Category: blog

With a holiday weekend upon us, Oreggano planned an afternoon tea – sans tea, sandwiches, scones or Battenberg cake. She did, however, have a lovely sesame baked cream cheese, complete with crackers, pears and apples. To top it off, a glass of white wine.

 

Soon after gathering around the table, Patty Melt grabbed an ice pack and elevated her foot. MiniMe then took her swollen and healing foot out of her boot and did the same. “What happened to your foot?” I asked Patty Melt. “Make-A-Wish,” she replied. “What was  your wish?” I inquired while checking out the huge gash in her ankle and the massive swelling of her foot. Turns out her foot fell off her pedal while at a Make-A-Wish event and, sadly, got completely torn up. “You and MiniMe truly are mother and daughter.”

 

“About that,” said Oreggano. “I’ve been thinking about it, and Patty Melt and I have been talking, and we think you should change her blog name to BioMom.” “Is that so? Well, although it makes sense, don’t you think the process should be more official?” I asked and added. “Maybe include notifying the government?” A legal name change is a pretty big deal and, in the states and perhaps other countries, there are rules to follow. For example, you can’t choose a name that violates trademark, includes numbers, implies a racial slur, intends to mislead, or contains obscene words. Luckily, for BioMom, I have ‘judicial discretion’ and, despite knowing she prefers to put children in bags of rocks and throw them in the river, granted her the change.

 

“That reminds me,” BioMom interjected. “Not using words correctly is one of my biggest pet peeves. Like, liquefaction. It is not water shooting out of the ground.” Not necessarily catching the segway, and not knowing the meaning of ‘liquefaction,’ I had to ask for clarification.

 

“It refers to what happens to soil during an earthquake,” BioMom advised me and continued with vivid details about liquefaction. She was pretty upset by the fact that her professor had incorrectly defined the word and process. Her passion was similar to that which MiniMe often displays, thus, justifying ‘BioMom.’ At the same time, however, this was so upsetting to her that she was having what one might consider a ‘Patty Meltdown.’ “If you keep up this liquefacting,” I told her, “I may change your name back to Patty Melt.”

Although the ‘official’ road trip is over, Miss Information and I still have a few more destinations to hit. This morning, we headed to the Northern part of the state. While traveling to our Northern destination, Miss Information expressed her appreciation for the care I provided her on the road trip, specifically when I fed her grapes while she drove. “I thought that was really nice,” she told me and added, “I would definitely road trip with you again because of that.” “Oh, I wouldn’t be too hasty,” I advised her, “I really wasn’t being nice. Feeding grapes to people is my hustle.”

 

With all the talk about grapes, we decided to go out to eat. We pulled in the restaurant parking lot and my eyes were immediately drawn to a 1990 Yellow Geo Storm in the lot. “I seriously love that car,” I told Miss Information. “Really? Why?” she asked. “Look at it – it is a true gem. I think I should leave a note letting them know I want to buy it.” She laughed – I’ve no doubt she thought I was kidding. We entered the restaurant and I couldn’t stop thinking about the car. “Seriously, that is a great car. I can totally imagine me tooling around town in that fine machine. I’ll be right back,” I told her and then hustled out to the parking lot to leave a note on the windshield, advising the owner of my interest.

 

As we were leaving the restaurant, the owner of the vehicle came out. Miss Information began to giggle, “Look at your boyfriend.” The vehicle owner looked like a blond Danny Devito. His “is that his wife – no, that’s a man, must be his friend,” friend noticed the note and pointed it out to him. “What did you write on the note?” Miss Information asked me. “If you ever want to sell your car, please call me,” I replied. “Well I hope your phone starts ringing soon,” she said in between extreme laughter. “Actually, I think that may be my new hustle,” I told her. “If I see someone good looking getting out of their car I’m going to leave them a ‘I want to buy your car’ note on their windshield and just hope that they are in the market to sell. Grapes and notes. That’s my hustle.

