Author: grigiogirl

Keeping with the “I workout” social media messaging, I thought I’d share this story about what Beaner and I did after we worked out.

After working out on Saturday morning, we decided to grab coffees using coupons Beaner got at a recent campout in the local park. We pulled up to the drive-thru and informed the employee we had coupons for two free coffees.

 

“OK. What would you like?” she asked.

“May be get them iced?” I asked.

“No. Hot only,” she replied without any hesitation.

“What if we are willing to pay more for iced?” I asked, noticing that iced coffees were only twenty cents more than hot coffees.

“No substitutions. How would you like your hot coffee?” she asked.

“What are our options?” I asked.

“Some people like cream, some people like sugar, some people like cinnamon. You can have it however you want it,” she advised.

“Except iced,” I said under my breath.

“We’ll take two hot coffees with cream and sugar, please. We’d also like two donuts,” I requested.

“What kind of donuts?” she asked.

“The pumpkin,” Beaner said.

“I think we may be out of those. Let me check….we have one,” she replied.

“We’ll take it. Will you please cut it in half for us?” I requested.

She kindly obliged.

After working out on Monday night, we decided to treat ourselves to frozen yogurt. We tasted a few of the flavors and both decided pear was the best option. I ordered my yogurt, they made me a lovely cup, and then Beaner placed her order.

“Sorry, we’re out of pear,” the employee advised her.

“Seriously?” Beaner asked.

“We’re out of what it takes to make any more yogurt,” they told her, without any compassion for her sadness.

“Would you like to share?” I asked. “They can’t cut it half, but we can ask for two spoons.”

Two spoons later we were quite the ‘pear’ – sitting by the fire sharing our second post-workout dessert in less than two days. Working out really appears to be working out for us.

 

Social media is great for making people think a lot of things are happening that may or may not actually be happening.

 

For example, a lot of people share information about their exercise regimen.

“Heading to CrossFit. It’s all about commitment.”

“Just ran 5.2 miles.”

“Gym, Day 5. Feel great!”

“Ran into my ex last night – what a nightmare.”

 

The first three are most likely shared to make people think they are exercising. The last one is shared to make people think seeing an ex is a horrible thing. A quick use of the ‘see translation’ option tells us this person probably burned some major calories while increasing endorphins and chances of futures problems: “Jumped into bed with my ex – had sex all night.  Ugh.”

 

I don’t often share information about my exercise regimen for two reasons: 1) I don’t often exercise  2) I don’t want people to think I exercise and 3) I’m not having sex.

 

So, when Sleepless, Beaner and I were at Zumba the other day it was no surprise when one of the other Zumbites asked if we were new to the class. “No, we’ve been coming here for a year,” Sleepless replied. “Do you think it was our moves, or lack of, that made her think that?” Beaner asked. “Both,” I replied and noted, to myself, “I need to blog about this so 1) people think we exercise and 2) I can build my web cred.

Tree recently planned a last-minute brunch at my house. As most brunches go with us, this was more of a drunch with nomosas (that’s just champagne and no juice for you amateurs out there) than an actual brunch with food. Knowing that I had tomato juice, olives and vodka at the ready, I decided to offer up some Bloody Mary’s as well.

 

The drunch started at one and, as usual, Live Longer and Big Bounty were on time. Tree and Awkward, not so usual, were late. To be more specific, they were fashionably late. “We stopped at the second-hand store before coming here,” Tree informed me as he stood in my doorway, champagne in hand, donning a Star Wars t-shirt with a ‘Flashdance’/80s neckline;  his long, bright red wig; daisy dukes; and black high-heeled boots. “You look lovely,” I replied and handed him a rather strong Bloody Mary – bold looks call for bold beverages.

 

As the drinks flowed into his blood stream, he posed a health related question, which was asked of him by his mother, “What is my blood pressure right now?” “Body dysmorphia,” Awkward quipped. Tree laughed, threw his long red hair over his shoulder, looked in the mirror and said, “I’ve always wanted to be a ginger…on crack. I could look at myself all day.”

 

With his self-esteem in tact, Live Longer and Big Bounty suggested boosting it a bit more with a drag queen makeover; Tree was all over  this idea. Unfortunately, my make-up bag was not. “Is this all of the make-up you have?” Big Bounty asked. “Yes. I’m pretty low maintenance,” I replied. “No foundation? Really?” Live Longer asked and added, “I can’t believe this with all of the costumes you own. I’ve got some foundation and make-up at home that I can give you.” “I can’t believe you’re just now realizing I have no foundation – in every sense of the word,” I replied.

 

As Big Bounty and Live Longer applied Tree’s make-up, a couple of things were transpiring: 1) the booze were really settling in, and 2) his self-esteem was rising faster than his mother’s blood pressure. “If I close my eyes I get dizzy,” he told Big Bounty when she instructed him to close his eyes so she could apply eye make-up. She acknowledged his concern and picked up the pace (no pun intended, Tree). “I’m taking lots of pictures of you and posting them on the World Wide Web,” I advised him. “They’re pictures of me, I probably won’t delete them,” he replied and added, “I could totally be a celebrity. Look at me, getting my make-up done.”

