Month: March 2011

Passed The Sniff Test was having a birthday celebration and Oreggano and I decided to attend together. To our surprise, Cream Of Tartar – who isn’t big on social gatherings – decided to join us. “He has a weakness for birthdays,” Oreggano informed me.

I arrived at their house to find Oreggano waiting for me with a headlamp on and her face pressed up against the window. “I know how much you love the headlamp, so I thought I would greet you with it. ” She knows me so well.

Oreggano returned the headlamp to Cream Of Tartar who was busy growing in his hair and tying flies. “I think I’m going to give him (Passed The Sniff Test) a Woolly Bugger,” he told us. “Does he flyfish?” I asked. “I have no idea,” said Oreggano. “Doesn’t matter,” said Cream Of Tartar, “This is far too fine of a woolly bugger not to share.”

After an appertif, Cream Of Tartar stuck the woolly bugger in one of his ear plugs (doubles as a gift bag), we hopped the fence, and walked to the brew pub – Oreggano and Cream Of Tartar are lucky enough to live within fence hopping and walking distance.

Once there, we were joined by Anchors Aweigh. He hadn’t been there too long and had said “Nooo!” to several comments, so when Cream Of Tartar asked if I had a blog name for him I said, “Nooo!” “Nooo!” Anchors Aweigh yelled. Cream Of Tartar didn’t hesitate to share his feelings, “What’s up with people calling their own names out? This is bullshit!”

Being that we were there for Passed The Sniff Test’s birthday, Cream Of Tartar decided to buy him a shot. “How about High West Rendezvous?” Oreggano suggested. “Don’t get him hooked on the good shit,” advised Cream Of Tartar. “Why not?” asked Oreggano, “We’re hooked on it.” “Not me,” I interjected, “I’m hooked on phonics.” “Kul,” replied Anchors Aweigh.

After getting Passed The Sniff Test hooked and giving him the (woolly bugger) hook, we headed back to Oreggano and Cream of Tartar’s house. “Ah, Humidor,” said Cream Of Tartar as he perused his cigar stash. “Do you ladies want a cigar to talk about on the blog?” Although I’m not a smoker, Cream Of Tartar got me hooked on the good stuff several months ago when he shared a little bit of Drew Estate with me, “Do you have any pimp sticks?” I asked with enthusiasm? “No,” he sadly replied and added, “Oh, those were the days.”

So, with our wine in hand, Oreggano and I took position on the stoop and blew smoke.

 

Anytime you mix tattoos, booze and floozieloos you know you’re going to have trouble – which is exactly what happened when That’s Not Chinese lifted her freshly tatted wrist in the air and proclaimed, “Porcupine Power!”

Alice mentioned there was a newly dug grave in the alleyway behind my back lot and, as soon as she said it, it was as if we stepped into a time machine and became the cast of the 1986 classic, Stand by Me.

We immediately grabbed our coffee cups and made our way to the alley. As promised, we found what appeared to be a newly dug grave of a very tall individual. “Do yout think they buried Abe Lincoln, top hat and all?” I asked. “Possibly,” said Alice in a very serious voice.

After tipping our ’40s’ to the homie, we continued to walk down the alleyway. As we passed my back lot Alice’s inside voice came out, “This is the shithole I see every time I walk down this alley.” She was right – it looks very Kentucky.

Last year I let my neighbor plant a garden in my back lot. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned, in that the dam, bridge, barriers and berms he constructed all failed. In what appears to be an attempt to make up for last year’s failure, he has been throwing all of his waste on top of the soil in hopes of creating compost. “That is not compost,” said That’s Not Chinese. “No,” said Alice, “That is why we have rodent problems.” I started to apologize when I noticed a shiny abandoned object.

“Is that a big wheel?” I asked. “It certainly is,” said Oreggano. “It is so mine,” I said. Within minutes, I had taken it for a test drive and solicited the assistance of Alice and That’s Not Chinese to toss it over the fence into the shithole also known as my back lot.

