Month: November 2011

It’s been some time since I’ve seen PD. As with most of my friends, no matter how much time has passed since I last saw them, it is like no time has passed at all. Even though we don’t regularly see each other, we regularly share newspaper headlines. The most recent headline was specific to an investigation involving a Mr. Cheese; also involved in the investigation was his wife, Mrs. Cheese. “Since the cheese doesn’t stand alone, I think we should all get together for cheeseburgers,” I advised PD. He agreed and we invited The Responsible One and Drink Whisperer to join us.

 

Immediately upon seeing Drink Whisperer, he informed me he wouldn’t be doing any drink whispering this evening. We ordered our burgers, all of them with cheese, and started talking about technology. “My son has to help me set up my VCR,” PD told us. “Wait, what? Did you just say VCR?” The Responsible One asked. “Yes, VCR,” he replied and added, “I’ve turned into my father!” BeCuz, who had joined us as well, looked my way and said, “VCR, that’s right up your alley.”

 

We then started talking about who we knew who had VCRs and how often they used them. I mentioned That’s Not Chinese’s one porn flick on VHS and then shared a holiday themed porn, “A Lay In The Manger,” idea.  YummYummy, Can’t Be Bothered and I came up with this one year. “You might want to cover your eyebrows, so they’re don’t burn off,” The Responsible One advised me. “I’m not afraid of fire, I plan to be cremated,” I told her and then continued to discuss elements of the film, “So, as usual, there will be no room at the ‘inn,’ but the Three Wise Men will still come.” “You are so going to hell,” Drink Whisperer advised me then he took a bite of burger and loudly whispered, “Oh, wow, this bacon is so good. You should totally blog about this bacon. The bacon and porn.” “OK,” I replied.

 

After a couple of hours of whispering with the group, BeCuz and I headed to The Kooks concert. We had been looking forward to this for some time and were fully prepared to move in our own way, as usual. Unfortunately, the first band wasn’t that great. “Aptly named,” BeCuz told me while yawning. “Yes, although I might have added an ‘-er’ at the end, Yawner,” I replied. Luckily, they were only on stage a short while which gave us enough time for a standing nap. Then, we were more then ready to get our groove on, to shine on really, just like the star above the manger.

As I selected my outfit for the day, I pulled several items out of the bowels of my closet. I ended up with a pinstriped pant suit that has never been to France. By that, I mean, the France in my pants really put the stripes to work. Luckily, like the referees on the football field, my stripes were vertical.

 

Not vertical, however, was me as I made a pit stop on the way to the office. Even though Tree and I ended up with some decent finds the other day, I have felt compelled to dumpster dive twice since that first day. The last time I went, I was on the phone with S-Unit and realized there was no way I could reach my full diving potential if I remained on the line with her, “I’m about to dive in the dumpster, so I’ve gotta go.”

 

Today, I had a couple of advantages. The bin was pretty full – most likely the result of holiday and weekend imbibing, my phone was in the car, and I was wearing heels. The heels allowed me to reach deeper into the bin without having to actually dive in – reminded me a lot of my closet. When I did dive in, however, it was as if the heels provided an extra bit of balance – something I may have to try at home. After several great finds, I dusted off my suit and realized the importance of dressing professionally. If it weren’t for the pinstripes and the heels, I may not have found so many great deals.

When I received a text message from Striker showing me a picture of his new tattoo, I knew he wasn’t the only one with fresh ink. Although I couldn’t totally make out the image, it appeared to be an animal of some kind. “I think he got a tattoo of a cougar. Awkward,” I told Sleepless. As I continued to contemplate his graphic selection, I wondered what MiniMe might select to have imprinted on her skin. Should I be concerned if she got a tattoo of a cougar with the word, ‘Mom’ underneath it? Probably.

 

Turns out, MiniMe did not get this tattoo. I’m not sure how I feel about this. In many ways, it reminds me of the time she told me, “I drank in Ireland and loved the whiskey.” After this confession, she asked, “Are you disappointed I drank or that I love whiskey?” By the look on my face, she immediately knew I was disappointed in her liquor selection.