 

As he got his makeover, Awkward and I danced on the porch. Awkward danced far more than I did and not (entirely) because of Live Longer’s observation/comment to me, “Now that I’ve seen them, and I’ve seen you, I have to say you dance like a straight man.” It was Awkward’s dancing, and requests by both him and Tree, that caused me to stop dancing and start filming.

 

As Awkward danced, Tree screamed from his make-up chair, “Hey, it’s about me, not you.” “Wait, look at me, look at me,” Awkward advised us while busting some mad moves. “Hey! Over here! I will cut you!” Tree snapped, just like a drag queen, while Awkward kept (awkwardly) dancing.

 

Live Longer applied some finishing/contouring touches to Tree’s face and then complimented him, “You look beautiful…and thinner too.” “Mama needs a drink and a song,” was Tree’s response. Awkward kindly obliged, making him a very stiff gin and tonic.

 

Tree finished the drink and, a few minutes later, retreated to the loo. “I’m pretty sure he is going to throw up. He had drunk sweat on his lips when I was applying the glitter,” Big Bounty advised.

 

She was right. Tree exited the loo and announced, “I threw up…brushed my teeth.” In response, I asked, “Wait….with my toothbrush?”

 

He didn’t respond. Instead, a striptease commenced – no need for good foundation to have a good day.

 

 

 

Nearly a year ago, while on ‘vacation’ in Seattle, Live Longer and I acquired a gourd. There was nothing special about this gourd. It was just your run of the meal holiday/Fall table decoration. For whatever reason, however, we found it intriguing and, as a result, ‘acquired it.’

 

I didn’t think much more about the gourd until I was unpacking my suitcase and discovered Live Longer had, in fact, slipped me the gourd. Nothing worse than a non-consensual gourd slippage. Not one to just lie down and take it, I made a plan to slip Live Longer the gourd at a time when she would least expect it.

 

And so began the slipping of the gourd. This gourd gets around – often presenting on our travels or making cameo appearances in beds and wine racks. Most recently, I took the gourd with me to Beaver – seemed appropriate – and managed to find a photo opp that included the gourd and a Beaver County Fair Grand Champion purple ribbon. The next day, I took the gourd to the post office and mailed it to Live Longer. Needless to say, she was shocked to find the gourd in her box.

 

A few days later, I found the gourd in my bathroom cabinet. “I outsourced that slippage,” she informed me. “Clever,” I replied and added, “You didn’t waste any time.” Following her lead on the quick turnaround, I placed the gourd in my purse and, when she wasn’t looking, slipped the gourd into the cooler in the back of her car. Most likely on the lookout for slippage, Live Longer checked the cooler only minutes later and informed me, “Not fair. You didn’t follow the 24-hour slippage rule.”

 

This was the first I had heard of such rule, thus, I opted to disregard.  I’m sure she’ll slip it to me again soon, so I’ll be on the lookout and will be sure to not let my ‘gourd’ down.

 

 

 

I arrived at my destination to find others had arrived much earlier and, as a result, happy hour was in full effect.

 

In true form, they had their bottles of whiskey at the ready. One nice bottle and the other, well, not so much. As we discussed the whiskey choices, and as one member of the group was drinking a can of beer, someone made an astute observation, “Coors Light is the Black Velvet of beer.” This was followed up with another member’s commentary, “Are you really 28? I would have carded you if you came in for Black Velvet.” Clearly they weren’t talking to me – I don’t drink Black Velvet.

 

‘I guess the Black Velvet in a brown bag is a step up from last year,” I told the owner of the bottle. “Rape & Run, for those of you who are not familiar, is what they call R&R in Alaska. It is also one of his favorite whiskeys.”

 

As the night went on, the comments continued. When we asked one of the whiskeyteers a question, he replied, “You can’t handle the whiskey truth.” Bold move. Then, a few minutes later, when he was trying to convince everyone to drive to Vegas, he said, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and what happens in Mesquite isn’t remembered.”

 

Unfortunately for him, and most likely fortunate for us, we were in neither of those locations.

 

Each year I get in the car with a former coworker and we drive over 300 miles to a training. Being that the speed limit is 65-80 mph, this should only be a four hour trip. Unfortunately, with The Skipper Jonas Grumby, aka me, at the helm, a three- or four-hour tour quickly turns into a four-year TV series or, in our case, an eight-hour road trip.

 

Fortunately, my passenger was patient and up for a challenge.

 

We had only been on the road about 30 minutes when we stopped for an espresso and a not so expresso lube and oil. 90 minutes later, and back on the road for approximately 15 minutes, we decided to stop for lunch. A margarita and another 90 minutes later, we were on the road again.

 

We made good progress until we reached a town called Beaver. This definitely required a check-in, coffee, shopping (Beaver Liquor store is a must) and a cruise down Main Street. Might I add, it was a very busy Beaver. It doesn’t surprise me – everybody loves Beaver. Lots of people stopping in, some staying longer than others, and a few buried there.