During the test drive, Sleepless noticed a relatively decent sized concrete slab. “We should put this on the center of the grave, like a tombstone.” “Good idea,” said Gordy, Chris, Teddy and Vern (for those of you who have lost track, those are the boys in Stand By Me). “It’s pretty heavy, we may need a car,” suggested Oreggano. “I’ll get my car,” offered Alice.

While Alice grabbed her car the rest of us returned to my house to refresh our coffee and grab permanent markers for epitaphs. We returned to the scene and I assessed the slab situation. “That is going to be way too heavy,” I told them. “Someone is going to get hurt.”

My concerns did not defer them. Sleepless, That’s Not Chinese, Alice and Oreggano bent down (with their knees, of course), picked up the slab, and carried it to the car. “Why aren’t you helping?” asked Oreggano. “I can’t help and document,” I told her while snapping pictures of their labors.

Once the slab was inside the vehicle, we followed alongside while Alice drove to the grave – it was like a full-fledged funeral procession. “You better help take it out of the car,” That’s Not Chinese instructed me. “Ever since you got your porcupine tattoo (at this point I think it had been a couple of hours) you have been really bossy,” I replied. 

We centered the tombstone on the grave, pulled out the permanent markers, provided a signature “R.I.P.” across the top, and followed it up with names of people, animals and other things who/that are dead – literally, figuratively, and from a fashion perspective. As we did so, it was almost as if Richard Dreyfuss was right there with us, “In all our lives there is a fall from innocence, a time after which we are never the same.” We fell from innocence alright – most likely some time long before today – and we will never be the same.

As we walked away from the grave That’s Not Chinese shouted out an amen of sorts, “Porcupine Power!”

After a day of debauchery with several of my girls, I received a call from Skiwi inquiring about my plans for the evening. Apparently DDDG was enjoying a girls night out with her sister, so I invited Skiwi to join Sleepless, Oreggano and I. Being that the day had been ‘busy,’ I asked if he would mind driving. “Not at all,” Skiwi informed me, “Your driver will be there shortly.”

Within 30 minutes, Skiwi proudly made his way through the front door donning a dress shirt, sport jacket, jeans, black loafers and a ton of pride. “I was hoping you’d be on the stoop, I had Dr. Dre booming. Recent library loan.”

As we were waiting for Oreggano to join us, Skiwi was telling us his job was changing a bit, which meant he would no longer be traveling to Texas. “The bad news is my suit and my ambassador sash are still in San Antonio.” “What is an ambassador sash?” asked Sleepless. “It’s a sash that says ambassador. I’ll show you a picture.” He quickly pulled up a picture on his phone of him, with his sash on, in front of The Alamo. “If you’re wondering about the glasses, purely cosmetic,” he told us. “I need them for reading a few small things, but love to wear them for networking.”

Oreggano arrived and we grabbed wine for the party and headed out the door. Skiwi was fully prepared for the departure and had the vehicle doors ajar and Dr. Dre bumping on the sound system.

We spent an hour or so at the first party, during which time Oreggano and Sleepless were pleasantly surprised by a comment made by one of the other guests, “My ovaries are bigger than most men’s mother fuckin’ balls.” “I have no idea what that means, but wow,” said Sleepless. “This is definitely a girls night out,” said Oreggano.

We decided to take our business Westside to an event taking place at Dr. BJ’s house. Skiwi cranked the tunes and I realized this night wasn’t nuthin’ but a ‘g’ thang. While DDDG was having her ‘G’ night out, Skiwi was enjoying a night out with just the ‘Gs’. And ovaries, well, like testes they’re just a couple of gonads. And, heading Westside, everybody knows that shit is straight gangsta.

After a grueling day in the office, I met up with Sleepless and Progressive for drinks. In typical Greek fashion (I’m not Greek, just trying to be more diverse), I was late. As a result, I missed dessert and Progressive’s time was limited.

