Category: blog

This entry has been redacted for national security reasons.

 

 

 

Day two of shenanigans with Sleepless began early. I met up with her and Ice Cream Man and we tooled around the downtown area for several (six, maybe seven) hours.

 

Ice Cream Man was pretty excited because he and his best friend had tickets to Kenny Chesney, “I know he is going to ‘come out’ when he sees me,” he told us. “Do you want to be with Kenny?” I asked. “No, I just know he’ll come out once he lays eyes on me.” “Wow,” Sleepless replied.

 

Wow was right for so many reasons. Ice Cream Man opted against driving to the concert (a good idea considering our afternoon activities) and instead secured a limousine for transport, “He isn’t our driver. Don’t call him ‘driver.’ He is our friend. He has been driving us around for at least fifteen years.” Based on that explanation, I guess that makes me MiniMe’s friend and not her driver.

 

Sleepless and I had prior engagements and were in the middle of one of them when Ice Cream Man assured her they could get us into the sold out concert. As a result, the plans with Progressive and Iced Tea were placed on hold. Unfortunately, or perhaps not, they were not able to get us into the concert and instead retrieved us from my home, in the limo, to take us to a country bar on the West side of town.

 

Before they arrived, Ice Cream Man informed Sleepless that his friend “did not want to be taking care of anyone.” Sleepless and I assumed he met me and, being that I had no idea who this man was, I didn’t have any interest in having him taking care of me. Besides, as has been mentioned on more than one occasion, I am a Sugar Self. That said, however, I needed to find a purse small enough to conceal and large enough to hold our IDs, money and lip shimmer. “I think we should take this Rand McNally SafePac,” I advised Sleepless. “We are heading twenty minutes West of here so it is like going on a road trip and you know how it is when you travel – you stand a very good chance of getting mugged. I don’t want to take any chances.” “Good idea,” Sleepless concurred.

 

Once at the bar, Sleepless and I behaved like tourists and took loads of great photos. We also attempted to line dance. “If you don’t know the moves,” she advised me, “just kick and stomp. They won’t notice.” She was right and we kicked and stomped for about 30 minutes. At one point, I was dancing and Ice Cream Man’s friend said to me, “What was that move?” Before I could answer he continued, “I wouldn’t do that ever again.” Sleepless and I had moved on to better things, capturing a candid shot of one of the bar natives, when Ice Cream Man informed us they were ready to go.

 

Ice Cream Man and Sleepless were ahead of me, getting into the limo, and Ice Cream Man’s friend was behind me. His friend pulled me toward him and said, “Hold on.” “What?” I asked. “Nevermind,” he replied. “What was that all about?” I asked. “I was going to have sex with you, but I changed my mind.” “Really?” I replied, “Wow.” In addition to the fact that I was not at all interested in having sex with this person, and completely astounded by the fact that he thought I would oblige, we were in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the bar and adjacent to a major street.

 

Once in the limo, the friend instructed their friend (the driver) to take me home. I assumed this had to do with the fact that we didn’t have sex on the sidewalk. A few minutes later, the friend (not the driver) started speaking in the third person and asking why he was bad and why nobody liked him. I didn’t engage, Ice Cream Man was essentially passed out, and Sleepless attempted to validate him (a practice regularly used with Alzheimer’s patients and, now, drunk assholes). Seconds after this, the non-driving friend looked over at me, said, “Negativity.” Then shouted to his friend (the driver), “Let’s get Negativity home now. Hurry, let’s get her out of here.”

 

As this individual was kicking and stomping like a child, I was enjoying the ride in the limo, Ice Cream Man was passed out, and Sleepless was beside herself. She scooted over to the driving friend, gave him my address, and advised him we would both be exiting at that address. This resulted in additional third person comments about why nobody wanted to go to his house. Sleepless, tired of the validation theory, replied, “You were pretty clear about the fact that you wanted us to go home.”

