Author: grigiogirl

I really could have blogged all night last night. Between OregganO and MiniMe the material was endless. MiniMe was getting ready for her flight and had straightened her curls. She, of course, looked fabulous and was frequently “checking” to be sure. OregganO asked her, “Do you have a compact in your purse? If not, I have one in my car. Really, you should have one with you. I know what its like to want to stop and check yourself out every now and again.”

A little bit later, I decided to make some popcorn for us. Historically, OregganO is not my biggest fan when it comes to my “cooking” (http://grigiogirl.com/2010/03/wax-paper-for-taste/). She wasted no time letting me know how she felt about my Healthy Pop. “This shit blows balls. Cream Of Tartar makes this shit for me because he is worried about his cholesterol.” I have a feeling, though I’m not sure, that she didn’t care for the popcorn. I really wish she would be more direct with me in her communications.

Prior to heading home, OregganO edited/reviewed my post. Midway through she gave me a bit of a look and said, “Oh shit, I just went to your next post.” I told her, “I don’t have a next post.” Her reply, “Huh.”

This afternoon I was chatting with BeCuz, giving her a recap of last night and running her through today’s shenanigans. I told her I had recently mailed Mini Sparkle Donut a box full of some of her scarves, tights and whatnots (she is storing some of her goods in my shed and I thought she might like these items for her photo shoots: http://apparellel.com/); I didn’t bother looking in the bag of goodies, just put them all in the box. Mini Sparkle Donut sent me a thank you email today. Receiving the scarves was exciting, but she was most excited about the Rabbit. I had no idea it was in there. Had I known, I would have taped a note to it, “Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this a couple of times – thanks. P.S. Needs new batteries.”

BeCuz could not get over the fact that Mini Sparkle Donut, or anyone for that matter, would put a Rabbit in storage. I could not get over the fact that I didn’t know it was in the bag of scarves. I totally did not provide that information to the postal service. Imagine if the box got bumped, kickstarting the renegade Rabbit, who had hijacked the scarf bag. There is a good chance Mini Sparkle Donut wouldn’t have received her “package.” Ah, that Wiley Wabbit!

MiniMe is preparing to go international. I helped her pick some really cute outfits, because that is a priority. Lots of people have been sending her well wishes.

S-Unit was chatting with me on the phone and asked that MiniMe bring her some Iceland Ash. It was kind of hard to understand her, so I asked, “You want her to bring you Iceland Ass?” S-Unit quickly replied, “No, not Iceland Ass or Iceland Hash. I just want a little Iceland Ash, I’m into eruptions.”

Right soon after this conversation, and a grilled swiss cheese sandwich, OregganO stopped by with some Tisdale Chardonnay.  We started chatting about life, outer space and hair products.

She informed me she was “…going balls to the wall and doing the whole thing tomorrow, 48 pumps.”  She bought some infomercial product for her hair and hadn’t been following the instructions. Which makes sense, because she paid $50 for 18 oz. Her husband, Cream of Tartar, wanted in and asked her, “Where’s that shit? I’m tryin’ it!” He tried it, but doesn’t style it with heat, so, whatever. OregganO is into it because Jenny Garth, some Asian bitch and Half Pint use it.

I was heading to a meeting this morning with Fru Fru Pants, Road Husband and I’ll Call You Later. Fru Fru Pants and I were in the backseat and our request for specialty coffee drinks at our favorite drive-thru cafe was being obliged. The barista came out to take our order and, noticing Road Husband was unsure of what we wanted, I rolled down my window and placed the order (actually, the barista recognized us, so he just confirmed our regular drinks). I then apologized to the barista advising him our new driver doesn’t have our routine down yet. As we pulled up to the window to retrieve heaven in a cup, barista asked what we were doing today. None of us regularly or irregularly announce our employment, so I told him we were meeting with our attorneys to discuss our trust funds. We then rode off into the sunset, aka, live traffic.

