Category: blog

It has been several years since I met up with Twofer – five years to be exact – so when we got together for lunch we had a lot of catching up to do. Her dad recently moved in with her, so he joined us for lunch and Twofer was filling him in on all of our shenanigans.

 

“We really have a lot in common Dad. In fact, we even date the same type of guys,” she said, paused, and added, “Except hers are good looking.” I laughed and she continued, “No, really they are. The guys you’ve dated have been really good looking. Mine on the other hand, well….” As her words and mind trailed off I asked if she was currently dating.

 

“Yes. It’s a weird story,” she told me. “How did you meet?” I asked. “Well, we bonded over a stalking injunction that I was filing against my ex. They were roommates. Like I said, it is weird. Plus, my mom is dating his dad.” Her dad sat quietly next to her, nodding his head and smiling occasionally, as she shared all of the details. “Why did you have to file a stalking injunction?” I asked. “Well, that’s another note to self. If the VA tells you someone is 70% mentally disabled, you should probably end the relationship,” she replied. “Sound advice. Even if they’re good looking or good in bed. You know what they say, ‘Freak in the bed, freak in the head,'” I told her.

 

After our conversation, I decided that I should my online dating profile, “Interested in a single male (preferably not good looking) whose dad isn’t dating my mom, doesn’t know of a word that rhymes with ‘stalking injunction,’ and who wouldn’t mind spending our first date getting a mental health evaluation.” I best clear the lines now, my phones are going to be ringing off the hook!

 

 

 

I woke up this morning and followed my routine, which I just started this morning. This involved waking up, getting up (completely different from waking up), showering, doing my hair, getting dressed, taking out the trash, eating breakfast, locking up the house, and heading to work.

 

As I was locking up the house I heard a jingling noise. I turned around to find a cat coming out of my back bedroom. I don’t own a cat, so this was a bit of a surprise for me. As soon as the cat realized I had spotted him he darted out of the room and headed toward the stairs. Obviously, I didn’t know his name and MiniMe is very allergic so I had to yell out a generic name (much like Jamie Foxx’s name in Horrible Bosses), open the back door, and advise him to leave the premises.

 

I was sharing this story with BeCuz, who quipped, “Three pussies in one house is a lot.” “Tell me about it,” I said and added. “The other thing is, I have no idea how long little Thackery Binx had been there. All night, a few minutes, I have no idea.” She then told me about a comment her niece made about cats, “‘Cats are an abomination.’ I love that girl for so many reasons. Kids say the funniest things.”

 

“They do,” I agreed and told her, “I was with my neighbors at breakfast and their six year old son told me he didn’t want to have kids because they were ‘too much work’ and that he hoped his younger sister, who is four, will have kids ‘to keep the family going.'”

 

As we were leaving the restaurant he was poking at me and trying to wrestle. “I like to hit people’s butts,” he told me. “That’s’ not very nice,” I replied. “You know what I really like to do?” he asked me. “What?” “I like to punch boys in the balls,” he said with great pride. “Well that is really not nice. You better be careful, someone might punch you back,” I warned him. “No, they won’t be able to punch me because I can do somersaults.”

 

I really need to improve my somersault skills. Perhaps then I could ward off Thackery Binx and unexpected punches.

A while back That’s Not Chinese and I were sitting on my porch discussing work and current events. Both involved tragedies. “See, this is why I travel. You never know when your time might be up or when you’ll lose your ability to easily access places. Life is too short,” I advised her.

 

She agreed and shortly after that discussion we booked our trip to France and the Netherlands.

 

Several months later we went to see Midnight In Paris. As we were buying our tickets we both noticed the cashier had a rare skin disorder, but neither of us said anything until after the movie. “Did you notice her skin?” I asked. “Yes, what was that? Do you think it was contagious?” That’s Not Chinese asked. “I’m sure it isn’t contagious but I don’t have any idea what it was. It almost looked like mold,” I told her. “You’re sure it isn’t contagious? She touched our debit cards,” That’s Not Chinese said and then was immediately distracted as we exited the dark theater into the bright light of the day.

