Category: blog

Last week, Q was faced with a dilemma: she had to go out of town for a few days and needed a babysitter. Thus, this week, I began my overnight babysitting job – my resume is getting longer and longer.

 

A few days before the babysitting job, I was spending time with various friends and coworkers,when the topic came up. Each time, I got nearly the same response. “You’re babysitting somebody’s kid? Overnight? Really?” Yes, I am babysitting somebody’s kid. Overnight. Really. Once people realized that their inside voice came out (this was usually because my ‘outside facial expression’ was very clear), they would try to correct it, “I mean, you just seem so, you know.” One even added, “Not the mom type.” To which I replied, “It’s hard to be a milf without the ‘m.'”

 

Even my boss lacked faith in me. When I mentioned I might be late to work the next day because of my babysitting duties he said, “OK,” and then gave me a startled look and said, “Where is the baby now?” “Daycare,” I calmly and responsibly replied.

 

Despite popular belief, I am actually somewhat responsible. By that I mean, every now and again, I pay my bills, wake up on time, show up at work, and make delicious homemade drinks – nobody can resist my margaritas and mojitos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whenever I have a long day ahead of me, I like to kick it off with a Dirty Chai, grapes, bagels and a strip club. Thus, this morning, I did just that with ROFL and The Leaver.

 

With an 8:30 start time, I knew I really had only one option – to wear the same thing I had worn the day before. So, when my alarm went off at 8:15, I hopped off the couch, put my boots back on, and made my way.

 

We had been there for several hours when Sleepless arrived.  She walked up mid-interview and was greatly amused by the questions I was asking one of the male patrons. “How often do you come?” “So, they’re (the dancers) pretty familiar with your shtick?” “Are you listening to these double entendres?” Sleepless asked me. I was listening. In fact, I’m pretty sure what she said was a double entrendre.

 

Being that we were at the strip club longer that we had planned,  I ran out of time to get a tattoo. I’ve been wanting to get one for a while and knowing we would be attending the demolition derby later, I felt it would be most appropriate if I was donning some fresh ink. Luckily, Sleepless is both pretty and clever, and suggested we just draw one on with some markers and cover it with plastic wrap.

 

Before doing that, however, we decided to apply our press-on nails (while en route to Dr. BJ’s). We quickly realized it was going to be extremely difficult to do much of anything while donning the nails. “How are we going to open our Smirnoffs?” Sleepless asked. “Boys,” I replied. As we tried to do a few simple tasks, such as rolling down the automatic window, texting, taking things in and out of our purses, etc., we resigned to the idea that we were just going to have to smile, look trashy and hope for the best.

 

When we arrived at Dr. BJ’s, we smiled, looked trashy, asked him to open our Smirnoffs, and began the ink work on my right bicep. We opted to go for a misspelled saying – ‘Cunceal Gunnz,’ drew a Yin-Yang symbol below it, and taped plastic wrap on it.

 

Ice Cream Man arrived around the same time and wowed us with his acid-washed wrangler shorts, muscle tee, stone-washed jacket with his name monogrammed on the right side, and high top sneakers, sans socks -Jesco White would be proud. It was very clear that tonight was going to be one of the best Demolition Derby nights ever.

 

After slamming our Smirnoffs, we headed to the fairgrounds for what was, white trash trimmed hands down, the best derby ever. “Don’t you just love being white trash?” I asked Dr. BJ. “Honey, I will never be white trash,” he replied. “As chocolate as you may be, you are white trash tonight,” I replied. He realized it was pretty difficult to dispute that fact and continued to enjoy the deep fried Twinkie, Snickers, and Oreo cookies with Disdain.

 

We met up with Tile, One And Done and several other friends who were donning some fantastic wife beaters, bandanas, boots and jeans (tags on the jeans in tact – “$17 is a lot to pay for jeans, I’m returning these after tonight). We took our positions in our assigned seats on row H – pretty sure that stands for Hillbillies, and cheered on the drivers while trying to win dance competitions, catch orange hats and not kicked out.