Later, in Italian class, That’s Not Italian was asking all of us how many hours we worked each day. Wanting to be consistent, because you never know who might know your barista, I told Alice we should say we don’t work, rather, we are now trust funders (business is dead at the morgue). Not wanting to get asked a lot of questions, primarily because I never do well when being interrogated in another language, we fabricated our daily work hours. Devaro (wow – and then you make that look with your eyes…you know the one)!

Things got personal real quick when That’s Not Italian asked each of us if we had children or pets. Some did, some didn’t. Most had a cane (dog) or two. I didn’t mention No Action Jaxon – I had no idea how to say foster dog in Italian. Cane Bastardo? Overachiever started going on and on about her cane, who is a Pit Bull called Dino. That’s Not Italian did not like that she owned a Pit Bull, looked at me and said, “They’re scary, no?” I replied, “They’re kind of ugly.” It was at that moment when Alice and I both realized I was talking about the cane and his owners. We’ve all seen the email with pictures of owners who look like their dogs. And, no, I don’t look like No Action Jaxon. I’m merely a foster dogma.

As class progressed it was obvious Overachiever and her boyfriend, Not A Good Chef, were going to test our pazienza (patience).  We were going around the room discussing what we ate for colazione (breakfast), pranzo (lunch) and cena (dinner); Overachiever was having a really hard time waiting her turn. Luckily, Quattro Espressos (Bombshell McGee’s boyfriend and what he had for colazione) had a lot to eat and drink, so Overachiever had to wait. Not A Good Chef told everyone he woke up at three AM and ate breakfast for five hours. I asked him if he hit the “spices” first. He didn’t get it – he was not pickin’ up what I was layin’ down (wonder how that translates). Alice and I looked up “marijuana” and “weed” in our Italian Pocket Dictionary and found a translation for weeds and weed killer, diserbante, but not for killer weed. I later checked a more current (2006) dictionary and found the true translation: marijuana. Huh, a lot of people speak Italian and don’t even know it.

While others were desperately trying to share their dining details with the class I started wondering why all of the other students decided to learn Italian. Were they, too, hoping to meet a hula hooping Italian? Or, were they just interested in meeting with a group of strangers each week and attempting to speak a foreign language only to leave class not knowing what they said, what everyone else had for colazione and whether or not they had a cane or figli (children)? Probably the latter.

Last spring Fru Fru Pants and I were shopping at one of our favorite places when we stumbled upon what many girls dream of and many romance authors describe in intricate detail: two knights in shining armor.

This is in no way an exaggeration. They were knights in/made of shining armor and, this is the really good part, they were only $99.99 each. Less than three months of eharmony or match. And, in the long run, much less costly than some of those free personal ads that often end badly (he usually doesn’t ‘ just want to hug for 10-20 minutes’).

We were smitten with our knights and returned to them periodically throughout our shopping excursion. During which time we would talk about how much better our lives would be with them in it and where we would ‘position’ them in our homes and yards.

As I mentioned, that was last year. Sadly, we opted to wait. I have complete buyer’s remorse; for not buying. Those knights would have easily fit in the back of Fru Fru Pants’ truck and in our hearts and homes.

We were talking about our knights today and how not buying them was probably the biggest mistake we made in 2009. Fru Fru Pants informed me if she had her knight today she would get inside the armor, jump atop a white horse, and ride around town singing, ‘Camelot! Camelot! In far-off France I heard your call. Camelot! Camelot!’ I’d probably just put him in the passenger seat of my car and drive in the HOV lane with Hero by Enrique Isglesias playing, loudly, on repeat.

It’s been a while since FatGirl, Tree and I have hung out. Most likely because FatGirl is too busy taking advantage of his minority scholarship. Too nights ago, I called FatGirl to discuss his scholarship  – after sharing zero scholarship details we decided to hang out last night at one of the local gay bars for a scholarship fundraiser. As often happens in life, our plans changed when FatGirl got caught up with her origins.

