Category: blog

In 1972, the German Minister of the Interior banned “Fräulein” from official use in Germany. According to wikipedia, “Fräulein” was used before one’s name, similar to “Miss” in English, to identify the fact that the female was not married. One year after this ban, Fräulein GrigioGirl was born.

 

As a Fräulein, I often rely on other Fräuleins for direction. Luckily, Fräulein Maria taught me the importance of sewing. While living with Captain Von Trapp, she took curtains off the windows and made clothes for the children. Although I haven’t done that, I have made a thing or two out of a thing or two and, like Fräulein Maria, I sing while I do it.

 

So, when Tree told That’s Not Chinese that America had let him down, thus, he needed non-traditional medical care, That’s Not Chinese had a solution, which Tree shared with me. “I’m going to get my cyst ready, she’s going to drain it, and she said you could stitch it up.” “She said I would stitch it up?” I asked. “Yep. She said you are good at sewing, so we’ll just give you a couple of glasses of wine and then ask you to go get your needle,” he informed me. “Right, because I always keep my first aid/sewing kit near the wine,” I replied and added, “Be thinking of a thread color.”

 

“I think this will be great. This plan is much better than my dad’s plan,” he told me. “What was your dad’s plan?” I asked. “He suggested somebody hold the cyst away from my body with a pair of tongs so he can shoot it out.” “I really don’t think that is a good idea – for a variety of reasons. The most obvious being that your dad is missing a foot, an arm and his nose,” I replied. “Yeah, probably not the best idea. We’ll do it at your house, make a web page, film it, and become famous,” Tree said with excitement.

 

 

The other day while at the doctor I got asked two interesting questions: 1) Do you mind if a student watches? 2) Do you have any new sex partners? My answer to both was “no” and I added a qualifier to the second question, “I don’t have any old sex partners either.”

 

By the time I left my doctor’s office, I realized it might be time to break up with BOB, at least for a little while.

 

I was sharing this story with Tree when he told me that he might have to break up with a guy he met at the bar two days before. “Why?” I asked. “Well, he gave me his number, I called him today, and he hasn’t called me back.” “Let me guess. You called him right before calling me?” I asked. “Yes, but he still hasn’t called back,” Tree replied.

 

While sharing break-up stories with Fine Girl, Calling The Dog and Sleepless, Fine Girl told us how she found an Excel spreadsheet on which her ex-husband had detailed some unfortunate goals. “On Excel? He uses Excel for goals?” Calling The Dog asked and added, “I’d break up with him for that alone – regardless of the nature of the goal.”

 

Even with all of these decisions to break up, Neil Sedaka knows best. Breaking up is hard to do. BOB is still around, Tree plans on going out with his new beau, and Fine Girl – though divorced – is still living with her ex-husband.

While camping with Chauffeur and BioMom, they had the luxury of a small shack/cabin with electricity. Opreggano, Cream Of Tartar and I had the luxury of a tent – with a divider so we had separate rooms – that was several yards away from the shack/cabin and in close proximity to the outhouse.

 

We were all sitting around the fire pit area when BioMom went inside the shackabin (get used to it, Opreggano was Brangelina-ing words all weekend) and Chauffeur followed behind her.

 

Although they weren’t in there too long, they didn’t come out right away. “What do you think they’re up to?” Cream Of Tartar asked. “Snuddling,” Opreggano replied. “Snuddling?” Cream Of Tartar and I asked in unison. “I meant to say ‘snuggling,’ but then somehow it combined with cuddling and became snuddling,” she answered.

 

Once I returned home from camping, D-Dog stopped by and we went for a walk up to Skiwi and DDDG’s house. We arrived to find NPR playing on the bistro speakers, however, the bistro was empty. We rang the doorbell, sat down at the table, and waited. A little while later, we phoned Skiwi and sent him a text – no response. After about a half hour of enjoying his amenities without him, we continued on our walk.