 

Fortunately, we know a couple of the ‘rangers’ who work the fair and, in addition to not kicking us out, they kindly escorted us around the facility to ensure we were able to get our fill of deep-fried desserts and “wonder what they did wrong,” looks from patrons. After about an hour or so of having the privilege of being in the presence of pure fair genius, aka Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and I, they eventually walked us to the exit and, for the pleasure of the fair guests, bid us farewell, “Don’t let us catch you out here again.”

I recently had the privilege of participating in interviews for a general office position. The first question we asked each candidate was, “Why do you want to work for us and what skills do you have that qualify you for the position?” Some people answered the question, others not so much. My favorite response was this, “I saw the job description and I was like, ‘That’s me.’ I totally qualify for it. The skills and knowledge you’re looking for, I’ve got ‘em. This job is perfect for me.” I liked this response the most because it was energetic, used our lingo, and provided us with absolutely no information about him or his skills, at all – my kind of guy!

 

One of the other applicants went a step further and had a list of questions for us – typed up and everything. As soon as we finished asking her our questions and writing down her responses, she pulled out her sheet of questions, queried us, and wrote down our responses. One of the interviewees complimented her on this effort and the two of them began discussing organizational skills. “Like I mentioned earlier, I’m a perfectionist,” she reminded us. “Not me. I’ll settle for per. No real need to go as far as fect.”

 

S-Unit and I were talking on the phone about these and other work related stories when she said, “I just got home from work. Seriously, this job makes my butt look big.” “I’d rather have a big butt than a big job,” I replied and added, “You know how people say things like, ‘I can’t get up to save my life?’ Well, I can’t get up to save my job.” “You need a vacation,” she told me. “I was hoping to come out for your wedding,” I replied. “My work is really messing with my wedding plans,” she said with upset.

 

S-Unit has been planning to get married on 11-11-11 ever since she didn’t get married on 10-10-10. There is only one problem: no groom. I don’t judge her, because I’m not perfect, just per. Guess I’ll start watching for airfare and asking for time off around 12-12-12.

WARNING: This content is not recommended for anyone who suffers from coulrophobia (fear of clowns).

 

When email first became popular, I quickly learned the meaning behind ‘CC.’ Contrary to popular belief, ‘CC’ does not stand for ‘Carbon Copy.’ Nope. It stands for ‘Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,’  C-Crazy. More often than not, ‘CC’ is used to let the ‘To’ of the email know that the ‘From’ has told on them. Why couldn’t the “CCed’ person just have been included in the ‘To’? Because that would be a form of direct communication, that’s why. Why be direct when one can be crazy? Start watching the ‘CCs’ on your email – you’ll find this to be very true.

 

Several months ago I was putting together a CC free email about current events when I stumbled upon a headline that wreaked of CC, “Man dresses as clown, violates protective order.” This made my day and as I continued to read, my day got better, “…allegedly violated a protective order by showing up at a woman’s house dressed as a clown (wearing face paint….and carrying a large red and white umbrella) and leaving some banana bread at her door.”

 

Banana bread? This guy is a clown! Everybody knows clowns bring pies. I shared this story with Sleepless who, like me, was smitten with this little bit of crazy. For a while, she started leaving banana bread on my door – until one day it went missing, but I digress. Due to the clown’s behavior, he has been spending quite a bit of time in a new kind of circus: the courtroom. As a result, his clowning around has increased and the documents he submits to the court (thankfully, public record), have provided us great reading entertainment.

 

In his most recent document – which he managed to CC to many, despite the fact that it was handwritten on ruled paper (he did opt for legal size formatting) – he advises the court, “I decline to discuss the funny business regarding the clown and banana bread in this document.” “I’m telling you,” Sleepless told me, “It just keeps getting crazier.” I shared my CC theory with her and told her we should have a nickname for this guy, “Perhaps Clusterfuck the Clown, CC for short.” “I like it. Very fitting,” she replied.