 

We arrived at my house, Ice Cream Man came to, and the friend continued with his behavior, only this time he had a different tune because Sleepless had exited the vehicle; I was waiting for him to move so I could do so myself. “I didn’t do anything, I swear. I don’t know why they’re mad,” he was exclaiming to Ice Cream Man. “Tell him,” he said while looking at me, “Tell him I didn’t say or do anything.” “Well, you were pretty adamant about the fact that I be taken home and we’re here now so I’d just like to oblige you and exit the vehicle. Excuse me, please.”

 

While exiting the limo, I thought about doing a few of the moves I had learned earlier, specifically the ‘kick and stomp,’ but I figured he would third person kick and stomp himself later.

Like most, I often create a list of things to do each day – with boxes to the left that I tick as I complete each task. Like most, I don’t often tick all or most of the boxes. If I am with Sleepless, however, I’m sure to ‘tick’ the wine box.

 

With my biggest plan being lunch with Sleepless, Progressive and Iced Tea, I figured I had plenty of time to tick boxes such as hair, library, shopping, and other very important tasks.

 

Iced Tea, like me, arrived fashionably late. Unlike me, he wasn’t donning new highlights. He was, however, donning a nice watch and arrived in a new car. “Trades,” he replied. “When clients can’t pay me they often give me other items of value.” He continued to tell us about the other items he has received in lieu of cash. We continued to think of items we might like and encouraged him to find clients who could fulfill our requests. After several hours discussing horse trading, we all went are own way.

 

I ticked my hair and lunch box (not to be confused with the Lunch Box in Idaho) and headed to the store – another box ticked. An hour or so later, while at the library, I received a text from Sleepless inviting me to join them for happy hour. I quickly ticked the library box and headed to join them. I wasn’t sure who ‘them’ might be, but figured I would be in good company, regardless, because Sleepless would be there.

 

I walked in to find Progressive and Iced Tea at the corner table with Sleepless. We spent another hour or so continuing where we left off and then, again, made our way with plans to get together again the following evening. Once I was finally at home, I went through my ‘to do’ list. ‘Hair,’ ‘Lunch,’ ‘Shopping,’ and ‘Library,’ – all ticked. Not ticked and not seen, happy hour. Per the advice of my attorney, I wasn’t there. It didn’t happen – primarily because I don’t want to trade anything at this time.

Oreggano and I had been running errands one day and upon returning to her house we noticed the mailman entering a nearby home. “Was that your mailman?” I asked her. “Yes,” she said in a confused tone. “Does he live there?” “No, he definitely doesn’t live there,” she replied. “Hmmm. That’s some delivery. He’s got a key to the house and takes the package right in,” I stated. “I’m a bit disturbed by that,” she informed me. “You probably should be,” I said and asked, “Do you remember Mr. McFeely from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?” “Yes.” “Don’t you think that is kind of a strange name for someone on a children’s show, Mr. McFeely?” “How is it spelled?” she asked. “Just like it sounds,” I replied. “I wonder if your mailman’s name is Mr. McFeely and if somebody just got a speedy delivery.” “Gross,” Oreggano replied. “Any chance Lady Aberlin lives there?” I asked.

 

Later, when sharing this story with Sleepless and Ice Cream Man, Ice Cream Man said, “Makes sense. Isn’t there some saying about the kids looking like the mailman?” “It’s the milkman and I’m really not in the mood to talk about my dad right now,” I quipped.

Although I’m amenable to most activities, concerts have not been my favorite thing as of late. I realize this contradicts previous goals I’ve set for myself, but I’ve given up on several  of my goals – especially when reaching them results in my leg going numb.

 

So, knowing I wanted to feel my leg at the end of the night, and hoping for some concert redemption, That’s Not Chinese and I went to Pink Martini. “You’ll really like this venue,” That’s Not Chinese assured me as we were making our way. “I hope so. Especially considering the fact that the lead singer won’t be there,” I replied.

 

We arrived to find an extremely long line winding around the outdoor venue. “I don’t take Xanax, but I would like to right now,” I told her and continued, “I am too old to stand in line. And I’m not saying that because I’m not healthy, able or old. I just think, at this age and time in my life, I shouldn’t have to stand in line for anything.” She agreed and we sat curb (aka, weed) side until the we saw the end of the line.

