Category: blog

The Leaver, ROFL and I have embarked upon a new adventure together, film. We are in the research stage of a documentary and decided to hit a few strip clubs to begin our adventure.

 

Upon arriving at the first club, it became obvious that many people – mostly men – select strip clubs as a locale for business meetings. It also became obvious that the recession had not impacted business – with each new dancer the stage would get covered in George Washingtons.

 

The second strip club we visited was more our style. The dancers selected their songs from a juke box, the lighting – though black on stage – was warmer, and you could play pool while you drool. ROFL was much more intrigued by these dancers and opted to place a few George Washingtons on the stage. “Shoot. She didn’t see me put them there,” he told me. “She’ll figure out they’re from you,” I began to tell him as he approached the stage and told her, “That tip is from me.”

 

She eventually left the stage and was making her way around the bar thanking customers for tips. She thanked ROFL and he advised her, “We’re filmmakers.” He continued to share information with her about our project and, after gathering the needed research, we left to do some filming at Greek Fest. “I really liked saying ‘We’re filmmakers’ and I think she liked it too,” ROFL told us. “You look the part. The ball cap and facial hair – very Ron Howard,” I told him.

 

We arrived at Greek Fest with only minutes to spare before we needed to film the traditional Greek dancing. Not wanting to pay the cover, I followed ROFL’s lead and told the festival staff, “We’re filmmakers and need to get to the main stage to film the traditional dancing.” “Who are you with?” they asked. The Leaver name dropped – very Greek and very effective – and we were in like Flynn.

 

We started filming and by the third or fourth dance, as is tradition in the Greek culture, audience members began throwing money on the stage. Primarily, George Washingtons. “I feel like we’re at the strip club again,” ROFL commented. “I was just going to say the same thing,” The Leaver stated. And with that we took what was left of our George Washingtons, bought some loukoumades, and called it a night.

 

1990 was a rather important year. This is primarily because Wilson Phillips debuted the single, “Hold On” – a song I and others having been belting out ever since. Sleepless and I have made it our signature karaoke song and, while singing it one evening, That’s Not Chinese’s mother was so moved, she had to get up and dance.  “Thank you. Wilson Phillips has gotten me through some really tough times,” she informed us when we finished singing.

 

So, when That’s Not Chinese advised me they would be at the state fair, I immediately requested vacation time. Nothing was going to get in the way of me seeing the girls.

 

Day of, I went to the fairgrounds to retrieve the free tickets. The line wasn’t too long and had it’s mix of true Wilson Phillips fans and the group that frequents furniture stores for free hot dogs. “I heard their Christmas album last year and really liked them,” one of the male patrons in line told me and another fan. “You know Hold On, right?” I asked him. “No.”  “Really? Wow. That song is epic. It was the Billboard Hot 100 Single of 1990. We sing it all the time at karaoke,” I advised him. “OK, sing it to me,” he challenged. So I did. “Are you with the band,” he asked after I sang a few bars. “Yes, it’s me, Chynna. I wanted to see what the fans were saying, so I hopped in line. Watch for me on Dancing with the Stars.”

 

With two sets of six free tickets in hand, both in relative closeness to the stage, I headed home to pick my best 80s outfit. I thought I had my outfit picked when I received a text from Sleepless about her attire, “Jeans, pegged at ankle of course, grey loose tank w/bedazzled like stuff and then big earrings, rat my hair and a headwrap thing (like a sweatband).” Although my pink “Risky Business” dress shirt was cute and I knew two of the hottest cops at the fair – Addly and Bitchin’ Camaro – I thought it might be risky business to only wear the shirt, tube socks and boys’ briefs to the fair.

 

I, instead, opted for black leggings, black high-heel boots, black tank top, denim shirt and a scrunchie. While I was applying my blue eye shadow and Madonna mole, I received a text from Bitchin’ Camaro. “Addly and I are standing here listening & watching Wilson Phillips warm up.” Shortly after that she sent me a picture of her, Addly, Chynna, Carnie, Wendy and Lola (Carnie’s daughter).