 

As I was driving MiniMe and Striker from the airport, I had to stop abruptly. Like a good mother, I extended my arm across her chest to protect her, then said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure your pretty sensitive right now due to the fresh ink.” “I don’t have a tattoo there,” she replied. Striker piped in, “Don’t hit her on the back.” “Please tell me you didn’t get a tramp stamp,” I said. “I didn’t get a tramp stamp,” she confirmed, then moved her hair to reveal a tattoo between her shoulder blades that read, “Be Observant.” “You got a hump bump!” I told her. “A what?” she asked. “A tattoo on your back that isn’t low enough to be a tramp stamp. Please, be observant of the details.”

DDDG, Disco Dancing Dog Groomer, did not just get this name because she once helped me clip the nails of my foster dog, No Action Jaxon. It is also because she is a skilled at the sport of showing dogs. If I were to compare her and Skiwi to a couple in Best in Show, I would have to select Gerry and Cookie Fleck. Like Cookie, DDDG had several boyfriends before meeting her Gerry/Skiwi. “All the boys loved my princess and I’ve not seen one picture of her as a teenager,” Skiwi told me. With or without pictures from her past, DDDG is always ready for show.

 

Me, not so much. This morning, we woke up around 9, had breakfast, and then decided to go for a hike around the property. When we returned, being that it was near noon, I grabbed a can of beer and headed to the tub. I didn’t plan to drink the beer, rather, rinse my hair with it. I did so, and then found Skiwi, DDDG and Sleepless on the deck. “Wow,” Sleepless said as she felt my hair, “It’s soft.” Maybe it was the altitude, the beer definitely played a part, but my hair was really big and really soft. As I was taking a seat next to Sleepless, DDDG was looking at me, laughing, and said, “You look like a wild poodle. Not ready for show.”

 

Many people, with lesser hair and thinner skin, might take offense to this comment. Not me. I know the poodles, even when wild, are in the specialty shows. Like a good toy poodle, I’m bred to be a good, somewhat wild, household companion. In addition, I haven’t been ‘spayed’ and I’m currently in the market for a Handler. With all these qualities in mind, and my hair soft and out-of-control atop my head, I strongly believe I can eventually earn the title, “Winner’s Bitch.” If I can get another can of beer, I think I’ll run it over to Opreggano’s house – this is one winner’s circle I know she’d want in on.

Skiwi, DDDG and I decided to meet Sleepless and Ice Cream Man at Ice Cream Man’s family ranch for a last minute weekend getaway. With Sleepless and Ice Cream Man already there, they sent us the address, the code for the gate, and told us to watch for deer and two lit pine trees. Not having been to this part of the state before, we relied on GPS for navigation. About a half mile before we got to the ranch,  the GPS told us we were there. We were clearly not there and hadn’t seen deer or lit pine trees. Not one to give up, I kept going until we saw one lit pine tree, a gate, and a keypad. “Let’s try it,” Skiwi said.  We entered the code, heard the robotic phrase, “Access Granted,” watched the gate open, and began our weekend getaway.

 

Once in the cabin, and in his slippers, Skiwi took a look around and said, “I should have grabbed a pair of undies from my crazy underwear drawer. Then I could have done a re-enactment of the Hamptons.” “You have a crazy undies drawer?” I asked. “That would be sweet,” Ice Cream Man replied with a gleam in his eye and a smirk on his face as he recalled the time he ran around the house in the Hamptons with nothing but an elephant trunk covering his junk.

 

“This calls for something special,” Ice Cream Man said as he pulled out a bottle of home-brewed Mexican tequila.”This stuff is amazing, made with agave.” “It is really good,” Sleepless agreed. Ice Cream Man looked at Sleepless, smiled, and said, “This tequila, well, it makes the sex….anyway, you guys will love it.” “Uh, no, not happening,” DDDG assured him. “She doesn’t like to have sex in other people’s houses,” Skiwi advised. “You’re at the ranch, it’s like your own home,” Ice Cream Man told them. “No,” DDDG firmly stated.