 

“Ah shit, we’re still here. I was hoping we would walk out to Paris,” she moaned. “Nope. Not even close. We are, however, one jaywalk away from a RV retailer and a Kung Fu academy. That’s pretty diverse,” I replied. “Whatever. It’s not Paris,” That’s Not Chinese reminded me.

 

Some people believe that talking about others is bad karma. I don’t necessarily believe this to be true; even though I woke up the other day to find spider bites by my eye. Could this be a result of talking about the cashier? No. I refuse to believe that theory.

 

I was discussing the bites with coworkers when one of them mentioned the possibility of bed bugs. “Ew, no. These are just regular old spider bites,” I told them. “How do you know for sure? What kind of spider was it?” “I do not have bed bugs and I think it was the spider from that song, Itsy Bitsy,” I informed them and added, “Damn water spout.”

 

I came home and immediately Googled ‘bed bug bites’ and was reassured to see and learn that I do not have bed bugs. My bedroom smells like brown sugar fig, not cilantro (which I love), coriander, almonds or over-ripe raspberries. Plus, my bites (yes, I have two) lack the unique, linear three-bite pattern, commonly known as ‘breakfast, lunch, dinner.’

 

All of this research made me itch, in more way than one. I started feeling little itchyboos all over my body and, despite the bad rap New York hotels got in 2010, I got an itchin’ to travel there again. Luckily, I’ve taken my own advice and will be there shortly. Manhattan first, Hamptons second. “It will be like a posh version of Jersey Shore,” I told Skiwi.

 

Hopefully it isn’t too Jersey Shore – I’ve no doubt they’ve got some itches that require more than a topical cream.

After several hours of selling trinkets, clothing and linens, Opreggano and I had enough money to join MyFace, Q and Bobby’s Girl for dinner in a little resort town that used to be a silver miner’s dream.

 

Back in the day, the silver mines in them there parts housed the coal from the neighboring towns. Now that the silver industry is silver history, the coal is supposedly graded and covered with a walking trail. One would never know it if they looked at my feet. After walking around the town’s annual arts festival I sat down to take a break and noticed my feet – black as coal. I had everyone else do a quick assessment of their feet only to learn that I, like Loretta Lynn, had the feet of a coal miner’s daughter.

 

“Even Baby Q isn’t that dirty and look at her – she’s crawling on the ground,” Opreggano told me. “Fine, fine,” I replied. “I’ll just have to clean them in the bathroom.” We got to the restaurant and Q and I headed to the loo. She took the women’s restroom and I took the men’s. Once inside, I started cleaning. As I exited the loo, a man was waiting outside. “Huh,” he said under his breath.

 

I returned to the table with an announcement, “Now I know how the homeless feel.” “Is that what took you so long? You were cleaning your feet?” Q asked. “Yes, but it was really easy because there was a bidet in the men’s room.” “Gross,” Opreggano replied. “I jest. I really just used paper towels and did a bit of a spot bath at the sink,” I told them, and this was true. If, however, there had been a bidet, I totally would have used it.

 

We were telling Bobby’s Girl about our previous girls’ trips and how a lot of the girls are afraid to ‘confront’ MyFace. “What is that all about anyway?” MyFace asked, then looked at Opreggano and said, “You know, you’ve gotten pretty quiet since you got pregnant and stopped drinking.” Opreggano was speechless. “Not sure what that is all about,” I told MyFace.

 

“Remember how much you loved my nails when we went to wine country?” I asked MyFace. “Not true, I did not love them,” she told Bobby’s Girl. “No, no, she didn’t. She hated them. I was quite drunk and riding to the airport when I painted them so the polish was everywhere. The only thing that would have made them better was a linen finish, but I didn’t have time to take a nap and let the sheets make their mark,” I told Bobby’s Girl. “Oh no, she would not like those,” Bobby’s Girl told me while glancing over at MyFace’s professionally French-manicured nails.

 

Did I say I was drunk when I painted my nails? I jest again. My nails were smudged because, like Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty, I was out “picking wild mountain berries.”

People who regularly yard sale don’t wait for 8 AM to find them; they find 8 AM and the best deal they can on whatever unwanted goods one is selling. As a result, Oreggano and I were fully prepared for our first customers to arrive by 8 AM. To use the phrase The Leaver ‘coined,’ “This was not our first rodeo.”