 

We could also refer to him as ‘Ccoulro,’ with the second ‘c’ being silent. ‘Coulro’ is believed to be derived from ancient Greek and means ‘stilt walker.’ This is perfect for another one of CC’s hobbies. In addition to banana bread (‘nuts’ clearly not optional in this case) delivery, CC likes to do a thing he calls, “walking by, hello-ing.” Not sure if he is on stilts when doing this, but the court considers this act stalking.

 

Anyway, I best be going. I’ve got banana bread to make; walking by, hello-ing to do; and email to send. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you in the loop, I’ll CC you.

S-Unit decided to check in on my robotic activities and, at the same time, totally dropped a bomb on me. “So guess what I’m doing on Saturday?” She didn’t even give me time to guess and I had several good guesses ready, “Calling people from the yearbook;” “Celebrating New Year’s Eve early;” “Kegeling.” I only wish I had guessed that which rhymes with kegel – Milton Teagle.

“I’m working out with Richard Simmons,” she told me with great excitement. “Really?” “Yes, for $12. I have to bring my own glass of water and a large towel,” she informed me. “What about a stool in case you want to do the low impact excercises?” I asked. “That’s a good idea. I may want to bring a stool.”

“This is going to be fun for you. You’re going to be pretty exhausted. You better start stretching,” I advised. “Also a good idea,” S-Unit replied.

I decided to do a little research on Richard and found out that, like so many of my friends, he does not go by his real name – Milton Teagle Simmons. In addition, even though he is surrounded by loads of peeps in the Academy Award winning film Sweatin’ to the Oldies (I can’t tell you how many times I sat on the couch watching this while eating bon bons and, occasionally, crying), he doesn’t have a lot of friends.

“I don’t have a lot to offer one person. I have a lot to offer to a lot of people,” he claims on his website. In many ways, we have a lot in common. My favorite Milton Teagle quote, however, is this, “Throughout the years, Richard still gets his greatest satisfaction from reaching out and literally touching his students.” Hmmm.

I have a feeling that I better contact S-Unit and let her know that just stretching beforehand won’t cut it. She needs to put her best forward and, when she does, she needs to be prepared to be touched. I like to call this move the Milton Teagle.

It’s been a while since That’s Not Chinese and I have hung out, so we planned a relaxing evening of wine and dinner on the stoop. With our wine glasses in hand, and the bottle of wine nearby, we were ready to relax.

 

My neighbors have had family staying with them lately, so there were several children running around the yard and doing as kids do. “God, really?” That’s Not Chinese stated. Although she is not opposed to children, she is not a fan. I don’t mind the kids, but have to remember to mind my mouth when they’re about.  As a coworker stated today, “I bet you have the mouth of a sailor.” My reply, “It’s a recession. It is crazy to not use any and all words at all times. Besides, words have no meaning other than that which we place on them. Now fuck off.”

 

As That’s Not Chinese and I drank our wine and discussed world peace and the like, she decided she needed to pee. “I really wish they would go inside,” she told me. “Why?” I asked. She gestured toward the tree that she had ‘claimed‘ several months ago and said, “I just love peeing outside.” As she reluctantly made her way into the house to use the toilet, I advised her, “You’re the reason my grass is dead.”

 

When she returned to the porch I informed her one of the family members had gone into the neighbor’s house, around the same time as she went into pee, and stated, “Don’t let anyone come in – I’m going to the bathroom.” “Hmmm,” she thought out loud and then said, “I wish they had all gone in. Tree needs watered.”

 

 

S-Unit and I were chatting about work and the fact that many employers only want robots as employees. We’ve all worked for someone like this at some point – the boss who is only interested in V.I.C.I. (pronounced ‘Vicki’), the 10-year-old android in the 1980s show, Small Wonder. V.I.C.I. lacks emotion, follows commands quite literally, and is regularly stowed away in a cabinet.