 

By the time we returned to my house, Skiwi called to find out if we were still in the area. “We were here, but we were just taking a nap. Snogging (British version of snuddling), really. My phone was in the car so I didn’t hear it or get the text until now,” Skiwi said and asked, “How long were you on the bistro?”  “We were there for about 30 minutes,” I replied. “30 minutes. Huh. Well it’s good to know that I can still snog for more than 30 minutes,” he said while giggling. Sounds like he wasn’t just snogging. I believe this chap was shagging – snuddling taken to the next level.

Just over one month ago, I accepted a challenge of sorts. While celebrating Cream Of Tartar’s birthday, we (Cream Of Tartar, Opreggano, BioMom and Chauffeur) discussed going camping. It has been some time since I have camped. I’ve ‘slept’ in hammocks, chaise lounges, on the lawn of a train station, and on a concrete block in Times Square, but I haven’t purposely gone camping for many, many years.

 

As a result, Chauffeur and Cream Of Tartar were convinced I wouldn’t actually go. Opreggano, however, had faith in me and created a contract which we all signed. If I didn’t go, I owed them a bottle of scotch. Outside of their company – which is a major perk, I don’t believe they owed me anything if I went.

 

Being a woman of my word, I pulled my backpack out from under my bed – leaving the inch of dust on it, grabbed Boggle and MiniMe’s mummy’s sleeping bag, and was ready to go when BioMom and Opreggano arrived. Being that it was early in the morning, we were all very ready for some food and coffee. We stopped at the drive-thru and, as I handed the cashier my debit card, BioMom handed us advice, “Always have them slide it inside.” “A little early for sexual comments, don’t you think?” I asked as I handed her a coffee. She giggled, took the coffee and preceded to pour it into her coffee thermos. “Do you want cream or sugar?” I asked. “I creamed at home,” she replied. “Wow,” Opreggano commented.

 

We arrived to find Chauffeur actually sawing logs while Cream Of Tartar was in the tent, also sawing logs. I pulled out my camera and Chauffeur quickly instructed, “No action shots and no posting these on facebook.” “Right,” I replied and took a picture. Chauffeur and BioMom were sleeping in a small cabin, Oreggano and Cream Of Tartar in their tent and, if needed, Chauffeur had brought a tent for me. “Would you like an action shot of me pitching a tent? Ba da boom!” he said and returned to sawing logs.

 

Several hours later, it began to rain, so we all (five adults and three dogs) retreated to the small cabin and played Boggle. BioMom was killing us with words we had never heard, like ‘lek’ and ‘lout.’ “I’ve got a dictionary. I’m checking these out,” Chauffeur told her and ran out to the truck to retrieve a dictionary. “I can’t believe he has a dictionary in the car,” I stated. “It was on the list of things to bring,” Cream Of Tartar advised us. One of the words BioMom had played was not in the dictionary. “Your dictionary is too small,” she informed Chauffeur. “You may be right,” Chauffeur replied and continued, “but it is not in the official dictionary of the cabin game, so you can’t count it.”

 

Later, after the rain stopped, Chauffeur and Cream Of Tartar returned to being sawyers (a two point Boggle word and someone who saws wood), and Opreggano, BioMom and I did what we do best – stationed our lawn chairs in the dirt next to the fire pit and watched.

 

A while back I experienced a sexual encounter. There is actually more to the story, but as I typed this I thought to myself, “You can just end the sentence there and it will still be true.” So, a while back I experienced a sexual encounter. Afterwards, the individual asked me, “You’re not too old to have a period, right?”

 

Fortunately, I didn’t let this upset me and actually let him stay the night. In the middle of the night, I got hot – something that happens to me on a regular basis. So, I sat up, grabbed the ceiling fan chain, turned it on the highest speed, and said, “I am old enough to have hot flashes. Night.”

 

Age is not something that I regularly think about. Sometimes, however, others kind of force you to think about it (i.e., story above). MyFace and I always talk about moving to Italy when we’re older and opening a bed and breakfast. She is actually heading there soon, which made me think about the Italian classes Alice and I took at the local high school. Even though we didn’t learn or retain much more than ‘hoha hola,’ the class was fun.