Fortunately, he had time to do two very important things: 1) pay the bill and 2) make me an incredible offer. “I’d like to do a guest entry,” he said with great confidence. “OK,” I said, “I’ve never had a guest entry….on the blog, that is.” “Alright, I’ll start working on it,” he said. “For now, I’ve got to leave you two sugar selves, with the bill paid. Enjoy the basketball game.”

So, Progressive left Sleepless and I in the bar, on the same side of the booth, watching Women’s basketball. This reminded us of the other night when, for reasons unbeknownst to us, several people asked us why we weren’t married. Although we don’t believe any of them were implying that the two of us should be married to each other, we decided to respond as if they were, “It’s not legal.”

As I looked around the bar, and then back at us in the booth, I told Sleepless, “This could be the reason people think we’re a couple and why we’re still single.” “You think?” she asked while smiling at a group of lesbians who were also there to watch the game. Yep.

“Speaking of relationships,” said Sleepless, “I was trying to help a coworker with a situation with his wife and you’ll never believe what he told me, ‘From a dysfunctional point of view, you can give great advice.’” “Wow,” I told her, “Gotta love those compliments.”

It was about this time that a male patron approached us and posed a question to me, “How far did you grow up from Northern Kentucky?” Based on his accent, outfit and demeanor, it was clear he grew up right in the heart of Northern Kentucky. “States away,” I replied. “Well I do believe you’re the most delightful creature I’ve ever met in my life,” he stated. “Why, thank you,” I kindly replied.

As he walked away a smile crept upon Sleepless’ face, “That was beautiful; fabulous on every level. A true compliment. I’m a little jealous, not really, though.” “Glad you enjoyed it,” I told her and added, “Hopefully the memory of me will bring him great joy because that is all he’s getting. I’m like D.C. – I let people ‘land’ themselves.”

That’s Not Chinese decided to get a tattoo. A 40th tattoo to be exact. Please don’t get confused, this tattoo is not her 40th, rather, it commemorates her 40th birthday. Being that she struggles with her year of birth, I recommended she brand her chest with her date of birth. She wasn’t so keen on this concept and opted for her totem animal, the porcupine.

So, a few weeks before her 40th birthday, That’s Not Chinese, accompanied by Alice, Oreggano, Sleepless, MyFace and I, got her totem animal tattooed on her wrist. Below the tattoo, Sanskrit. For the record, that is not Chinese. What it means, I’m not sure, but I’d like to think it has something to do with her love for midgets and reality TV.

Prior to leaving the tattoo parlor, everyone compared their tattoos. Everyone except MyFace and I. “I really can’t believe that Sleepless has one and you don’t,” MyFace told me. “I can’t believe you have a cupcake,” That’s Not Chinese said to Sleepless. “That takes the cake,” said Oreggano. “What does your gyno say about a cupcake on your dede?” asked Alice. “He’s always licking his lips,” quipped MyFace. “A cupcake. Wow, that really is one of my favorites,” said That’s Not Chinese. “Why did you get it there?” “I just figured it is in a spot nobody sees and when I’m 60 I can grow hair over it,” said Sleepless. “Grey hair. Might just look like a moldy cupcake,” I said and added, “That’s why I wanted to get Mr. Peanut, so he could have a beard every now and again.”

We decided to celebrate the tattoos over lunch only to find out that our server, Desserts Are On Me, has the same tattoo artist. He showed us his most recent tattoo and then started reviewing the lunch specials. Every now and again, he would roll or widen his eyes. “Are you speaking to us with your eyes?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m bilingual with my eyes.” “Clever, very clever.”

As we were finishing up, Desserts Are On Me told us, “I have something coming out.” We laughed and he said “Uh huh,” with his eyes. A few minutes later he returned to the table with three amazing desserts, “Desserts Are On Me.” Our mouths were both full and speechless, but our eyes screamed “Thanks.”

“This has been such a great day,” said That’s Not Chinese, “Dessert, wine and porcupine! That’s it, that has to be the blog name.” And so it is.