 

I coveted their moment for a few seconds, then threw my Goody hair comb, lip gloss, and liquid eyeliner in my purse and was ready to go. BioMom, Tree, Sleepless and I met for pre-drinks and Tree commented on my shirt. “Nice prison shirt.” “It’s the only denim I had from the 80s,” I replied while running my hand over the prison number that was stamped on the upper left side of the shirt. We had a few drinks and were ready to leave when I knocked my purse off the seat and my lip gloss, liquid eyeliner, and Goody hair comb fell out,  “Shit. My 80s just fell on the floor. Would you like a mole?”  Sleepless was interested, but Tree and BioMom respectfully declined.

 

Once we arrived at the fairgrounds we assessed our seating options, decided to grab some beers, and take the seats closest to the front once we returned. Although seats were assigned, we figured if they were empty we would take them and could always move to our seats if needed.

 

To our luck, there were four empty seats, front row, center stage. We took the seats and I asked the man seated next to us if he would mind scooting down one seat because we needed five seats – Ice Cream Man had joined us. He obliged and we ended up with the five best free seats in the house.

 

As we were waiting, with great anticipation, for the concert to start, BioMom made an observation, “You know you’re old when a band you listened to in high school is playing, free of charge, at the State Fair.” Although her point was valid, we were all still very excited to be a part of such great gratis.

 

The concert finally started and we were singing and chair dancing like there was no tomorrow. “Are you singing loud enough?” Tree asked Sleepless and I and added, “You’re supposed to be the audience, not the lead singers.” He continued to shush us throughout the concert. “Are we here with That’s Not Chinese?” I asked Sleepless. “It appears that way,” she replied and then we belted out, “Come on baby, come on baby. You knew it was time to just let go…release me.”

 

It was about this time that one of the staff approached and asked us to sign release forms for the reality TV show – apparently our boisterous behavior had been caught on film. We, of course, obliged and preceded to be in several camera shots – tambourine and all. The best shots, however, were at the end of the show, during the encore. As we were all singing Hold On, the camera panned across the fans and Tree, who had tried to remain cool and nonchalant the entire show, had tears dripping down his face. “I don’t know what happened. I just started crying and couldn’t stop,” he told us and then ran over to Carnie for an autograph and teary picture.

 

Even though the concert was over, we had our memories, we’ll probably be featured on the reality TV show, and Chynna is going to compete on Dancing with the Stars. The Dream is Still Alive!

 

While at a meeting today a coworker advised me he was retiring next year. “Have you worked here thirty years?” I asked. “Nope. I’m going at twenty,” he smuggly replied.

 

“Twenty? Really? Do you have to buy any years or anything?” I asked with great interest. “Nothing. I’m just done in twenty,” he told me. “Hmmm. I may have to try that.”

 

When I returned to the office I sent HR a quick email. “May I please retire at twenty years instead of thirty? Thank you.” I then preceded to make my pre-retirement plans. Long lunches, shorter worker days, afternoon naps – I wanted to be sure to have a smooth transition into retirement.

 

Several hours later, HR sent me a response, “No, you cannot retire at twenty years. You have to be at least 60 to do that.” They then provided me a slew of formulas to calculate my retirement.

 

“I can’t believe this,” I said to myself as I put the AARP application in the recycle bin. I then continued to talk myself – I can do that, because I’m pre-retirement. “Seriously, this sucks. I qualify for Belly Dancing for Boomers and Computer Classes for Seniors, but I can’t retire. Unbelievable.”

 

Then, I woke up from my daydream, retracted my “YCKMYA,” aka “You Can Kiss My White/Wide Ass” email, shortened my lunch and refilled my coffee cup. It was very clear that I have, at a minimum, another 5 hours, 16 days and 15 years before I can retire.

 

If one is going to trash-talk they should do it right: standing in the street and resting on the trash can. Which is exactly what my neighbor and I did when I returned home from work.

 

“Your house was abnormally quiet this weekend,” she told me. I thought about this for a moment, because I couldn’t remember that being the case.  “Well, I was babysitting one night.” Then I remembered I did have friends over for a wee bit, “My friends and I did shout out to you from the porch when you came home one evening.”

 

“Oh, yes. I forgot about that,” she told me. This is twice in one weekend that someone has forgotten about interaction with me and, to my surprise, admitted it to me.

 

Earlier, Dr. BJ told me he had a dream about me. “Did we have sex?” I asked. “I can’t remember.” “Well, if we had sex, maybe you blocked it out,” I advised him. “Oh, yes. If we had sex I would definitely block that out,” he replied. “Whatevs,” I said and thought to myself, “Please, I haven’t been on a kiddy ride since I was a kid.”