Luckily, Area Man was frequenting a local pub, so I caught up with him, Dancing Dentist, Cult Leader and Call Me The Judge.  We were in the patio area, when I started “holding my arms.” Area Man asked if I was cold and I replied, “No, just touching my arms. They’re really soft.” Area Man then felt his arms and allowed me the same privilege. Definitely soft. He went on to tell me he was a hand model, until he starting getting injured and ended up with scars. Careless hand model.

While on the patio, we heard a bit of hip hop music. We looked out to the street and, on the sidewalk, saw Pimp Ass Madelyn with Chuck. Chuck was sportin’ a bicycle, lit up with neon purple lighting, a beer cooler strapped on the back and, what appeared to be hip hop music coming from Pimp Ass Madelyn’s box. Pimp Ass Madelyn was donning a lovely cougar print faux fur coat with a miniskirt and heels. After announcing to everyone, “That’s right were pimpin’!” she straddled the beer cooler, as only she could, and they pumped off into the moonlight.

The other day I was discussing the fact that my mailman only leaves mail in my mailbox – doesn’t ever pick up any outgoing mail. For example, a former tenant, Ricker, was regularly receiving mail here. Subsequently, I was regularly writing, “Not at this address” and putting it pack in the mailbox. It would sit there until I took it to the actual post office and dropped it off for proper dissemination.

Today I tested the process again. I placed an outgoing letter in the mailbox and waited. I was inside my house, with the mailbox in clear view, watching The Pawnbroker (library rental, of course), when two things happened:

1) UPS dropped off a package (The Bedwetter and You’re a Horrible Person, But I Like You) at the front door and No Action Jaxon started barking and ran directly to the back door – his name isn’t No Action Jaxon for no reason….I’m actually thinking of renaming him, but that’s a story for another day.

2) The mailman delivered my mail and left, untouched, my outgoing mail in the box.

This made me think of my discussion the other day. My frustration with the postal service was alive and well due to the fact that they never pick up my outgoing mail. I just don’t get it. I support the postal service, I even buy Forever stamps. When I told this to Mildred she replied, “That’s your problem. Forever stamps mean they’ll stay in your mailbox forever.”

Last night Bond Girl and I met up with Aloha and MiniMe to take some out-of-town guests to dinner. Being that there were six of us, one of us had to ride in the trunk area of the vehicle. I don’t mind small, confined places, so I agreed to be the one.

Wanting to impress the out-of-towners with our lovely city, we headed toward the canyons. As we were making our way we had to come to a quick stop when a red mustang rolled out of a driveway and into the road, smackdab in front of our car. Nothing says “Welcome to our city” like a runaway vehicle that almost becomes one with yours.

Aloha was driving and quickly threw on the hazards. Bond Girl got out of the car to gather intel on the red mustang: no driver, doors locked, no keys in the ignition, temporary plate. She then knocked on the door at the house from which the mustang so quickly parted. No answer. I got on the phone with law enforcement and began describing the situation to dispatch. They asked the make, model and color of the vehicle in which I was riding. I yelled the question out to Aloha and said to the dispatcher, “I don’t know the type or color of the vehicle, I’m in the trunk.” And then added, “Hey, Aloha, tap once if the car is blue and twice if its black.”

Just then, the owner of the red mustang came out of the house. I have a feeling she was in the middle of a little S.O.S., which I hate to interrupt, but this was definitely a situation in need of attention.

This morning, at the hotel, one of the conference attendees approached a coworker and said, “We have a hot chocolate situation.” She asked, “What’s the situation?” He replied, “There’s no hot chocolate.”

A car rolling into live traffic is a situation. No hot chocolate, really? This is not the Hot Chocolate 5K and that is not a situation.