 

“By the way, did you see the TV in the master bedroom?” Ice Cream Man asked Skiwi. “I did,” Skiwi replied and added, “I pushed the button and up it came.” This made both Sleepless and I giggle, but it shouldn’t have as they were merely discussing the ‘hidden’ television. “I recently watched a show on TV and they recommended against having a television in the room – bedrooms are for sleeping and sex,” Skiwi told us. “Unless you’re not in your own bedroom,” I reminded him. “True. That TV upstairs though, well, that’s probably too much up and down in the bedroom,” Skiwi told us. “No wonder that room is off limits,” I told Sleepless as she continued to giggle. We may have been granted access to the ranch, but access to the up and down (TV, master bedroom, and tequila sex) was denied.

The other day I watched The Trip. If you have ever traveled for work with a friend/coworker, you should really watch this film. At one point in the film, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon are visiting Bolton Abbey and discussing being buried or cremated.

 

This is a something I have debated once or twice. After reading Stiff and watching One Dark Night a million times as a child, my plan is cremation. My mother is not a fan of this choice, however, as I told her, “Based on your religious beliefs, I’m going to burn during the second coming. So, either way, I’m being cremated.”

 

After their buried v. cremated discussion, they discussed what might be said at each other’s funerals. As Steve was sharing what he might say at Rob’s funeral, Rob interjected, “We should have done this when he was alive, he would have loved this.” “What?” Steve asked and added, “Cremated you?”

 

As I headed to bed that night, I thought to myself, “Regardless of whether I am buried or cremated, I do not want my nightstand looking like this when I die.” I picked up the glow-stick filled condom (Halloween party favor courtesy of Sleepless and Ice Cream Man) and threw it in the trash; the Slinky and game bell were returned to the game area. I then took another quick look around, made sure B.O.B. wasn’t out in the open (unlike BioMom, I don’t leave him out for everyone, including my parents, to see), and called it a night .

Maybe it’s the French in me,  but there is nothing more fun than a double entendre. Get it? I did, twice. Anyway, this Thanksgiving, as everybody else was busy telling (via social media, not in person) all their besties how thankful they are to have them in their life, I decided to be a little more honest and sent out this message, “Today I plan to enjoy a little dark meat, maybe a breast or two and, of course, some stuffing.” Maybe it’s the Southern in me, but I just love dark meat. One friend, who knows me well, replied, “Sounds like a nice spread.” He gets me.

 

MyFace had invited me to her place for dinner and I graciously accepted the offer. “What can I bring?” I asked. “Just a bottle, not a box, of wine,” she replied. I don’t know why MyFace hates on the box so much. Sleepless loves the box, can’t get enough of it. Nontheless, I did as she suggested and, just to prove I am a woman of class, I also brought a bottle of  Dom Pérignon Vintage 1999.

 

“Is it a fake?” MyFace asked. “No, it’s not a fake,” I replied. “How is it spelled? With a ‘m’ or a ‘n’?” Handsome Cowboy asked as they were inspecting the bottle as if I had purchased it from someone in Times Square. “Just so you know,” I advised them, in retaliation, “I resealed that wine bottle and the wine in there is from a box. Ha!”

 

Handsome Cowboy went out to tend to the horses while MyFace, her son and I drank and watched football. “Cowboys on Thanksgiving is a must have,” MyFace advised me. As they watched the game, I made observations, “Unnecessary roughness? Is there such thing as necessary roughness? Good thing the stripes on the referees’ shirts are vertical, horizontal stripes aren’t flattering. Who doesn’t like a tight end?” I’ve no doubt my commentary was very much appreciated.

 

MyFace is very passionate about the Cowboys and has taught her son to be the same. As a result, while watching the game, MyFace had to remind him to watch his language, “Handsome Cowboy doesn’t like cussing.” “You should remind him it’s Thanksgiving – the one day when fowl language is acceptable,” I advised her.

 

After enjoying a nice spread, MyFace and I sat down to watch a little television. “What do you want to watch?” she asked. “I don’t care. I really don’t watch much television,” I told her. “Oh, look at this, I love this! What a great way to end Thanksgiving day,” she said as she selected Rocky Horror Picture Show. She was right. From touchdowns to touch-a-touch-a- touch-a touch me, we had really scored!