 

Once inside, we found some friends near the stage and joined them for what turned out to be complete concert redemption. Although China Forbes wasn’t singing, and her replacement Storm Large also ended up sick, Lucy Woodward took the stage and sang their song’s like nobody’s business. “She is really good,” That’s Not Chinese told me. “No kidding. I think I’m going to start learning all of their songs. I want to be the next understudy of the understudy.”

 

During intermission, our friends decided to tool around the venue and the people sitting in front of us decided to ‘take a skip around the garden.’ While they were gone, That’s Not Chinese and I Goldilocksed the area. Some of the chairs were too soft, others too firm and a few were just right. Also just right, was the lovely Cabernet Sauvignon left behind by those who were skipping around the garden. “I can’t believe we are doing this,” That’s Not Chinese commented as I filled our glasses with their wine. “I can’t believe they were foolish enough to leave it unattended,” I replied.

 

It was at about this time that the band started up again and invited any Turks in the audience to join them on stage. “Go up there. They won’t know if you’re Turk or not,” suggested my friends. “No way. Last time I fell for peer pressure at a concert it didn’t end well.” “Wait, you made me drink their wine,” That’s Not Chinese piped up. “Yes, sorry about that. It wasn’t a very good wine. Next time we will sit by people with better taste in wine,” I replied.

 

Eventually, they invited others on stage and, like Lucy Woodward, we were surprised to find us center stage, singing and dancing to songs in Turkish and Croatian. “That’s definitely not Chinese,” That’s Not Chinese commented while observing the lyrics in between shaking her money maker on stage. “Definitely not Chinese,” I replied. “This is seriously the best concert ever,” she exclaimed. “Certainly is,” I agreed.

 

After that, we let the band autograph our arms and, like Goldilocks, ran away into the forest. Unlike Goldilocks, we hope to return to the stage of the three lead singers again.

By day three of staying together, Tree and I had developed a pretty good routine of hanging out. Apparently, our lifestyle was so appealing that FatGirl asked to join us. Not wanting to crush his dreams of doing nothing – just like us – I told Tree to have him come over.

 

Being that it was a holiday weekend, it seemed we had been doing a lot of eating and drinking, so when FatGirl arrived, I was ready to actually do something. By this time, Smart Writer had also joined in the festivities. As we discussing possible activities, FatGirl made a suggestion, by way of a question, to me, “Are you wearing panties today because if so we can go to the park.” I quickly explained to Smart Writer that we had all ventured to the park one day and I was wearing a dress, much like today. FatGirl pushed me too hard and high on the swing and the next thing we all knew my legs were flailing everywhere and FatGirl was scarred for life.

 

Even though I was wearing panties, I opted against the park and suggested a walk instead. After walking about seven blocks, FatGirl asked, “Ugh, can we take a cab back? I’m dying.”

 

We carried on and, with less than one block away from being home, stopped by Alice’s house. As luck would have it, she and Hot Mustard were enjoying adult beverages with a neighbor and invited us to join them.

 

We did and it was swell. So swell, in fact, that we had to pull out Alice’s ‘my Swell life’ to notate the ‘swelling.’ We were having a discussion about the difference between religiosity and theology when Alice excitedly interjected, “He’s a writer, an author. He’s smart. Let’s ask him.” It is true, Smart Writer is both a writer and smart, however, I’m not sure being a writer makes you smart or that being smart makes you a writer. More importantly, he was busy being with the first task Alice assigned him, swell life scribe, and didn’t have time to philosophize.

 

Although we discussed these differences for several minutes, we were easily distracted by other events. “By the way,” Tree told me in the middle of one of the conversations, “Thank you for doing my laundry – my clothes smell really good. Oh, and I found some of your daughter’s hair in my pants today.” If he wasn’t gay and MiniMe’s hair wasn’t incredibly long and everywhere, I might have concern for this comment. Tree then started discussing a couple of guys he has been chatting with and mentioned they had crushes on him, “I knew it before they did,” he told us. “Yes,’ I interjected. “I told him he wakes up in the morning, looks in the mirror and says, ‘Someone’s gotta have a crush on this shit.'”

