”

So began my career in car sales.

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can read my book, “Craving Normal,” now. I’m currently working on my second story collection, “How to Stay Broke and Influence Nobody.

Reader of my book, "Craving Normal" in Spain

 

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Cusack, A Cupid Called King, And Kung Pao Shrimp – 34th Anniversary Recap

“You’ve begun to bore me,” Ian will dryly say when I’m talking about something he has no interest in. I laugh as he walks away to do things he prefers. I’ve tried this with people. But I don’t have his tact. Ian has a subtly humorous way that makes it funny. I do it, and people get pissed.

While I enjoy his droll humor, he likes my “wrong-ness.” As Ian said to me recently, “You’re the right amount of wrong.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.

“I’ll take it.”

This explains why he didn’t flee my antics back in 1987.

We met after John Cusack wouldn’t put up with me a couple of weeks earlier. My roommate, whom I’ll call Norma, tried to fix us up. Cusack was starring in a movie called “Tapeheads.” She was dating one of the movie’s producers and wanted us to double date at the Formosa Cafe, where the Tapeheads crew were meeting for drinks. Well, I had a few cranberry and vodka cocktails and fell asleep (okay, passed out) beside John in a red booth at Damiano’s Pizza on Fairfax.

Two weeks later Norma dragged reluctant-me along to the “Tapeheads” wrap party so she could hang out with her movie producer boyfriend. John Cusack saw me and pivoted in the other direction. Soon after, King, Roscoe in “Tapeheads,” and I began talking. Next thing I know, he’s introducing me to his record producer friend, Ian Gardiner.

Ian knew from the beginning what he was getting into with me. On one of our early dates at a counter-service Mexican restaurant in the San Fernando Valley, we sat down in a booth to eat.

“Take that back,” I teased Ian after he made some silly joke at my expense. I picked up my plastic spoon, packed it with rice, and pulled the spoon bowl back with an index finger as if I were going to catapult rice toward him. “Take it back, or you’ll get a face full of rice,” I joked, not really intending to shoot him with rice because mature people don’t shoot their dates with rice.

My finger slipped. And, as if it were happening in slow motion, like a football flying over a field, I watched my ball of rice skim the top of Ian’s head and land on the head of the woman sitting in the booth behind him.

The woman’s husband stood up, red in the face, and screamed in my general direction, “What the hell is going on here?”

Having already paid for our food at the counter, I grabbed my purse and ran out. Ian ran behind me. We burst through the back door as if we were Bonnie and Clyde running from the scene of a crime.

Quite a few men would have left and never called me again. But Ian kept calling. We laughed for a long time about “the rice incident.”

 

Things escalated quickly after my roommate’s boyfriend ate my leftover kung pao shrimp. That did it! I packed up my car, strapped my 1950s amoeba-shaped coffee table to my car’s roof, and landed on Ian’s doorstep. Unlike many other people, Ian accepted purloined kung-pao shrimp as an acceptable reason to leave my roommate and move in with him.

Soon, we planned to elope, just the two of us. We made an appointment with a Justice of the Peace for April twenty-sixth, 1989, and reserved a room in a yellow and white Victorian Inn with a view of the Pacific Ocean.

“Who needs the stress of planning a wedding?” Ian said

“Yeah. Why spend months planning a guest list and seating arrangements?” I agreed.

We felt so smart for avoiding the stress of wedding planning.

Two weeks later, we left for Pacific Grove, arriving at the often foggy beach town around two in the afternoon. But that spring day, there was no fog to be found. The sky was turquoise and cloudless. The sun sparkled on the ocean, and the water looked like it had been strewn with diamonds. We couldn’t have planned for better weather. But then, as I said, we really didn’t plan much at all. With only a couple hours before our appointment with the Justice of the Peace, we still didn’t have a wedding ring or a bouquet.

We walked through the coastal town, passing cottages and Victorians until we found an antique shop where Ian bought a delicate gold band engraved with intricate leaves for my wedding ring. After that, we found a florist who put together a bouquet of white and pink roses surrounded by baby’s breath.

With an hour to spare, we returned to our inn with the incredible ocean view. As the golden sun poured through our room’s windows, we dressed and took goofy photos of ourselves; the last images of us as single people.

“And now I’m off to apply the ball and chain,” Ian joked—or maybe he wasn’t joking—as he buttoned his shirt.

Fifteen minutes to four o’clock, we walked along Ocean View Boulevard to Lover’s Point.

Once there, we stood on a cliff above the ocean as a breeze blew through our hair. A serious-looking man in a dark suit, who we realized was the Justice of the Peace, approached us. After quick introductions, he looked around and asked, “Where’s your witness?”

“Witness?” Ian and I asked in unison.

“Yes. You need a witness.”