 

If you were a female in the fifties the expectations were simple: wear a cone bra corset, own a pair of cateyes glasses, have a good supply of hairspray, and drink and smoke less if you’re pregnant. If you were pregnant (and smoking and drinking), you wouldn’t be judged so long as you were married (which you would have done at a young age) and living the American dream – which includes dreaming of having amazing kitchen appliances like a dishwasher or, as Alice refers to it, “a magic cabinet.”

 

The second world war changed some of these expectations a bit, but ‘modern’ movies, such as 9 to 5, and everyday occurrences show societal gender roles are still alive and well. I have a coworker who regularly comes in my office and expects me to stop whatever I am doing – which is usually sitting in my chair and working on the computer – to give him a hug (which I have no interest in giving him). If I don’t do so, he’ll say (with his arms reaching out), “Come on, come on, come on. Get up and give me a hug. Come on, come on. Get up, get up. Give me a hug.” This week, when he did this, I replied, “Not doing it. I watched 9 to 5 this weekend.” Unfortunately, this information fell on deaf and demeaning ears. He replied, “Fine. I’ll just come over there, bend down, and give you a hug.” I really need to invest in a garage door opener.

 

All of this seemed fitting, however, later in the evening when Sleepless, White Woman, One And Done, Ice Cream Man, Left Eared, Tile and I all attended OldiesOke. Although we didn’t have cone bra corsets, we did have the hair, hairspray, red lipstick, dresses, jackets, cigarette pants, heels, nylons, and cateyes glasses. We looked good. If nothing else, 50s fashion was very sexy. While eating dinner, and after Sleepless had shown off her thigh highs and I my garter straps, White Woman made an announcement, “I’m wearing my mom’s old cone bra.” She then asked Passed The Sniff Test, “Wanna feel?” Two days in a row that one of my friends has offered one of my other friends an opportunity to feel their breasts. Two days in a row that my friends have respectfully declined.

 

As we were attempting to select songs to sing we quickly discovered that, outside of musicals, there weren’t a lot of female artists in the 50s and there were even fewer in the karaoke songbank. I would have settled for singing ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”, unfortunately, it wasn’t an option. Just as we were getting ready to sing Wilson Phillips, we noticed Jazz Hands. We had recently been told that he died in a car accident, but here he was, living, breathing and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at the bar. “Not dead. I’m alive. Maybe I came back to life, like Jesus. Maybe, I’m Jazz Hands Jesus,” he told us. Maybe. One thing was certain, Jazz Hands was alive and well, like the 50s. Like women in the 50s, we cheered for the boys as they sang and did what we should and do best, smiled and looked pretty.  I’m sure change will come if we just hold on for one more day.

Daylight Saving Time ended a few weeks ago for most people; the exception being Arizonians and me. My decision to not change my clocks has been most advantageous for my work-related activities, in that I tend to be early for most of them. I also leave early, but like Benjamin Franklin said, “Early to bed, early to rise….” I rise out of the meetings and head home much earlier than others.

 

Although this theory works for me, it does not work for everyone and was definitely throwing Alice off because, while visiting with That’s Not Chinese, Tree and I,  she kept looking at the clock and thinking it was later than it actually was. I continually had to remind her, “the front room is a different time zone.” Luckily, this kept her from rising and leaving too soon. Instead, she stayed and enhanced the conversations.

 

That’s Not Chinese recently visited Peru. The purpose of the journey was to be both educational and spiritual. In order to achieve ‘maximum spirituality,’ participants of the journey were advised to abstain from sexual activity. Apparently, that was a memo That’s Not Chinese missed. She had shared her experience with Tree and I, however, Alice had not yet heard the story. As Alice was asking That’s Not Chinese about her trip, Tree and I (still on a high from the whore game, no doubt) were giggling and making comments “She whore did have a good time.” “You guys, what are you talking about? Let’s not talk in circles,” Alice told us, then asked That’s Not Chinese, “(Did) you get your eyeballs fucked out?” A large smile quickly appeared on That’s Not Chinese’s face. “Humping the Holy Man,” Tree quipped. “Shagging the Shaman,” I said and added, “Please don’t squeeze the Shaman.”