 

After a couple glasses of wine, and a summary of the swell time we have reducing the rat population, we left Hot Mustard and Alice’s house. Smart Writer went home to bed and Tree decided to go meet up with one of his crushes, “I figured it was about time. I mean, I came for a book reading and stayed for three days,” he told me. “That’s true,” I replied, “But it’s been swell.

Tree and I ended up spending the majority of the weekend together, which is nice considering he has agreed to hold my hand in public should I ever desire. One evening we were getting ready for the day (remember, fashionably late) and he came in with his shirt in his hands. “Guess I’ll wear my little boy shirt,” he said and then put it on. Though not tight, the shirt appeared to be a bit small. “That is a little boy shirt,” I commented and asked, “What size is it?” “Gay,” Tree quipped.

 

We decided to make it a Cream Soda and Vodka day and invited MiniMe, Striker, Skiwi and The Leaver to join in the festivities. I had tried out a new recipe and impressed everyone, especially Skiwi, with the great tasting enchiladas. “‘I’m impressed that you were able to figure out the conversion,” Skiwi told me. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Converting from Celsius to Fahrenheit, I saw the recipe in the kitchen,” he replied. “That explains things,” Tree interjected. “She was so pleased that we only had to cook them at 180 degrees because it wouldn’t get the house too hot and then she couldn’t figure out why the cheese wasn’t melting and finally turned it up to 350.” “I totally forgot the recipe was from Australia. Wow. Well, good to know. I can impress my European friends with my knew found knowledge,” I stated.

 

Skiwi decided to make it an early night and I decided to bring the fire pit to the front yard and make s’mores. After enjoying their s’mores, The Leaver went home and MiniMe and Striker retreated to the back of the house. Tree and I attempted to invite several of our friends to join us, all to no avail, so we began inviting passersby. Finally, a couple of cyclists took us up on our invitation and within minutes we were all toasting marshmallows.

 

Eventually, it was just Tree and I again, outside, lounging on the chaise lounges. “I guess we could just sleep out here,” I told him. “I’m not sleeping in the front yard on a chaise lounge. Toasting marshmallows in a fire pit in the front yard is white trash enough for me,” he stated while quickly getting up from his chaise lounge. “Fine,” I said and followed him inside, brushed my teeth, put in my retainers, got in my make weight pajamas, and went to bed…at which time it was about 25 degrees. Celsius.

 

 

Whenever possible, I like to introduce my friends to different ‘culture.’ Fortunately, I have other friends who have the keen ability to make that happen very easily, making my job almost effortless.

 

Smart Writer recently wrote a book about the religious culture that played a part in many of our childhoods. He was in town for the holiday and thought it might be a good time to promote the book – I agreed. Together, we managed to get him a book reading and signing at one of the local coffee shops/novelty stores.

 

BioMom and Tree stopped by for pre-reading cocktails and then we met up with everyone else at the reading. Smart Writer had a nice PA system set-up and was fully ready to read and, should the event encounter a lull, I was ready to karaoke. Not surprisingly, there was no lull and Smart Writer had a great turnout.

 

“I’m starving,” Tree told us and added, “If you want free hot dogs we can go to the gay bar.” “Free hot dogs?” I asked. “What about the taco cart, live band, and DJ all night party at Everything and DJ Slap Pound’s house?” “Alright. Let’s try that out first,” Tree reluctantly sighed. We arrived at the party to find the taco cart waiting for us, live music playing and Skiwi anxiously awaiting our arrival. “We brought marshmallows and flowers,” I advised him. Although it was not necessary to bring anything to the party, I was hopeful that they would have a fire pit and we could toast marshmallows. “Oh, there’s no fire pit,” Skiwi told me then he took a marshmallow out of the bag, extended it toward my glass and said, “I’d like to make a toast.” “Good one,” BioMom told him.