After several days on the road with Miss Information, I came home and fed my addiction – I went straight to the library. After retrieving multiple CDs (some fabulous 8os gems), books and movies, I promised to pay my overdue fines on the next visit and headed home.

 

Once at home, I got busy doing things in the backroom when I heard someone calling out my name. I stepped out to find Tree in my front room – a lovely homecoming. I had spoken with Tree earlier and he had discussed the possibility of stopping by. He also expressed more concerns about the blog. “In the blog, it appears as though I am an asshole, even though I am being an asshole, I don’t want people to get the impression that I am actually an asshole,” he told me. “I wouldn’t worry about it, because even if you are an asshole or just being an asshole, I like it,” I advised him.

 

After running a quick errand while listening to and belting out Whitesnake, Here I Am Again On My Own, Tree and I took our positions on the porch. As usual, the neighborhood activity gave us plenty to talk about. I shared a story with Tree about a neighbor who once mentioned that she wished someone would hold her hand in public. Tree, not always an asshole, agreed to walk down the street with me – while holding my hand – should I ever desire.

 

“Have I told you my new plan?” Tree asked me. “No,” I replied. “I’ve decided to poop my way to pretty,” he informed me. “That sounds great. How do you plan to make that happen?” “I’m not sure. How do you spell ‘diuretic’?” he asked. I provided him the spelling and then suggested that, instead of diuretics, he might just want to try the pinworm diet.

Within seconds of seeing Little Man, I knew something was different. “You’re going through the change,” I told him. “Yep. I’m not so little man anymore,” he replied.

 

This was very true. In addition to getting taller, Not So Little Man had also become more mature.  I had purchased him a caraoke microphone and, although he appreciated it, he really didn’t want to try it out in public. Miss Information and I, however, had no problem doing so. “Can I get a side of rice?” Miss Information sang to the waiter – who, not surprisingly, loved the microphone.

 

After connecting with Not So Little Man, Miss Information and I were, again, on the road. “We should play ‘hey, cow,’ Miss Information suggested. “OK,” I replied, “How do you play?” “You just yell ‘hey, cow’ out the window and count how many cows turn your way,” she instructed me. And so I did. I yelled ‘hey, cow’ a lot – as if my life depended on it. “How many turned?” she asked. “At least 28,” I replied. “I don’t believe you,” she told me.

 

Shortly after connecting with the cows we passed an interesting scene in the desert. “Did you see that?” Miss Information asked me. “Yes, let’s go back,” I replied.

 

We went back to find a bunch of funky metal devices in the middle of nowhere with a sign that read, “UFO Landing Site.” “This totally reminds me of Paul,” I told Miss Information. She wasn’t familiar with the reference (of a movie masterpiece starring Kristen Wiig). “Do you think this is for real?” she asked. “For really cool,” I replied while trying to take a picture of myself next to the satellite/merry-go-round.

 

We continued on our trip, eventually making our way through Beaver again. Yes, that is what he said. I decided to ask about the flags in the parking lot – American, Canadian and State. “Is the owner Canadian,” I asked. “No, she’s not Canadian, she’s Beaverian,” the cashier replied and added, “We like everyone – that’s why we fly that flag.””Beaverian,” I giggled and added, “That’s nice, eh.”

 

Then I grabbed my I ♥ Beaver souvenirs and headed back to the car for more games of ‘hey, now.’

Less than 12 hours after watching My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, I ran into our hometown version of gypsies while walking into a pizza buffet. Unlike the Irish Travellers, polygamists don’t wear make-up, spray tan, have platinum blonde hair or wear tight fitting and ‘revealing’ clothing. They do, however, have big hair, the men occasionally don a mullet, and they aren’t opposed to marrying withing the family. Which reminds me of a needle point pillow I saw once when meeting a client at his house. The pillow – complete with flowers and birds – read, “A family that preys together stays together.” As Church Lady would say, “Well ain’t that special.”