 

I continued my conversation with my neighbor, who went on to talk more trash on me, “You look whipped.” “Whipped?” I asked. “Yeah. Rough day?” she inquired. “Well, I did have to get up and go to work, so, yes,” I replied, then grabbed my rubbish bins and told her, “I must be on my way.” In my head, however, I was thinking, “I’m guessing she is the reason her dad left her mom.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although I don’t tell everyone all of my ailments – primarily because I don’t have many and they can read about them in the blog – I am not embarrassed to discuss things openly and honestly.

 

Thus, when my coworker asked why I was taking antibiotics, I candid(a)ly replied, “My pH balance is off. As a result, I’ve got the mother of all yeast infections.”

 

“You know how to take care of that? Douche with yogurt,” my coworker advised.

 

“Are you serious?” I asked.

 

“Yes,” she said proudly, started to walk away, then turned and added, “Not flavored, just plain.”

 

After work, I stopped by Opreggano’s house and shared this exchange with her.

 

“I’ve never heard such a thing,” she told me.

 

“I know, look that up online,” I advised.

 

She did, and we were shocked to learn about “The Great Yogurt Conspiracy” – a 1972 criminal trial against Carol Downer for the insertion of yogurt into a woman’s vagina as treatment for Candida (the yeast variety – not the 1970 hit by Tony Orlando and Dawn).

 

Learning about this was a real ‘culture shock’ for Opreggano and I. We were intrigued and continued to read about at-home methods for treating the common Candida. When Opreggano read one could use a ‘squeeze bottle’ to apply the home remedy, she quickly jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and returned with an empty hair coloring bottle.

 

“Here you go,” she giggled.

 

“I promise to wash it before I return it,” I replied.

 

“I won’t be wanting that back,” she informed me.

 

Seems strange, especially since so many hair product manufacturers stress the importance of a pH balanced shampoo.

 

As I left Opreggano’s house, she yelled out to me, “Don’t forget to stop and buy yogurt, unflavored.”

 

“Very funny,” I thought to myself.

 

I didn’t stop at the store for a variety of reasons. The primary reason being I didn’t want to do so. The secondary reason being I wanted to watch one of my library movies. I opted for The Road to Wellville – a ‘fictional’ story about Dr. John Harvey Kellogg’s Sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan. Although I had seen this movie when it was first released, I had forgotten about much of it’s goodness.

 

Only minutes into the movie, Mr. Lightbody, who is suffering from stomach problems, is assessed by Dr. Kellogg:

 

Dr. Kellogg: “The Bulgarians live longer than any other humans on earth and do you know why?”

Mr. Lightbody: “I don’t know any Bulgarians.”

Dr. Kellogg: “Yogurt.”

 

Dr. Kellogg then prescribed 15 gallons of yogurt. Mr. Lightbody tells the Doctor he can’t eat that much yogurt.

 

“Oh it’s not going in that end, Mr. Lightbody,” Dr. Kellogg replies.

 

It appeared that, like Opreggano and I, Mr. Lightbody experienced a little bit of culture shock.

 

Although the movie may not have been an exact representation of Dr. Kellogg’s life, it captured many of his eccentric beliefs and practices. One of his favorite devices (and practices) was the enema. Even better, an enema with a side of yogurt. According to wikipedia, “Every water enema was followed by a pint of yogurt – half was eaten, the other half was administered by enema.”

 

So, if you see me at the grocery store, stocking up on yogurt, don’t be shocked. Consider it a lesson, if you will, in culture – unflavored.

While in the Hamptons, Skiwi and DDDG proved to be very good grill masters. As a result, we decided to give them an opportunity to wow everyone again by having a barbecue at their house.

 

Tree and I arrived to find DDDG anxiously waiting in the kitchen and donning a wreath of fake flowers and ribbons like one would see on a maypole. “I love your headdress,” I told her. “Thank you. It used to be on a straw bonnet,” she replied. “Some woman at the Senior Center is definitely missing her bonnet,” Skiwi quipped.