You know it’s going to be a good day when you’ve set aside an hour for pole fitness. We each had our own pole and our instructor was going through various moves with us. The room was large and her voice was small, so there were a few times when we needed clarification on some of the names of the moves. For example, the dipstick. “Did you say dickstick?” asked One And Done. To her defense, based on the elements of the move, dickstick made sense. A few moves later we were learning herpe. “A lot of people struggle with this one when getting tested,” the instructor informed us. Makes sense. However, once we received clarification, we learned it was herkie, not herpe, and when going instructors are getting certified this move is a tough one.

 

Overall, we did OK for our first time. My hat is off to pole dancers – those moves take a lot of upper body strength and coordination. As we were trying to be both strong and coordinated, we found adding a third component, sexy, wasn’t so easy. Sleepless reminded me of a comment I made to her while at PajamaOke, “Try and be sexy.” “I’m trying,” I told her as I not so gracefully wrapped my legs around the pole.

 

To end the intro session, the instructor taught us several amazing floor moves. These are essential, especially when you’ve just finished a fireman move and need a sexy move to take you from horizontal to vertical. While on the floor, Sleepless and I invented a new move. We realize the move itself is not entirely new, but the name for the move is courtesy of us: The George Washington. This involves using your T&A to retrieve $1 bills from the floor. If your skills are advanced, you’ll probably do The Benjamin Franklin.

 

After class, we came home to get ready for an evening at a piano bar. One And Done opted to shower. Sleepless and I opted to be dirty girls. While getting dressed, One And Done informed Sleepless she really likes g-strings. “I think they’re uncomfortable,” Sleepless told her. “I got used to them,” One And Done replied, contemplated for a minute and added, “but I don’t like ass sex, so it doesn’t really go together.” They may not go together, but information like that is priceless.

 

We arrived at the bar and, as most people do, immediately starting assessing the patrons. “That guy is wearing a neon ring,” said Sleepless. “What does it mean?” “We’re probably going home with someone tonight,” I answered. A little while later, Sleepless noticed another patron. She was a young, pretty girl, who was all dolled up for an amazing evening, and then she smiled. “It’s kind of hard to be really pretty and missing a tooth,” Sleepless noted. “Yes, that can really change the look,” I affirmed.

Tree joined us for the festivities and was loving singing all of the songs, “This is totally like karaoke, but there are other people here.” Sleepless was intrigued by Tree’s beer choice (more specifically, the bottle and label) and asked if she could give it a try. “I thought you didn’t like beer,” said Tree. “I’ve loved everything you’ve taught me,” Sleepless cooed. “I knew it,” Tree said with confidence.

 

Sleepless and I had decided we should start taking pictures of other people at events and posting them as ‘our friends’ on facebook. We would, whenever possible, have one of us in the picture, but only half of our face, a hand, or, perhaps, the back of our head. As we were taking pictures, I pointed a few things out to Sleepless. “You know how you can pick out swingers?” I asked her. “No,” she answered. “They usually come to bars like this wearing cheesy t-shirts, jeans and white sneakers,” I advised her. “Good to know. Let’s get a picture of their shoes,” she suggested.

 

We had taken pictures of several people in the bar when Tree informed us we were mean girls. “You’re totally mean girls. I see what you’re doing. Trying to get a picture of that girl in the red top.” “What!?!?” we said in unison. “Not true at all,” said Sleepless, “we were taking a picture of you.” “Let me see your camera,” said Tree. He took the camera and looked through the pictures, failing to find proof that we had taken a picture of the girl in the red top. “I can’t believe you would accuse us of such behavior,” I told him. Then Sleepless and I looked at each other and, without saying anything, knew exactly what the other was thinking: close call! Somehow, Tree completely passed over the picture of the girl in the red top.