That might’ve been something he could’ve mentioned when I spoke with him on the phone. I mean, I wasn’t exactly the wedding professional around here. My husband-to-be and I looked at each other. I hadn’t planned much, but a witness would’ve really come in handy at that moment. Our stress-free wedding was just about to cause me to hyperventilate. How did such a perfect day go so horribly wrong? And then, on a nearby path—where no one had been the entire time we stood there—a man in a gray sweat suit jogged into view. Ian looked at me. I looked at Ian.

“Excuse me!” I yelled to the jogger as he came closer.

He jogged over to me, sweating and panting, “Yeah?”

“We’re trying to get married, but we don’t have a witness. Could you be our witness?”

A smile stretched across his red and sweat-beaded face. “Yeah. Sure!”

“Uh . . . and”—I held my camera out to him—“would you mind taking pictures?”

Only after I developed the film, did I see our wedding photos were blurry, badly exposed pictures of our feet. We think it’s hilarious that we have wedding photos of our feet and that we’re together after I annoyed Cusack, allowing King to play Cupid, and that filched kung-pao shrimp changed the trajectory of our history.

We’re two people who happened to find the person who doesn’t just accept the other person’s quirks but adores them, things that make us laugh and bring us joy other people might find odd. But it works for us.

Hey Ian, you knew what you were getting yourself into. Now we’re together 36 years and married 34. That is hilarious.

 

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Laughing Is More Fun Than Crying.

You’re Not Alone

Welcome! I’m an imperfect person trying my best in life as I share in my stories. In parenting, marriage, working, and interacting with other humans, I do my best to remain calm, sane, and havoc-free, but I often fail.

In 2019, I published my first book, “Craving Normal.” As I continue to work on my second book, a work-in-progress (still without a title), a traumatic and life-changing experience happened that I wanted to share. It’s included as a late chapter in my next book. I guess that author up in the cosmos decided to add some scary trauma and emotional chaos to my tales. These latest adventures I will share with readers in my last chapter have added some needed perspective, that’s for sure.

If you’re struggling, I hope my life experiences assure you you’re not alone.

Life’s tough. But it helps to find humor and magic. It’s there, in between the madness.

If You’ve Snort-Laughed Inappropriately at Awkward Moments, You’re My People.

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People Are Enjoying My Book

Well, this is a wonderful way to start my day–

A man reading my book in England wrote this to me:
“Oh man, your book is brilliant, heartfelt and hilarious! I can’t stop reading it. The story about Santa is fantastic, and when I turned over the page to see the picture of you with suicide Santa splayed out on the roof, I was crying with laughter. You’re a true talent.”

Greg Firlotte emailed me this, about reading my book: “…the family dishrag passages!! I laughed out loud in my room late into the night over these and thought if anyone passed by my door and heard me laughing uncontrollably, they might have me committed today! Can’t wait for tonight’s reading!”

This is from a lovely woman in Spain

Reader of my book, "Craving Normal" in Spain

From Canada! Here’s another wonderful message from a reader my book, “Craving Normal.” Though our lives have been different, my stories resonated with her. She wrote, “Thank you for taking me on your crazy journeys through life and reminding me to chuckle along the way.”

Happy Reader of Craving Normal by Michele Miles Gardiner

Book review of Craving Normal


You can buy my book at my favorite Los Angeles bookstore, Skylight Books.

You, too, can read my “crazy stories” (quoting my editor). You can find Craving Normal, in print and eBook, here, on Amazon.

 

My friend Leslie’s bawdy and funny Texan mom is loving my book. Leslie texted me this photo, saying how much fun her mama is having. I call this “Shock and awe.”

You might have fun, too, if you buy my book:
https://tinyurl.com/y3ezy7d9

Reading Michele Miles Gardiner’s book”Craving Normal,” true and humorous story collection

I signed my first book, yesterday.

"Craving Normal" my collection of nonfiction humorous stories, and personal essays

 

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Twinkie Talk and “Craving Normal”

Promoting my book, "Craving Normal, " with Twinkies.
I was promoting my book, “Craving Normal, ” with Twinkies.

While promoting Craving Normal at the Brand Library in Glendale, I set up my books next to a tray of Twinkies. Below them, I put a sign saying, “Why Twinkies? Read the back of my book…” I did it as a “conversation starter.” I put that in quotes because the last time somebody used that term with me was when I asked my accountant why he had a silver streamer draped across his office door. His answer: “Conversation starter.” I nodded, and the conversation ended.

But yesterday, I got all kinds of talk when people inquired about my tray of Twinkies. Either they read the back of the book, or I told them, “Well, as a kid of health food freaks, I watched all the kids at school devouring Twinkies at lunch. So I craved them. That’s what I thought ‘normal’ kids with normal parents who lived in normal homes ate.”

A tall, older woman with a Boston accent came by and told me, “In the 1970s I used to give Twinkie tours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they were made in the same factory as Wonder Bread.”

She began her Twinkie tour spiel, pointing toward an invisible conveyor belt above her head. “And over here, the Twinkies are being filled.”