 

What we were not prepared for was the mad amount of money we would make between 7:45 and 8:20. During this window of time – when most people are sleeping in, sipping on their morning coffee, or Sweatin’ to the Oldies – we were making enough money to buy our own hamburger. That’s right. The $8 burger would no longer need to be shared. Screw this recession!

 

We were soon joined by Wanted, The Leaver, Dr. BJ and Tree. We even had guest appearances by Alice, MiniMe and Striker. Based on my math skills, it takes approximately nine people to hold a yard sale/screw in a lightbulb. As often happens at yard sales, we started buying items from each other. This concept completely conflicts with the purpose of a yard sale, but we didn’t let that get in the way of our purchasing.

 

What also happens at yard sales is your neighbors ask you two questions: Did you have all of this stuff in your house? Are you moving? The latter is often a hopeful prod. “She’s not moving. We’re staying here. You’ll continue to hear us on the porch each night,” Oreggano proudly informed them.

 

We were doing as friends do at a yard sale – sitting on the stoop, drinking coffee, making up prices, and gossiping – when Dr. BJ and I went in the house to refresh our cups. “Listen to me go on,” he told me and added, “I”m like a bitch covered in chocolate.” “If we dated, I would be a bitch covered in chocolate,” I replied and we returned to the yard sale.

 

Oreggano and Cream Of Tartar have been very busy getting rid of a lot of junk because they want to move into a bigger home. One of the items Oreggano decided to ‘get rid of’ ended up creating a life changing experience for her. Not sure how to share this news with the rest, she gave me permission to do so. “OK. Everything on this table is $1, the clothes are $2, and Opreggano is pregnant.”

 

This news means Opreggano and I won’t be drinking together for some time, thus, today’s yard sale money will be spent on appetizers, entrees, desserts, copays and diapers. None of this is a problem for me because I love all of those things (sans the copays and the diapers).

 

In the end, we made enough money for a nice dinner in a nearby resort town and found it does take several people to have a good yard sale/screw in a lightbulb. We also learned the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb….you can unscrew the lightbulb.

 

NOTE: How many people who read this blog can keep a secret? Opreggano hasn’t told her family yet (yes, Cream Of Tartar knows but Quite Contrary and Bowtie Killer aren’t aware). So, please, no comments on fb…this ‘baby’ is just between us. Wink, wink. Nod, nod.

In an attempt to make a little extra cash, Oreggano and I have decided to hold another yard sale. We have had pretty good success with these events and have determined that location, location, location, and display are essential to success. In addition to location and display, we once attempted to include food. The Mealbarrow was an idea backed with passion. Sadly, it was not backed food handlers permits and customers.

 

Thus, we decided to stick to what we do best: selling other people’s stuff. One of our most successful yard sales was two years ago when we queried friends for unwanted goods. We had only one rule: if you drop it and leave it, we keep it – the items and the profit. If they stayed with the product and sold it, they got to keep the proceeds.

 

This year, we had some leftovers from Wanted’s yard sale (the proceeds from this sale bought us a burger – which we split, and a pitcher of beer – also split) and The Leaver planned to bring her rack of clothing and a few other items.

 

Knowing we needed a draw, Oreggano and I cruised the neighborhood streets for unwanted items that we could spruce up, or not, and sell. Unfortunately, we only found one coffee table. In the meantime, however, we saw a lot of shiny objects. Houses we would like to live in, paint colors that were pleasing to the eye, and a ton of patio furniture that, if taken, might result in us doing time.

 

Not having time to do time, we decided to take our chances with our one and only freebie. Oh, and the door. Yes, that door I bought out of the back of that man’s truck the one night when I was tooling around downtown –  turns out it is like most of my pants right now and will not fit my frame. Between the table, the door and my pants, we should have yard salers knockin’ down our door.

As has been the case on more than one occasion, I submit a blog title and complete the entry later. This is exactly what happened with this entry and, thinking back, I have no idea of where I was going with ‘take three.’