 

Although I don’t share much in common with V.I.C.I., with the exception of the RS-232 serial port under my left armpit, it seems as though some people in the office wish she and I were a bit more alike.

 

As S-Unit and I were discussing this, she had an idea. “You should be robotic in everything you do. If they want a robot, you’ll be a robot. When you greet people say, ‘Hello, I am a robot,'” she stated in a robotic tone and continued on, in this tone. “I just made a copy. Soon I will turn on my computer.” I interjected, also in robotic tone, “After that I will have a cup of coffee. Then I will say, ‘No comment.’ Then I will update my facebook status to read, ‘No comment.'” “Then I will look out my window. Then I will refill my coffee,” she added. “Then I will make origami with my post-it notes.” “Then I will take a funny picture and post it on facebook.” “Then I will notice it is almost five and I haven’t done any work.” “Then I will type up this summary of my day and send it to the boss.” “Then I will pack my robot bags, do the robot, and call it a day.”

 

Unfortunately, as cute as V.I.C.I. may be, like so many other female robots, it is preferred she is only seen and not heard – best to keep her in the cabinet. Thus, even in this day and age, the only squeaky robot who continues to get the grease is Marvin the Paranoid Android. People have long forgotten about V.I.C.I., but Marvin lives on. He may not be pretty and his brain may be small, but even bands like Radiohead give him proper street cred.

 

Dōmo arigatō, Mr. Roboto.

 

 

On My Terms, Wanted and I decided to have pre-drinks before So Hip’s birthday party.

 

We met at On My Terms’ house and each of us had a different cocktail. On My Terms stuck with her standard, rum and Coke. I had vanilla vodka with cream soda and Wanted brought one Smirnoff Ice and purchased a second at the liquor store. “Only two?” On My Terms asked her. “I know my limits,” Wanted replied.

 

We started discussing dating and comparing stories – the musician who asked about periods, the recently divorced gent who cried during sex, and the hippie with the  eagle tattoo on his back who would say ‘watch this’ and then roll his shoulders to make it look like the eagle was flying – when Wanted experienced an epiphany. “I figured out why I have bruises on my thighs. Based on the location and size, I can only assume they are from him holding me when we (she and her husband) are having sex,” she surmised. “Guess we’ll have to change your blog name to Bruiser,” I advised her. “Yep, your blog name is changed,” On My Terms confirmed.

 

On our way to the party we decided to stop at the drug store and have a picture of So Hip blown up. While we waited for that to happen, we were browsing around the store and decided to purchase eye masks and fake teeth – both from the Halloween aisle – to wear at the party.

 

We arrived at the party, fake fangs in our mouths and masks on our faces, to find it we were among a posh crowd. We took a few photos and then decided it might be best to donate our goods to the young ones (sans the gently used dentures).

 

We got our drinks and were sitting on the couch watching people when So Hip began dancing with others. “Look at her. She’s so hip,” On My Terms commented. She and I soon decided to join in the dancing and a few things quickly became clear: 1) I should have ordered white wine and 2) Fat Girl is not the only one who is not a fan of my dancing. “You look like Elaine,” On My Terms told me. “No way. I’m better than Elaine. I’m Elaine promoted,” I replied and then encouraged Bruiser to join us. “Not happening. I need way more to drink if I’m going to dance. I know my limits.” She did know her limits and I wanted to show On My Terms that my dancing skills had no limits so I taught her a few of the moves from Julien Doré’s Kiss Me Forever video.

 

As much as she tried to resist the temptation, she could not do so and quickly began raising the roof, rolling dough, doing the penguin and breaking it up with a double clap. “That is some awkward clap,” she told me. “I think the clap is always a bit awkward,” I replied. “Oh, hey, that reminds me. Hey Bruiser, check out this dance move,” On My Terms shouted out and then started doing ‘the eagle tattoo on your back’ move.  Now who looks like Elaine. Uh huh.