 

Opreggano soon joined us, around which time Skiwi noticed a wasp near the salsa, and quickly threw his napkin in that direction. The napkin immediately caught fire due to the proximity of the salsa to the lit tealight. “Not blogworthy. Do not blog about this,” Skiwi advised me while grabbing the burning napkin and throwing it on the lawn where it continued to burn. “That”s definitely going in the blog,” Opreggano told him.

 

The fire eventually dwindled and the party kindled with the arrival of The Leaver and her three-pack of Belgian-style beer. “I would have brought a full six-pack but I had Chinese the other day,” she explained to us. “Wouldn’t have been my first pick with Chinese food,” Tree commented.

 

As The Leaver consumed her beer, Tree and I were telling the group about our earlier experience at the coffee shop, when we had to advise someone of the meaning of the ‘handles’ of some of his contacts on a dating site; the most obvious being ‘XTACCX.’ “Get it? Ecstacy sex. He is into sex on ecstacy,” I told the man. “Sex on ecstacy is great,” The Leaver concurred. “So we’ve heard,” Opreggano said and added, “That’s Not Chinese and Tree almost had sex while on ecstacy. Just ask her.” “No. Ask me,” Tree said. “That never happened.”

 

The Leaver didn’t notice the side conversation and continued on, “I’ve done ecstacy at least ten times. In the dessert. It really expands your mind. It’s been years since I’ve done it. I have some from 2006, I think. Do you think it’s still good?” “It’s not like red wine,” I told her.

 

Skiwi opted to change the subject. “Isn’t this delightful? Speakers, outdoor lighting and Michael Jackson. It doesn’t get better than this.” “Don’t forget napkin fires,” Opreggano reminded him. “Not blogworthy,” he reminded me.

 

At the end of the Michael Jackson song, and less than one beer later (this hasn’t been the weekend for finishing drinks), The Leaver decided to leave, “I’m not good with goodbyes,” Opreggano and Tree followed suit, and the dinner party, like the burning napkin, dwindled.

 

Always a proper hostess, DDDG closed the evening by warming our bellies with a spot of tea. Chamomile for Skiwi, so he could sleep (it was nearing 11 PM – way past his bed time). Mint for me, so as to avoid further stomach problems, and Jasmine for DDDG, to compliment her maypole headdress. Spot on on all accounts.

 

 

So it turns out the doctor and S-Unit are right. One shouldn’t drink while taking antibiotics and I am very thirsty.

 

There is a chance the thirst could be heat and age related, but I prefer to blame it on the antibiotics. Anyway, I’ve basically been on a bit of a liquid diet lately, sans alcohol.

 

Thus, when I arrived at Wanted’s house to find a chilled Smirnoff Ice waiting for me, I graciously and foolishly accepted.

 

One and a half Smirnoffs later, my stomach was working overtime. As much as I wanted to blame it on dinner – a French Vanilla latte and Salt and Pepper potato chips – I knew better.

 

This antibiotic was really cramping my lifestyle. In addition to being cut off  from alcohol during the course of the prescription, one is advised against drinking three days after taking it. Taking antibiotics is a lot like being in the 55+ community again – feels like rehab. “You picked a really great weekend to be on an antibiotic,” Tree told me as we discussed Labor Day weekend barbecue plans, and then added, “And what are you doing drinking Smirnoff Ice?”

 

Being that I didn’t have a really good answer, I cut him off, changed the subject and hoped for better days.

It has been a while since I’ve had my ‘visitation’ with Baby Q. Luckily, her parents were wanting to have some uninterrupted ‘adult time,’ so I got the chance to have another 24 hours with her.

 

Being a fan of vintage Sesame Street – you really haven’t lived until you have watched “It’s the Shpritzer Honker Splasher,” “We All Sing the Same Song,” “You’re my Baby,” “What’s the Name of That Song?” and any of their other videos from the early years (that would be the 1970s) – I decided to share these nuggets of wisdom with Baby Q. While doing so, I got a bit nostalgic and considered, for a mere second, the idea of having a wee one or two running around the house again. Then Baby Q got red faced, the room started to stink, and I was soon seeing actual nuggets. I think I’ll stick to babysitting/visitation only.

 

Several hours later, after introducing Baby Q to the library and duck feeding – for the record, she said ‘duck;’ I promise, it was ‘duck’ and not something that rhymes with ‘duck’ – I was getting ready to put her to bed when Wanted, BamRight?!?! and On My Terms stopped by for stoop time.