 

I do, however, know how I spent the day of this entry. I started off with a workout. Yes, even after the treadmill incident I have dared to workout again. In fact, since the treadmill incident, this is the third time I have worked out in the gym. Perhaps that is my ‘take three’ (it should be noted the most recent workouts have been incident free).

 

After the workout I quickly showered and met up with Sleepless and Progressive for a movie and lunch at a theater that serves food, beer and spirits. We were a delightful trio and we ordered three burgers, three beers (well, a pitcher and three glasses) and three cocktails. In a sense, that was our ‘take three.’

 

At 3:30, Oreggano and I got pedicures. I arrived a little earlier than she did and was seated in a massage chair with a lot of power. In addition, being the first and only customer, they gave me the TV remote control. Oreggano arrived to find the remote in my hand and my boobs jiggling all over the place. “What is going on here? Your boobs are going nuts and you’ve got the TV remote. Who thought it was a good idea to give that to you?” I attempted to explain the situation to her and, once she got her massage chair going, she begin to experience the same boob thing. A little while later another woman came in for a pedicure, sat down next to me, turned on her massage chair, and it was the Jello Jigglers commercial, take three.

 

As my pedicurist was massaging my foot she noticed the injury on the sole of my foot. “Does this hurt?” “No.” “What is it?” “Oh, nothing really, just a little piece of plate in my foot. It’s fine. It will work itself out soon. I tried to dig it out a couple days ago, but it wouldn’t budge.” She stared at me in shock. “No, really, it’s fine. I feel nothing there,” I assured her and then said to Oreggano, “Feeling nothing there may be a bad thing. I might need to get that checked out.” A few minutes later the pedicurist noticed my jacked up big toe. “Not entirely sure what happened there but I may have jammed it while crossing over a threshold.” “Of course you did,” Oreggano quipped.

 

It was about this time that I scratched the top of my head and noticed what felt like a scab. “Wow. I just noticed what I think is a scab. I’m not in a relationship right now, so, as my friend, you need to check this out,” I advised Oreggano. “Yep, it’s a scab alright,” she confirmed. “I would pick it but that’s kind of gross. Even grosser would be having it fall off while I’m in a meeting or something. People will think I have major dandruff.” “Good point. More important, however, is what happened?” Oreggano asked. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I very well could have run into a tree branch or something like that. Or, I could have burned my scalp while crimping my hair. The 80s are seriously killing me.” “The 80s are killing you in the 2000s?” she asked. “Yes, in fact, they are,” I replied.

 

So there is another take three. Three injuries and only one known source (the plate). Plus, three activities: workout, movie, pedicure. Perhaps that is what I meant by ‘take three…’

Today is a big day for The Leaver and I because we finally started filming new footage for our documentary. Being that it was a special occasion, I wore cowboy boots.  I Was A Stripper was our subject for the day and she and I were having a smashing time reminiscing about the past. As we were doing so, we were being filmed.

 

Although The Leaver had met and worked with the film crew, today was the first time that I Was A Stripper and I worked with them. It became clear that the main camera guy was really into the shoot, “Ah yeah, this is crazy. It’s crazy good…..A little to the left….Do that again….It’s crazy good.”

 

I Was A Stripper was doing everything she could to meet the demands of the camera man, but clearly wasn’t doing all he wanted – and for good reason. She was, however, making the rock look fantastic. “It is so crazy good,” the crazy camera guy told her, “except there is a hair in your face.” Nothing ruins crazy like a hair somewhere.

 

 

 

Always about making the community a better place (which is why we regularly hang out with people who have come out), Sleepless and I volunteered at Night Out Against Crime. “I would kind of like this to be my night of crime,” she advised me. Not one to argue, I agreed. Prior to meeting up with her, I had advised Oreggano that I would be heading to the West side of town and needed to go home and change. “Do you need to put on your gang colors?” a coworker piped in. “Perhaps,” I replied.Thinking back, I should have asked him which color of bandana he owns and in which pocket he places it.

 

After preventing crime for a couple of hours, we decided to have someone sign off on our community service hours and head to a restaurant with adult beverages. Oreggano planned to join us and we were very ready for a Girls Night Out.