 

We eventually made our way out of Beaver and, coffee in hand, we were back on the road and ready to arrive at our destination. Others were  anxiously awaiting our arrival, so we made another quick stop for some basic supplies and then, eight hours after initial departure, we arrived at our final destination.

 

Thank goodness I’m not an airline pilot. If I were, my delay would have cost me my former coworker/current passenger’s meal, refreshments, two phone calls,  facsimiles or emails and, had we been delayed  just one  hour more, a flight home.

In my previous entry I stated I would talk about something later. Later is now.

 

At night, usually much later at night, I tend to have long conversations with On My Terms and Scared. We don’t always have them together and our medium for conversing varies. Typically, we chat via instant or text messaging and, occasionally, we’ll use Twitter. By ‘occasionally,’ I mean excessively one or two evenings every six months or so.

 

Late last night, while Scared and I were on the web reflecting on our web cred, we determined this overnight semi success was a direct result of the advice provided to us by fellow bloggers: use hashtags and share random facts.

 

While implementing a combination of both, I received notification of a new follower – putting me at just 14o followers below the per user average of 208. #statistics

 

“I’ve got a new follower,” I informed Scared.

 

She immediately began researching his account. Upon learning his place of residence – United Kingdom – she recommended I favorite a tweet or two because “that’s the new flirting of twitter sphere” and she was hopeful we could get lodging out of it someday.

 

As she continued with her research, she changed her tune a bit, “We may want to put that trip on hold….block him before he kills you with bad poems and shears. This is both frightening and entertaining.”

 

I haven’t blocked him yet. If needed, I’ll do it later. In the meantime, #imverypopularoninstagram. So popular, that I barely have time for MySpace.

 

 

Last year, for a few days in March and then again in October, I tweeted. As you can probably imagine, my web cred exploded.

 

This month, for reasons I really don’t recall (but most likely directly related to late night instant messaging with Scared), I decided to get back on the Twittersphere. By day two of this miraculous return I had tweeted and retweeted 28 times and probably favorited just as many.

 

On day four of my return I hit a gold mine when I posted (on Instagram) a Fashion Weak picture of a fan at a college football game. With the proper hashtag (something Scared and I learned is incredibly important, but more about that later), which, in this case, was the name of the university, my Instragram was regrammed and tweeted by them in a collage. Subsequently, it was liked by nearly a thousand people – primarily on Instagram, including the individual in the see-thru polyurethane jacket and paint suit, underneath which you could see a golf shirt, suspenders, shorts, and mid-calf boots. In my opinion this is totally #ootd quality.

 

The next day, when reading a book by a very well known writer – who I will name-drop, Carol Leifer, only because she recommends it in her book – I decided to follow her advice and say hello to her on Twitter. Within minutes she not only favorited my tweet, she also respond.

 

As  one can imagine, this brush with fame increased interest in my account and, as promised to Carol, nearly all six of my ‘active’ followers – who may or may not be readers of this blog – retweeted and favorited my exchange with her. As one follower told me, on the Facebook, “ I favorited the tweet so CL would know you were at least 15% successful/truthful/not crazy.” I call that Web Cred or, as one might say in the web world, #webcred. #respect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A while back a friend offered to help fix my gutters. In the process, he stood on my swamp cooler and, once the weather got bad, I discovered this caused the seal around it to break and, subsequently, water was leaking into my house. This was not discovered because I saw water coming in rather, because my wellies – which rest just below my swamp cooler – were full of water.

 

Fast forward to now and I find the ‘good’ help provided has, yet again, resulted in more water problems: my gutter is completely falling off.

 

To be fair, this may not be a direct result of the help provided last year, but the problem gutter is the same problem gutter that was ‘fixed’ last year.

 

This year, this gutter is pushing gallons of water into my back bedroom – something that is not going to help my reviews on TripAdvisor.

 

Not able to wait for repairs, due to the fact that I’ve got gallons of water coming into my house, I decided to do a quick fix myself.

 

Thus, I grabbed my wellies – fortunately they have dried out since last year’s water problems, a pancho, some zip ties, and a ladder and did what I should have done on my own last year: zip tied the gutter to the roof strap. Fingers crossed and straps zipped that this will work!

 

 

 

I returned from a week away to find a gift waiting for me.

 

I once came home to my lawn mowed. On another occasion, I came home to flowers.

 

I’ve never come home to anyone in my bed, naked, waiting for me – I’m really fine with this (not happening

 

This week, however, I came home to something very different from the items above. This week, I returned home to find a partially skinned and totally beheaded rodent in my walkway.

 

“Wow. My cat brought me a mouse,” I told a coworker on the phone and added, “I don’t have a cat.”

 

I took a picture of the rodent because Beaner’s daughter has an interest in matters such as these, and then ended up sharing the photo with Live Longer and Rated R.

 

“You’ve got a rat, Ms. Grigio. Look at that tail. Totally a rat; luckily a dead rat, though. Good thing you’ve got Nora,” Live Longer advised.

 

Rated R took a look at the picture and shared her expert opinion, “Fucking rat.”

 

Rat-a-tat-tat. Thank goodness I’ve (sort of) got a cat.