 

That’s Not Chinese blushed a bit and then shared the details of her sexual encounter with Alice. The main detail being that her love connection was with their tour guide/Shaman who happens to be one of the top archeologists at one of the famous sites in Peru. “You boned the main archeologist? Don’t they dig up bones?” Alice asked. “He threw her a bone,” Tree said. “Several times,” That’s Not Chinese advised.

 

Somehow, this discussion led to one about mean girls. “I was never a mean girl until now,” Alice told us. That would explain her earlier comment about a coworker, “If she didn’t look like herself, she’d be very pretty.” Alice went on to share her high school experience with us, “I was the popular girl. I mean, I was so popular. I wreaked popularity. I was the homecoming queen.” “I was on the drill team,” That’s Not Chinese interjected. “You were? What happened to do your dance moves?” Tree asked.

 

That’s Not Chinese shot Tree a look and said, “I thought you were going to make a comment about my weight.” “I wouldn’t worry too much about your weight,” I told her. “Pretty soon we’ll be old, you’ll weigh 90 pounds, and everything will be on your belly, including your boobs.” “My boobs are firm and I don’t even have a bra on,” Alice told us, then looked at Tree and said, “If you want, you can fill them.” “No thanks,” he kindly replied then looked at the clock. Even with the front room being in a different time zone, it was still late. Thus, Alice, the popular turned mean girl with firm boobs, decided to call it a night.

 

 

 

After dumpster diving, Tree and I returned to my house for lunch and relaxing prior to a little get together with That’s Not Chinese and Alice. Just as we finished eating, we received a text from That’s Not Chinese asking if we thought a local fast food restaurant would deliver. We attempted to text her back, but my phone hasn’t been working well lately, so the text did not exactly make sense. “Seems like you aRE drinking too LOL,” she replied. We weren’t and this wasn’t the first time my phone made it appear as though I had imbibed. Instead of texting back, we phoned her.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked her. “Just watching the (football) game and wishing I had a corndog,” she replied. “Are you a drunken whore?” Tree asked. “What?” she replied. Tree giggled and then, like in Super Troopers when they threw ‘meow’ in as often as they could, we both begin sneaking the word ‘whore’ into our sentences whenever possible. “This is exactly why I need my own show,” Tree told me and continued, “This would be a great episode.” Then he asked That’s Not Chinese, “When are you going to get here, whore or five?” “What?” she asked. “He wants to know if you will be here before whore,” I advised her. “I can’t understand you two,” she said and asked, “Do you have food and, if I come over, can I watch football?” Neither Tree or I are football watchers, but we enjoyed That’s Not Chinese’s company. “Yes, come on owhore,” I replied. “This is going to be fun,” Tree giggled again.

 

That’s Not Chinese arrived in her Chicago Bears Jersey atop her sweatsuit and ready to watch football. “It’s like I’m eight again,” Tree told her. “Which parent am I?” That’s Not Chinese asked him. “My stepdad,” Tree replied. “I guess I’ll be your mom,” I told him and added, “Seems right since the guy at the store asked if I was your mom.” As I was making That’s Not Chinese a BLT, I yelled to her from the kitchen, “How many pieces of bacon? Three or whore?” “Doesn’t matter to me,” she replied while Tree giggled.

 

That’s Not Chinese decided wearing the jersey and a sweatshirt was a bit warm, so she attempted to take off the sweatshirt – in front of Tree and I – without taking off the jersey. She discovered this might result in her exposing herself to Tree so, instead of leaving the room, she turned her back to him, lifted the hoodie – which got stuck on her head, and, because she had turned to face the mirror, left her back and front exposed to Tree. “OK, you no longer remind me of my stepdad,” Tree quipped. “I think he could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that,” I told her. “Are you saying that because I’m fat?” she asked. “No. I’m saying that because he is gay,” I replied. “Oh, well, like I told you the other day, we could start a show called ‘Two and a Half Women.’ I can be the two and you can be the half,” she quipped as I helped her remove the hoodie from her head. “Great idea,” I replied. That’s Not Chinese then screamed (in response to the game). Tree and I looked at each other, wide-eyed, and he asked, “What are you screaming whore?” “What?” she asked.

 

Just as we didn’t understand her game, she didn’t understand our game. (Half) Time for the whore d’oeuvres!