 

I thought it might be fun to take another class and browsed the Community Education Fall catalog. I found two belly dance classes and was intrigued, so I read on. The two classes available are: All Levels and Baby Boomers. Age for All Levels: 16 and up. Age for Baby Boomers: 40 and up – must be 40 or older to join this class. “40 and older? 40 isn’t ‘baby boomer,” I thought to myself, “This has to be a typo.” I continued to look through the catalog and found another ‘special’ class: Basic Computer Skills for Seniors: age 40 and up.

 

40 and up? Really? As much as I’d like to be retired and living on a pension, my hot flashing ass works. I’m not afraid of getting older, nor do I care. I just don’t think I’m going to take the classes based on one simple principle: no AARP discount. Boom!

I met up with Wanted for a movie tonight. Prior to the show we were talking about our weekend plans and she informed me she had work tomorrow. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing,” she said. “Do you not like to talk about it?” I asked. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I don’t know,” she replied. “I like that you’re open to anything,” I told her and added, “I looked for you at the dentist office but all of the pictures were covered – all you can see is the headline.” “I told you I’m allergic to that, right?” she asked. “Yes, you did, and I think that is classic,” I replied.

 

Every now and again, Wanted does modeling work. There is a good chance she is the woman in that picture frame you bought several years ago, with the intention of using, but it sits on the shelf with her in it.  Which, I understand, she is beautiful. Well worth keeping her in the frame on the sheet of paper with the UPC code. The thing I like is it isn’t an endorsement for her, it is just a job – she’ll even promote things that cause her to an allergic reaction. Brave. I’m hoping the spot is for something saucy, like Ragu.

 

In addition to not worrying about what she endorses, Wanted is also not afraid to order the largest popcorn, “We get one free refill,” she told me as she approached with the largest popcorn they sell. We placed the tub of popcorn between us and started eating. “I just love popcorn, but I keep dropping it down my shirt,” she told me. “Your boobs must be hungry.” I told her. “Very hungry. I’m sure I’ll find tons of it later – in my boobs and in my purse,” she advised.

 

Luckily, I only ended up with one popped kernel in my milk duds. I started calling my boobs ‘milk duds’ last week, or maybe it was at the Milk Carton Kids’ concert, because they don’t produce any milk and I’m currently rockin’ a little tan; hence, ‘milk duds.’ In addition to my lactation station not working, my computer is also broken – yes, BioMom, know when I say and do this it is true. The good news is, my computer not working actually makes my duds ‘work.’ I just bend over ever so, squeeze my milk duds together and, in a raspier the better sexy voice say, “my computer’s not working,” and then hope that a boobcorn doesn’t fall out.

 

Mini Me decided to purchase a desk from IKEA and invited me to help her construct it. “Do I need to bring any tools?” I asked. “Nope. Should be really simple,” she advised.

 

The first page of the instruction booklet – which features an image of  someone on the phone, with whom one would assume is the IKEA “How the hell do you put this together” hotline – should be an indicator that assembly is not as simple as implied.

 

After about an hour of assembling the desk, I asked MiniMe, “Does this make you appreciate fully assembled furniture?” “Sure,” she replied, clearly not caring about the finer things in life.

 

An hour later, when we were still trying to screw together pieces of lacquered particle board, MiniMe expressed concern. “I’m surprised this is so difficult. They look so happy in the picture,” she said. ‘They’ are the odd shaped cartoon couple who appear rather happy in the sketch in which they are carrying the side of the desk;  and in the other sketch, in which they are inserting 114276 into a bracket – ever so happy.  “What they don’t show in the picture are the wine glasses. Those people clearly stopped for a glass of wine or two and a plate of meatballs with lingonberries before posing for the instruction manual,” I advised.

 

Three hours later, MiniMe was smiling as big as  the couple in the happy picture. “Yeah! We’re done. I’m so proud of myself for doing this,” she told me. Perhaps Ingvar Kamprad knew what he was doing by including glad bilds (Swedish for ‘happy pictures’) in the instruction manual.  Not one to get caught up in exact translations and spellings, I would have to say MiniMe would consider this desk a glad build. I, on the other hand, was not so glad about it. Next time, I’m bringing my tools and, by ‘tools,’ I mean Article 101. 490.29  –  the IKEA corkscrew. With that on hand, I can guarantee a  glad bild.