 

We were all singing along to the songs when Tree made a comment to Sleepless, “I know there isn’t a screen to read, but that didn’t help you the other night either.” Sleepless looked at me as if to say, “Huh. How should I take that?” Then, she just kept on singing – right (words) or wrong. I looked at Tree and said, “Who is the mean girl now?” We had made several song requests and a few had been played. They refused to play Wilson Phillips and only agreed to play Grandma’s Feather Bed by John Denver if someone would clog to it. Ask and ye shall receive. One And Done jumped up on stage and clogged like there was no tomorrow.

 

As we were getting ready to leave, a few of the other patrons invited us to an after-party. We weren’t too keen on the offer, but we were keen on their ability to not spill their drinks. One, in particular, had been bumped several times and his beer had remained in his glass. “Not a drop,” he said and added, “I keep it on a swivel.” “Clever,” said Sleepless. “Much like pole fitness,” I added. And with that, we took our remaining George Washington’s and friskied out of there.

While at my place of employment today, I received a call from Sleepless, who was experiencing some frustrations with work matters. “It gets my panties all up in a wad,” she told me and followed it with a sigh. I had what I believed to be sound advice for her, “That is exactly why I don’t wear panties. Well, that’s not exactly why, it’s just one reason. And, truth be told, I do don a fullback every now and again. My point is, however, if you’re not wearing them, they can’t be wadded.” I’ve no doubt this little tip will resolve her work matter.

 

A little while later, I got a call from another friend whose panties were also all up in a wad because I hadn’t included her in the blog the other night. “Tree and I were talking about this last night and we were both disappointed. He even said, ‘I was giving her good stuff all night long. Nothing.'” I tried to interject, but That’s Not Chinese continued, “So I told him, ‘At least you were in it. My mom danced to Wilson Phillips’ Hold On – she loves that song, told me it got her through so many hard times – but no, I’m not in it.'” “Are you sure you’re not in it?” I asked. “Trust me,” she told me with great confidence, “I look for myself. Not in it.” “That’s good stuff,” I told her. “Bet you’ll be in it today.”

BeCuz and I never need a reason to get together, but we love it when we have one. Being ultimate ’80s fans, I purchased her a ticket to OMD for her birthday.

When we arrived at the venue we found it to be sold out – turns out we aren’t the only people in town who like synth-pop. Most people were dressed in present-day attire. There were a few, however, who were dressed in mod(ern) attire. Made me wish I had pulled my Contempo Casuals Body Glove dress out of the dirty clothes.

As we were watching the band, one of the pub patrons from St. Patrick’s Day, with whom I shared my corned beef, walked by. He invited us to join them down in the center of the venue. “Follow me,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get close. It’s the least I can do – you shared corned beef and cabbage with me.”

McCluskey, the lead singer, was dancing up a storm on stage and giving me all kinds of dance ideas/maneuvers for my next stage performance. “I dance bad,” he told the crowd, “but at least I’m doing it. I’m 51 years old and still doing this.” The crowd went wild. He then made a particular move and facial expression that reminded me of the scene in Music and Lyrics when Hugh Grant threw his back out. “I have a feeling that’s going to hurt tomorrow,” I told BeCuz. “I’m really digging his dance moves,” BeCuz replied. “Reminds me of my husband.”

After a few slow songs, McCluskey announced they were going to pick up the pace a bit and play some songs that would require “mindless dancing.” “Haven’t we been doing that the whole time?” asked BeCuz. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” I replied and, like a couple of Tesla Girls, we continued with our mindless dancing.

Every now and again I have the privilege of experiencing ‘firsts’ with MyFace. Today, she needed to get some new clothes for work and I needed to get some pajamas for karaoke, so I invited her to shop with me at the local thrift shop. This is definitely not MyFace’s bailiwick. Sleepless joined us for this exciting excursion and, after finding a lovely lavender footed pajama with caterpillars all over it for me, we started finding outfits for MyFace.