 

Dr. BJ hadn’t been having a good couple of days, so we invited him to join us. He was a little hesitant at first, “I don’t want to intrude. You’re having a Girls Night Out.” “Don’t be silly. Just join us,” Sleepless told him. “Yes, join us. It is now Girl Friends. Night Out. We are girls. We are your friends. We are going out tonight and you are going with us,” I informed him.

 

As soon as the server arrived, Sleepless and I ordered cucumber margaritas. “I don’t really like cucumber,” Dr. BJ told us. “Me neither,” Oreggano said and added, “There is only one kind I really like.” “Which kind?” Sleepless asked. “The really long ones,” Oreggano said while making a phallic gesture with her hands. “Long and skinny or long with girth?” I asked. “Long and skinny. You can just pop them right in your mouth without peeling them. I think they’re Armenian.” We all stared, mesmerized, while she  shared this amazing detail, complete with visual.

 

A few minutes later, I attempted to share a thought with Dr. BJ. It is interesting how, sometimes, the thoughts and visuals in our mind are completely different than that which comes out of our mouth. “If you were white. I mean black. I mean straight,” I told him.  “What is going on? What are you saying?” Dr. BJ asked me. “What I meant to say – and I’m not sure why I said the other because I know you’re not white, you are black and you’re definitely gay – is if you were straight, I could be the marshmallow and you could be the chocolate and together we’d be a chocolate covered marshmallow.” “That would be nice,” he told me like a parent telling a child their picture is beautiful when, in fact, they have no idea what the picture is supposed to be/mean.

 

I realized he didn’t really get where I was going with that, nor did I, so I returned to sucking the muddled cucumber out of my empty glass while he relished in the enjoyment of a night out with his girl friends.

 

 

The other night both Oreggano and I had some really bizarre dreams. The dream I remembered best was about an ex. Her dreams were about several old friends – not exes, but ‘could have beens.’

 

“That is so weird that we would both have bizarre exish dreams. I wonder why,” she pondered. Being that we had spent almost the entire day together – eating and drinking the same things – we decided on one common denominator, Doritos. Passed The Sniff Test had a bag of them at his party and we were sucking the cheese off of those corn chips like nobody’s business. At the time, we couldn’t have been happier. All Cheshire Cat smiley, with the corners of our smiles being a lovely orange. Strong competition for Ali Landry, I’ve no doubt.

 

“I guess it could have been the Doritos. I haven’t had them for years and I think I made up for that lost time yesterday,” I told her. “Most likely the MSG,” she advised me. “Do Doritos have MSG?” I asked. “Oh, yeah,” she replied.

 

Over the past few years, there has been a lot of hype about Monosodium glutamate, aka MSG. A few studies have been conducted in which it has been found that MSG may be associated with migraine headaches, obesity, hyperactivity and food allergies in children. For a while, a lot of people referred to these side effects as ‘Chinese Restaurant Syndrome.’ That’s Not Chinese might not agree with that correlation. More recent studies have shown MSG is not harmless.

 

The most recent study, Little Golden (that’s English for Doritos), conducted by Oreggano and I, found that while not harmless, MSG impacts REM. In our study, which lasted about five minutes, I revealed that in my dream my ex had sent an email to another girl in response to a picture of her. His email read, “Oh, yeah. Meowwww! Looking good.” “That really has to be the MSG because he never said ‘meow’ to me. Maybe the M in MSG stands for meow,” I told her. “It is quite possible,” Oreggano concurred.

 

As we were finalizing our study, Oreggano got a call from Quite Contrary and we moved quickly from MSG and REM analysis to DNA testing. Turns out there might be some paternity speculations abroad and she contacted Oreggano for her expertise on such matters. We suggested the most obvious samples, a mouth swab or hair follicle, however, Quite Contrary felt her technique might trump both of our suggestions, “I’m really good at visual DNAing.” “Well, then, get over there and take a look,” Oreggano demanded.

 

Another great paternity testing option is the MeowSG method. Cats meow when trying to signal their mother or owner. Thus, if all else fails, we can put the ‘cat’ in the room, let it meow, and wait to see who responds.