After she quit the job, she became a health food eater and never touched Twinkies. Oh, and she added this Twinkie fact. “Another woman I worked with, who used to give Twinkie tours, went on to become a Playboy playmate and then became a cop in Boston.”

I only contributed, “Wow.”

She looked down at my book. “I’d buy your book. Sounds interesting. But I’m 86 now and decided to stop buying things. Don’t want to leave my kids with a bunch of crap they don’t want.”

And the conversation ended.

 

"Craving Normal," back book cover.
“Craving Normal,” back book cover.

 

My book is available! You can buy it here.

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My Book’s Hideous Kinky Connections

Years ago, I saw the movie “Hideous Kinky,” about a single mom with her two girls in Morocco around the same time my family and I lived there. I gasped when I saw the Kate Winslet character and her girls swimming in the same Marrakech swimming pool I remember swimming in.

Anyway, it’s fun to see my book listed just above the Esther Freud novel, “Hideous Kinky,” knowing I have some connections.

My book, Craving Normal, and the Hideous Kinky Morocco connections

 

 

Here’s the trailer from the movie:

Ha! I don’t remember the last line, said by one of the girls, in this trailer, but that’s another connection.

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This Book Review of “Craving Normal” by Writer Kristin Casey Made My Day

Oh my gosh, I almost cried reading this review from a writer I admire and have enjoyed reading. Kristin wrote  “Rock Monster: My Life with Joe
Author Kristin Casey's Review of my book, "Craving Normal"
                                                                                                                              Please read her review of my book in full, here on Goodreads.com.

 

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This Reviewer Really Heard Me–He gets My “Craving Normal”

I awoke to this thoughtful review of my book, “Craving Normal,” from a man I don’t know, a former hippie.

I appreciate people are getting some laughs–those come from my kooky experiences and my need to highlight the humor of those experiences. But I was trying to make some points. This man heard me. I especially appreciate his comments as he comes from the generation I lived in the shadow of and wanted to be heard by.

His review:

Jnana Hodson reviewed on on June 17, 2019
…this one starts out in the San Francisco Bay Area before taking off into a two-year nomadic jaunt in Europe with her parents and younger sister. Their travel on the cheap could be a dream of a lifetime for many, though there are some perilous incidents. It’s their return to the States where Shelly, as she was known, runs into social struggles. She just can’t fit in, from first grade on. It’s not really her fault, either. She’s handicapped by her parents’ many eccentricities, from the clothing she’s given to the school lunches they pack for her to a chasmic ignorance of the TV shows her classmates have been watching.

After a fast start, the text becomes a series of flash chapters prompted by a snapshot or two that follow.
The tale picks up once she starts evaluating the inappropriate sex messages her parents and the mass media were providing, and then her recognition of her old-fashioned grandparents as an anchor of propriety and secure expectations on the weekends – essential boundaries for a child in contrast to the “if it feels good, do it” fog at home. She had good reason to see through her parents’ hypocrisy as hippies, especially her father’s tightwad, control freak nature, along with its tendencies for violence.Especially valuable are the reasons Michele gives for turning away from her parents’ generation – the hippie movement’s ultimate breakdown in failing to pass the promise of revolution along. The outbreak of AIDS was only part of the wakeup call.

After that, the subtitle, “An ordinary life veers off track … way off,” takes on a richly ironic and rewarding meaning.
The link to the review is here.

Also, while the focus of my stories occur during a specific time, I’d like to think some of the feelings (not fitting in, parental/childhood issues, cultural changes, school issues) can be relatable even to those who weren’t raised in the same era I was.

It’s interesting to hear what readers are taking away, or not getting, from my stories.

*He aptly notes the stories take on a different pace during my 1970’s childhood of mixed messages. My brain was only forming during the early years, so the early vignettes are formed as my five to six year old brain was still forming–trying to make literal sense of the information I was receiving, and it was A LOT of information.

I love his last line:
…the subtitle, An ordinary life veers off track … way off,” takes on a richly ironic and rewarding meaning.

"Craving Normal" my collection of nonfiction stories.

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Finding Kindred Spirits in Readers Who Write To Me

What a wonderful way to wake up. Susan’s post and comment is the first I read, as I sipped my coffee, this morning. Some people sure do know how to make you feel good. Her comment about my book was so wonderful, I asked her if I could share it. Susan wrote:

Michele, funny how this just popped up and I had just been reading about your encounters with Paul Young. funny story…

I finally finished your book the other day. Waaahhh! I’ll have to start from the beginning again soon. What an incredible and beautiful book. You’ve lived an interesting life and I can totally relate to all the goofy predicaments you’ve found yourself involved in. Love the antics with Ian as well. Hilarious read…

*”Everytime You Go Away” is a Paul Young song. This is also a beautiful version, which Susan shared with me.

I’m finding kindred spirits in the readers who contact me. I love when people can relate to what I’ve written and have their own fascinating stories to share.

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