After spending the last week with friends in New York, it was nice to return home to plans with friends here. MyFace, Sleepless, Opreggano, That’s Not Chinese, and I decided to meet for after-work drinks and appetizers and, after less than two hours, they were all ready to leave the restaurant.  MyFace was meeting with Charlie and Handsome Cowboy to discuss our vacation destinations; Sleepless had dinner plans with Ice Cream Man; and both Opreggano and That’s Not Chinese requested stoop time – I, of course, obliged.

 

Even though Sleepless and I arrived at my house before Opreggano and That’s Not Chinese, they managed to make it into the house before us. Not much of a creature of habit, I parked my car in the back and decided to enter the house through the front door. Sleepless followed behind me and when I opened the front door I got a ‘morphine surprise.’

 

In the kitchen were Opreggano, That’s Not Chinese, Alice, Hot Mustard, Cream of Tartar, BioMom, Chauffeur, Striker, MiniMe and Skiwi. Skiwi, of course, was donning a sweater over his shoulders, boat shoes – sans socks, and regularly mentioning, “I’ve just returned from the Amptons.” “I could tell by your tan,” Sleepless would quip.  A little later in the evening, Tree, Dr. BJ, Ice Cream Man and The Leaver joined in the festivities. The Leaver didn’t stay long, if she had, that would have been two surprises, one night.

 

I have to admit, I was quite impressed with MiniMe’s planning and ability to keep it a surprise. Especially considering my friends’ (give ’em a few drinks and they’ll tell you everything) secret keeping skills and the fact that MiniMe told me, while on morphine, that she intended to have a surprise party, however, couldn’t because I planned a trip to New York. This was a detail she, not surprisingly, didn’t recall. So, thanks to her morphine, it was a surprise to us all.

 

 

 

Being among so many friends in the Hamptons, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and I weren’t too concerned about how we might get to the airport at the end of our travels.

 

Skiwi, one who loves to save green and go green, offered to take us in his rental car, a Toyota Prius. “I’m not going to lie. I really wanted to tell people I drove around the Amptons in a Prius. Now, I can.” At first, we weren’t sure if all of our luggage would fit. “You only brought carry-ons, right?” he asked us. “Wrong,” I replied. “You should see Ice Cream Man’s bag. It’s bigger than ours,” Sleepless advised. “I saw his trunk last night. I’ve no doubt it will fit in the Prius,” Skiwi quipped.

 

As the time came to depart, we took all of our luggage out to the car and, to our surprise, it all fit. Thus, we said our goodbyes to Good Eye Money Guy and others and hit the road with a map that was slightly different from that which Drizzler and File Not Found got from the phone booth. “Good Eye Money Guy Googled a scenic route for us and I took notes on a paper plate,” Skiwi told us and continued, “Sweetheart, I’ll need you to cross off each line of instructions as we complete them. Wouldn’t want to get lost in the Amptons.”

 

As DDDG crossed off each line, Skiwi would check the mileage and report to to us, “53.4, unbelievable.” Once we hit the freeway, he excitedly reported, “Did you see? The Prius just passed a Porsche Cayenne Turbo. 53.4.” Ice Cream Man noticed the state speed limit, 60 mph, and Skiwi’s speed, 59. “Cruise control is comfortably set at 59,” he told us. “That’s right, Skiwi replied and added, “That’s how we get 53.4 to the gallon.” “I am so glad we don’t have this car at home,” said DDDG. “I can’t hear 53.4 again.”

 

We continued to drive and the weather continued to shift. Major rain and thunder. “Looks like we got all of the good weather. Look at these tans. I wish I had an office to go to tomorrow so I could tell people I got this tan in the Amptons,” Skiwi told us. “What a shame you don’t get to share that,” Sleepless stated.

 

Skiwi managed to get upgraded and had boarded the plane long before us. As we entered the plane he greeted us with his All Access Pass and dashing shirt. “Nice tan. Where’d you get it?” Sleepless asked him. “First class,” he responded. “First class? What happened to the Amptons?” I asked. “Well, I didn’t get razor sharp tan lines,” he replied.