 

It was at this time that the need for parental supervision switched from Baby Q to BamRight?!?!. He was in standard form, flexing his muscles, yelling “Vaffanculo” and other random rudes at passersby, and suggesting people rub and touch him. I must admit, none of us were surprised by his behavior because we had witnessed this before.  In addition, he had commandeered Wanted’s phone prior to arriving and had been sending me multiple texts about his CockAsian – not to be confused with Caucasian. Unfortunately, according to the texts, he had clearly ‘confused’ his cock with something negative because at one point he described it as “strawberries with little marshmallows.” I suggested he have the doctor, not me, look at it. He replied, “hire a babysitter.” I replied, “For the baby or BamRight?!?!”

 

Several insults to my neighbors and non-complete fist bumps later, Wanted suggested BamRight?!?! stop drinking and head home. As they drove away, On My Terms and I worried about her safety, mentioned how glad we were that we no longer needed parental supervision, and then discussed whose house we could toilet paper next time we all get together.

As much I like to travel, I’m not the best at unpacking. Once I get home, I usually throw my suitcase in my room and don’t do much with it until I have tripped over it so many times that I have to unpack it. This week, I’ve got both a suitcase and a backpack in my room.

 

Being that I have been home for almost two weeks, I decided I should unpack. In an attempt to pack efficiently, I had shoved my shoes in my wellies. Unfortunately, my wellies got a bit damp in the Hamptons (not because it rained, but because I wore them in the pool) and weren’t completely dry when I packed them. As a result, the shoes inside them were covered with mold. Nothing like a souvenir.

 

While on our nightly phone call, I shared this story with S-Unit. Being a fashionista, she was saddened. As our conversation continued, she mentioned something about drinking. “Did I tell you I’m on antibiotics and can’t drink for seven days?” I asked. “You are going to be so thirsty,” she dryly replied, giggled, then asked, “Why are you on antibiotics?” “The mother of all yeast infections,” I confided in her. “Not only did your shoes come back moldy from the Hamptons….” she said and then started laughing so hard she couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Touché,” I said. “I think you mean douche,” she quipped, pronouncing ‘douche,’ ‘doo-shay,’ and laughing even harder.

 

Speaking of souvenirs, Sleepless and I thought of a t-shirt idea while in the Hamptons. “My boyfriend went on Spring Break and all I got was this stupid STD.” Who doesn’t want to wear that sTd-shirt?!?!

While dining with Fine Girl, Calling The Dog and Sleepless, we discussed the age-old (pun intended) question, “Should older women date younger men?” “I thought it was a good idea once, but I wouldn’t do it again,” Fine Girl advised us. Sleepless asked, “What is the cougar formula again?” “Cougars? You two aren’t cougars,” Fine Girl said looking at Sleepless and I. “If you’re cougars, then we’re grandma cougars,” she added. “Woolly mammoths,” Calling The Dog corrected her.

 

Later in the day, Prize Winner invited me to attend Ignite with her. If you aren’t familiar with Ignite, it is an opportunity for people to come together and hear 5-minute talks/presentations about anything and everything. As detailed on their website, “Ignite is a force for raising the collective IQ and building connections in each city.” One of the presenters was discussing computer programming and mentioned the word ‘MILF.’ The audience laughed, Prize Winner smiled, and then whispered in my ear, “I don’t get it. What does it mean?” I whispered the meaning to her, her mouth dropped open in shock, and she shared the saucy new information with her friend. Sweet Prize Winner – she is much more innocent than I, but, as intended, the collective IQ was raised.

 

As the presentations continued, Prize Winner suggested I participate in the next Ignite event. “I really think you should tell the broomstick story,” she advised me. “That is a good one. Although, I don’t know if it will take five minutes to tell it. It’s kind of one of those hop on/hop off stories. A true quickie,” I replied.

 

Once I got home, I thought further about Prize Winner’s suggestion and a possible presentation. Prize Winner, Fine Girl and Calling The Dog are all in the same age bracket – which is a wee bit older than me. With age, comes fossils of wisdom and, at times, naivety. Thus, our hanging out is the perfect mix. Together, we fossilitate a lot of incredible activities and experience. So, I think I’m going to do a presentation titled, “I am Cougar, Hear Me Roar.” If only I could find a cute, young IT guy to help me with the graphics.