 

A few hours later, Miss Information and I were touring another part of town that, like Beaver, has a great name. Virgin. As we were driving around town taking pictures, Miss Information noticed a sign that was pleasing to her, “Virgin Canal,” she giggled. A few minutes later we saw another sign, and yet another. We even found a small town with a Virgin Jail, Hotel and Undertaker. We were taking one snapshot after the other.

 

Then, before you know it, we were out of Virgin. “I can’t believe we just drove through Virgin,” I told Miss Information and asked, “How can one top that?”

 

By driving on to the next town, that’s how. Manderfield. If you pronounce it  the way the folks in ‘these parts’ do, you top, if not measure up, to Virgin.

 

With each new town or nuance, the jokes were rolling. “You know,” I told Miss Information, “You can take the girl out of Virgin and, as it turns out, you can also take the virgin out of the girl. Who knew?” “Manderfield, that’s who,” Miss Information quipped.

Some people have zero desire to travel. In fact, I’ve heard some say, “I can watch documentaries about other places on TV, so there is no reason to go there.” I find that amazing. In fact, I practice the opposite theory – traveling somewhere and then, if time permits, watching TV – but only because I’m on vacation.

 

This week’s travels are more of a staycation, because I am traveling to the Southern part of the state and doing so by car. Miss Information is my traveling companion and, in an attempt to make it perfect, we stopped to purchase a caraoke microphone for her. While selecting the microphone we noticed they also had recorders. “I remember tinkering around on one of these in grade school,” I told her. “Me too. Let’s each get one so we can play songs together,” she suggested.

 

We did and, because of the many great sights along the way, we didn’t end up playing the recorders or doing caraoke. Our favorite stop was in a city called Beaver. “I think we better get a Beaver fill-up. Not sure we can drive much further without one,” Miss Information told me. “So true,” I replied. Beaver, because of the name alone, is a popular tourist attraction. So much so, they have come up with stickers, magnets and t-shirts that read, “I ♥ Beaver.” “Million dollar idea,” the sales associate informed me as I purchased several of each.

 

Being that we were going to a small town, and it was Sunday, by the time we arrived there really wasn’t much to do. Thus, I did what I occasionally do on vacation – I watched TV. Oreggano would be so proud. I didn’t, however, watch much. I stumbled upon a show called “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding,” and went no further. Marathon episodes about the Irish Travellers’ weddings had me completely enthralled.

 

If you have not seen this show, I highly recommend checking it out. As you’re watching it, if the clothes don’t draw you in, the accents and spray tans will. Intrigued by what I saw, I decided to do a little research about Irish Travellers. Turns out we have something in common – we mend things for a living. They tinker around mending pots, pans, kettles and other utensils and I tinker around mending my ways. At the end of the day (that was for you Alice), we all return home – them to a trailer (traditionally) and me, like Marvin Gaye, to wherever I lay my “Mother Trucker” ball cap (that’s my home).

 

I’ve worked at the furniture store for almost ten years. So long, that I’ve got over $200 in my retirement account. Clearly, I am just a few shifts away from being able to retire and, if I’m lucky, get a fake ID and find a nice 55+ community.

 

Wanting to get those shifts in quick, I agreed to work a Saturday night shift. It had been a couple of months since I worked last and one of the sales associates, who I apparently hadn’t seen for some time, walked over to say hello and asked me about my boyfriend. I advised him we broke up a few years ago.

 

“Playing the field are ya? Bet you’re having a great time.” “I’m no Debbie Gibson,” I told him. “I mean, I’m in the field, but I’m still waiting for the play. I stand around and yell ‘I’m wide open,’ but nobody is throwing the ball. You know what I’m saying?” “Yes, I do. Just keep playing,” he advised me.

 

I’ve decided to take his and Debbie’s advice and, like the customers waiting to pay for their new furniture, I’ll wait my turn, stand in line, do a little lying, have some fun and play the field.