A while back there were a couple of weeks when I had to tell at least five people that their zippers were down. Most of these were people I work with, one person was my boss’ son, to whom I said, “What’s up? Not your zipper.” The first guy I had to tell this to called me a few weeks later to say, “Hey Zipper Police, just wanted to let you know, I am wearing the same pants as I did when you told me my zipper was down and I noticed it was down again today. Thought you might want to know.” From now on his name will be Eye on the Fly.

Eye on the Fly was working with me today and, throughout the day,  made a point of letting me know the status of his and other people’s zips. Later in the day someone asked, “Is Eye on the Fly still here?” Another person responded, “Yes, I hear clapping.” I responded, “You heard Eye on the Fly Clapping?” She replied, ” Yes.” I asked, “How did you know it was him?” Roast Beff quipped, “He has a distinct clap. Drove me nuts, that’s why I broke up with him.”

A few minutes later I was shooting the breeze with Bond Girl when a man walked by with the sound of music coming from his pants. Bond Girl, in awe, stated, “There is music playing in his pants. Those are pants for a player.” I heard the music, but I didn’t hear him clap. Based on the fact that his pants are for a player, I would venture to bet his clap is distinct.

Participated in some training today about natural disasters that really shake things up. I know people who are like that. In fact, I think  I once wrote about the fact that people should just call me FEMA because I tend to “arrive” on the dating scene mid-quake. I need to work on that. MiniMe agrees.

Speaking of nature, Arbor Day is just around the corner. This is Alice’s favorite day and, for some reason, I thought it was her birthday. So I have been collecting little things she enjoys, such as wine, My Booky Wook, little journals with her name on it, and a 100% cotton Fresh & Easy bag. With Italian class tonight I put her birthday trinkets in the bag and figured I would give it to her after class.

In class, we were learning numbers and -are verbs. It was at this time that I learned Alice’s birthday is not on Arbor Day, rather, it is in ottobre (October). I’m still giving her the gift. I put a lot of thought into it and I know she’ll love it.

Alice and I were having a little too much fun, so I was selected to go to the front of the class and write the numbers on the board as the other students shouted them out. After wowing the class with my number taking skills, I returned to my seat next to Alice and tried to find (in the dictionary) a place where we could say we worked.

Lavorare (to work). Alice was torn on an occupation so I suggested the following: camionista (truck driver), armato (gunman), and attrice (actress). She didn’t like any of them. Non capisco. I decided to tell everyone I worked in a mortuaria (mortuary). They pressed me for more information, which I didn’t realize at first. Non capisco italiano, that is why I’m in the class, parlo inglese (I speak English). I told them about my training today and the “Did you feel it?” website where people submit their personal information and you can see if they felt it. This seemed pleasing to all. Prego (spaghetti sauce and you’re welcome).

Today one of my friends called to tell me she had recently hooked up with an ex, just before he was deployed to Iraq. She is such a patriot – doing him for our country. We’ve all seen and enjoyed (don’t deny it)  Grease 2, “Bullets are exploding, they’ll soon be at the door, give something to America you never gave before. Yeah, let’s do it for our country, the red, white, and the blue…” She heard the booty call to duty and gave him the infamous send off sex, S.O.S., it’s not just an ABBA song anymore.

Unfortunately, she was “late” and too embarrassed to buy a pregnancy test. We live in different states and I couldn’t physically go with her to buy one, so I offered to accompany her via telephone. I even offered to talk to the cashier and pretend the test was for me, “Hey, could you please point my friend in the direction of the pregancy tests? Last time I sent her in she got me a douche instead and, nine months later, I had a baby. No pun intended.”

In addition, I offered to move there, be the fetus nanny and, once the baby was born, we could start our own sitcom, Two and a Half Women. Production money shouldn’t be an issue. She should have plenty of start-up cash once she claims the S.O.S. on her tax return. I’m pretty certain doing it for your country is a write-off. Just as I was coming up with the story line for Season One, Episode One, she informed me she wasn’t pregnant. Sadly, the postpartum depression hit me quick.