 

An hour or so later, Smart Writer had shown up and, with the exception of Tree and Skiwi, the rest of our group had departed, as had the live band. DJ Slap Pound was mixing the tunes and we had been watching the other partygoers dance for some time. “I want to be a monied liberal,” Tree told us. “Look at them doing the dance moves they learned at their African dance class.”

 

After a few more ‘toasts’ by Skiwi, we all decided to hit the dance floor. We had danced a few good songs and thrown down some classic dance moves down when one of the party goers joined us on the dance floor. It was around this time that Tree and I decided to return to the patio; Skiwi followed suit. “Do I smell?” Tree asked me. “I don’t think so. Do I?” I replied. We then begin smelling each other. “Look at us. Sniffing each other out like dogs and asses,” Tree commented. “I think it was the new guy on the dance floor,” I told him. “Damn monied liberals not wearing any deodorant,” Tree quipped. “I mean, I don’t wear anti-perspirant, but I wear deodorant.” “Why don’t you wear anti-perspirant?” I asked. “I don’t want breast cancer,” he replied.

 

Smart Writer eventually rejoined us on the patio, “Somebody down there was smelling pretty fresh.” “That’s why we’re back up here,” said Skiwi, “I’d like to make a toast to that.” Again, holding his marshmallow up to our glasses. About this time, DJ Slap Pound decided to dedicate a song to our country, “Our country sucks, but it is the best ever.” “Did you hear that?” Tree asked. “I heard it,” Smart Writer replied. “Monied liberals,” Tree quipped.

In addition to getting waylaid on a regular basis, I have a tendency to be fashionably late – same, same, but different. The other day I was transporting MiniMe around town just prior to heading to an appointment. “I really can’t get over your look,” she told me. “You are totally 90s. Your jacket, your skirt, your shoes, your hair.” I turned down Richard Marx and replied, “Well, I am going to an interview for a job I probably should have had in the 90s.”

 

Several hours later I was back at home listening to Best of the Bangles when Skiwi stopped by. We were discussing our current events when the topic of fashion entered the conversation and I mentioned MiniMe’s comment. “That’s not too bad,” he told me and added, “Look at me. I’m stuck in the 80s. Always have been.”

 

I appreciated Skiwi’s support and perspective. In fact, even though our styles may be decades old, we’re still fashionable, just a little late. Thus, we are fashionably late, and that never goes out of style.

Keeping with tradition, I decided to pay to have someone do my yard work this weekend. Although I typically do this for selfish reasons, I like to believe I am also doing it to help out others.

 

For example, when Oreggano and Cream Of Tartar mow my lawn, I pay them with beer. In addition to providing them an opportunity to feel good about doing something nice for someone – in this case, me – they also get to enjoy the cold, refreshing taste of fermented barley, hops, yeast and water.

 

TooStalky, one of my other yard steadies, doesn’t drink and prefers cash only payments. In addition, he tends to ask me what I want to pay instead of assessing the task and providing a bid. The last time he worked for me was on Christmas Day. He needed money and I wanted my leaves raked, so it was a win-win. As often happens when the hired help are working, I sit in the house, drinking coffee (usually with Dr. BJ), while they work.

 

This day was going to be no different. Originally, I had agreed to pay TooStalky $250 for the work. “How much you pay me?” he asked. “I have no idea how long this may take you or how difficult the work might be,” I advised him and added, “I’m thinking maybe $300.” “How about $250?” he suggested. I’ve negotiated with TooStalky before and he typically negotiates higher, not lower, so I was pleased with both his price and his ‘honesty.’

 

When he arrived to do the work, I had just woken up and was wearing my ‘pajamas’ – a tank top and shorts. We talked about the job and then he asked a question of me, “You make weight?” “What?” I asked. “You make weight?” “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question,” I informed him. “You know, make weight. Not like lose weight, but make weight,” he kindly clarified. “Oh, right, no, I just haven’t worked out lately. Thank you for asking,” I replied. So much for appreciating his honesty. He then posed another question, “So, I was thinking, maybe you pay me $300 for the work.”

 

He should know better than to ask for more money after a comment like that. Clearly, I make weight, not money.