“Ah, look at this lovely sailor dress. I hear sailor collars are all the rage in professional offices nowadays,” I told her. “I don’t think so,” MyFace replied. Sleepless found several other nice items. In particular, a sensible royal blue polyester skirt – perfect for conference calls. We couldn’t believe all of the goodness we were finding.

Once we were dressed in our pajamas, we headed to the karaoke bar. Giddy Up was in full theme with pajamas and stuffed animals. As usual, she was quick to tend to our beverage needs. After thoroughly reviewing the wine selections, Sleepless ordered a glass of white zinfandel. “This sleepover just got fancy,” said Giddy Up. “I’m pulling out the boxed wine!”

On the dance floor, in our super saucy sleepers, Sleepless and I were throwing down some of our signature dance moves. “Try to act sexy,” I told her. “Try to act sexy? What are trying to say?” she asked. I wasn’t implying that she wasn’t sexy, however, our outfits didn’t really lend to the concept. They were more on the ‘never gonna get it’ side, but they photographed well.

As we were talking about who else might show up, Giddy Up told us a lot of people had said they wouldn’t come on a week night because they get “too messed up.” “Oh whatever,” said Sleepless. “I go to work every Tuesday after this Tuesday.” “A whole week later, huh?” MyFace commented.

We were soon joined by LeftEared, That’s Not Chinese, Tree and Jazz Hands. All of whom were in slumber party attire. KJ requested my presence on stage and I got up to find he had selected Tomorrow, from Annie, for me to sing. I couldn’t be happier and neither could LeftEared – she had learned the sign language for this song in grade school and, like the quadratic formula, had been waiting for a chance to use it again. As the intro played I made a request to the audience, “If anyone knows ASL, please come up to the stage, I would love your assistance.” LeftEared grinned from ear-to-ear, ran up to the stage, and started signing.

Both Sleepless and I were getting pretty hot in our long sleeved, long legged pajamas and decided to ditch our tops for the tank tops underneath. Unfortunately, mine was a one-piece, so ditching my top was a bit more difficult. Although I tried to tie the arms around my waist, they wouldn’t stay in place and were gradually falling down. “You’re losing your pajamas,” Tree informed me. “I know,” I replied. “Pretty soon I’m going to end up with my pants around my ankles and my ankles around my pants. Although, I don’t really want that to happen again, I’m trying to have better morals.”

“I find jazz hands make everything better,” said Jazz Hands as he did a one-hand ‘jazz’ while using the other hand to hold his PBR. “I like to jazz hand everywhere.” He then did an under the leg jazz hand, across the knee and behind the ear and then ‘standard’ jazz handed his way back to the bar.

One of my errands today was to purchase a gift card at a nail salon. Once at the salon, I decided to get a pedicure and watch Dancing with the Stars with the salon staff (nail technician and her adolescent daughter). It was close to closing time for them, so it was fortunate for me that they agreed to take my appointment. Not so fortunate, was the man who came in a few minutes after me. “Yea, uh, I need to get a manicure but just on my right hand. Like, what I need is a set of nails trimmed at a certain angle because I play guitar,” the man informed them.

Being that the nail technician didn’t speak English, her daughter was providing translation services. The daughter told him he would need to make an appointment for another day. “I don’t make appointments for things, I just show up to play guitar and sometimes I don’t even do that.” Then, just as quickly as he entered, he exited in his Tevas, cargo capris and muscle tee.

The nail technician and her daughter looked at me as if to say, “What is wrong with that guy?” I shrugged, started the massage chair again, and continued to watch Dancing with the Stars. A few minutes later, the man returned. This time, he was donning sunglasses even though the sun had set. “OK, I’ll go ahead and make an appointment. Can I get it for like an hour from now because I’m actually going to see my girlfriend later and she likes it when I scratch her back while we’re (inaudible mumble) with my nails on my right hand.” The daughter again told him they couldn’t help him today.

This time, after he left, I made a suggestion, “You might want to lock the door. Even though he just wants his right hand done…” The nail technician nodded at her daughter to lock the door and then said, “Right hand, wrong time.”