 

Several hours later, we were still on the plane waiting to depart. Due to the rain, the flight had been delayed. Just shy of three hours of waiting, they informed us we would be leaving shortly. We didn’t bank on it, because it was still pouring rain, but figured, if the odds of leaving were 50%, we might have a chance. If the odds were 53.4%, watch out! Delta just may have a new personal best!

Although most people currently believe “Black Swan” to be a reference to an on-screen sex scene between Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman, the theory actually refers to unexpected events with major consequences/impacts; hindsight is often the only rationalization for such experiences.

 

Upon arriving at our humble abode in East Hampton, Big As The Sky advised me the giant inflatable pool swan was, “A bit scary. She moves quickly from one end of the pool to the next. Almost like she is watching you.” I went out to the pool to check on the swan and immediately decided I’d like a picture on her. Being that she was of a giant size and appeared pretty balanced, I figured I could easily take a picture without getting wet. DDDG quickly came to assist, “I’ll hold the swan so it doesn’t tip.” Unfortunately, Big As The Sky was right. Portman the Swan was slick and, as a result, the left side of her body gave out and I went in the pool, landing abruptly on the stairs. “Pretty sure I cracked my ass,” I told DDDG. “It is much easier to get on with both knees at the same time than one leg at a time,” Good Eye Money Guy advised me. “Where were you and that advice two seconds ago?” I asked him. Later, while getting ready for the evening, I took a look at my bruised butt in the mirror – this is the most literal form of hindsight one can experience.

 

That night, we (12 of us) went to dinner at a posh dining establishment in East Hampton. Just for the record, the people in the Hamptons are both name- and h-droppers. Meaning, they’ll regularly mention posh places they’ve been and drop the ‘h’ if it falls at the beginning of the word. Thus, as Skiwi so eloquently stated on more than one occasion, we were in “the Amptons.” As often appens (h-dropping) with large groups at dinner, the more wine that was bought, the louder we got. Luckily, the All Access Passes and various means of money got us the proper service. After several hours of wining and dining we headed to the local bars.

 

Once we arrived at the bars, some of the group chose to go to the ‘finer’ establishment and others opted for the no-cover tavern. In the end, everyone (designated drivers excluded) was a bit pissed (another posh English term). Big As The Sky, who was mistaken for Jamie Lee Curtis on more than one occasion, was drinking beer with me in the tavern and every now and again we would ask other patrons, “Ave you seen my Activia?” “I really only drink when I’m with you,” she told me. “Maybe I’m a bad influence,” I replied. “Or a good one,” Big As The Sky stated. She then pointed to our nearly asleep designated driver and said, “Never drive designated.” We left the tavern and I appened upon a Party Bus. A large group of people were exiting the bus and I decided I might want a picture on the bus. After no success in receiving permission from a female Amptonite, I asked two handsome Aussies for permission. They, of course, obliged. I got on the bus and went for a short party ride – approximately one block. I must admit, it is lovely having a driver.  Again, hindsight.

 

The next day, we decided it might be best to stay close to home for dinner and drinks; after, of course, having drinks at one of the most popular bayside bars. “What shall we wear there?” Skiwi inquired. “Most people just go there directly from the beach. So, some of them are wearing their suits under a dress or trunks with a t-shirt,” Good Eye Money Guy advised. Sleepless and I decided to wear our bikinis, tank tops, mini skirts and wellies. Once at the bar, we found several others with fine taste such as ours. Examples included the trio of sailors – complete with white pants, boat shoes, navy jacket with brass buckles, ascots and captain hats; the Groucho Marx duo – two fine young chaps donning fake Groucho Marxstaches; and the gentlemen in the matching orange haz mat coveralls.

 

A few drinks and several hundred dollars later, we returned to the house for barbeque, pool and karaoke. While Skiwi and DDDG prepared the meal, Sleepless and Ice Cream Man ‘took a nap.’ “I’m pretty sure they’re having sex,” Drizzler informed us. “We would never do something like that here. We don’t have our pole or our sex swing,” Skiwi told us. A few minutes later, Ice Cream Man ran out of the room and around the kitchen in nothing other than a black elephant trunk g-string. Unexpected. Major impact. And, being that it was a g-string, hindsight.