Oreggano and I seem to be in a bit of a mood lately. “I wasn’t like this before I started working out,” I told her. “We were both this way last week, so that isn’t true,” she corrected me.

 

She is right. I have been somewhat of a bitch for the past week or so. Actually, I’m not necessarily being a bitch, I’m just spending a lot of time bitching about things, as is she. “What is wrong with us?” she asked. “I’m not sure, but I’m putting a stop to it right now,” I replied. “Oh, not now,” she said and asked, “Can’t you wait until tomorrow to stop?” “Sure,” I replied, continued with my ranting, and provided a justification. “The thing is, I can dis all kinds of things and people, but I can’t be disrespectful to myself. I’m all I’ve got,” “Yes, you certainly are,” she replied. ”

 

As S-Unit says, there is a song for everything, “I am all I’ve got, I’ve got, I’ve got, I’ve got.”

While visiting Virginia I managed to get a little rash on my forearm. I wasn’t sure of the source and I didn’t want to go to the doctor because I have no interest in learning I have allergies. Instead, I just Googled the symptoms. “Turns out I’ve got bladder cancer,” I told Tree. “Seems extreme,” he replied.

 

Also extreme, in his opinion, was my response when he told me Adele had rescheduled her concert and it will be taking place at the same time I am celebrating my birthday – in New York. “Well, I’m not going,” I told him. “What do you mean? Don’t you think you could come home early or maybe go another weekend?” “No, I don’t think I can do that,” I replied. “Look at me, I always celebrate my birthday at a different time. That is what happens when you are born on Christmas,” he stated. “Well, I’m doing it. Besides, there is no guarantee she won’t cancel again,” I advised him. “No way,” he said, “Don’t decide yet. Oh, any chance I could bring a date by on Saturday?” “Sure,” I said. “Perfect, thanks. Your house seems to be the place everyone has dates,” he told me. “Everyone but me,” I quipped. “By ‘everyone,’ I meant me and Sleepless,” he corrected me.

 

I think my face might have reddened at that moment and not because of any sort of allergic reaction. After thinking about the Adele concert for a bit – and reviewing my past few concert experiences – I decided to sell my ticket. It seems my public announcement of this decision wasn’t pleasing to Tree, “I thought we discussed making rash decisions.” Sweet of him to be so concerned about my bladder cancer.

Dr. BJ and I seem to have a strange sense of shared intuition. Most of this is used knowing and saying what the other is thinking, however, every now and again we have intuition about situations.

 

He and Disdain were purchasing a new couch and had asked if I could meet the delivery drivers should Disdain have to go to work. I agreed and about a half hour before the drivers were supposed to arrive I was returning to work (which is only minutes from Dr. BJ’s house) with some coworkers. I offered to show them where he lived should they be interested in a detour. As is the case with most people who have jobs, they were in the mood for a detour.

 

As we pulled up, I noticed the delivery vehicle in front of the house, but neither Dr. BJ’s or Disdain’s car. Inside the truck were three burly men waiting to carry in a couch – they had arrived early and had been waiting for some time.  My coworkers decided they had detoured far too long so they dropped me off to assist the drivers. “How will you get back to the office?” they asked. “Not sure, but I’ll figure it out,” I replied. “Why don’t you ask the drivers to give you a ride back?” They suggested. “I’ll get right on that,” I replied.

 

Within minutes the couch was delivered, the room was redecorated, and I had sent a picture to the boys. Seconds later my phone rang – it was Dr. BJ. Apparently he had been in discussions with the furniture company and had no idea I was already there to help him out. When he phoned to tell them Disdain was on the way, they told him Mrs. Dr. BJ had already accepted the delivery. He had no idea who that might be and then realized I must have been there early.

 

“How did you know? It was our intuition, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Speaking of intuition, it’s kind of funny that they referred to me as Mrs. Dr. BJ. When are you going to make an honest woman out of me?” “When are you going to make a honest woman out of me?” he asked. “As soon as Tree and That’s Not Chinese have sex,” I answered and added, “Never.”