Category: blog

It’s been a while since I’ve worked out, so I sent Q a text asking if she want to do so today at her office gym. I prefer this location because the equipment is decent and we usually have it all to ourselves.

 

Upon arriving, I found they still had a locker designated for me – name and all.

 

“I forgot about that. It’s a nice touch. Makes me want to work out more often,” I told Q who had already started a brisk walk on the treadmill.

 

Not one to usually do the treadmill, I decided to join her.  I hadn’t been on the treadmill for more than two minutes when one of her coworkers came in with a rather time-consuming question for me. After the coworker left I looked at the timer on the treadmill and then looked at Q in shock.

 

“I think this is the longest I’ve ever been on the treadmill. Fifteen minutes. Unbelievable,” I said, nearly out of breath.

 

Anxious to work on bone density and, more importantly, to be done with the treadmill, I hit the free weights and the weight machines.

 

“It has been so long since I’ve worked out here I can barely remember my routine or how to use the equipment. I’m so glad there are instructive pictures,” I told Q.

 

“I’m sure the pictures are very helpful,” she replied.

 

After several weight bearing exercises, we decided it was time for the cool down. I usually do the stationery bike, but opted to tread with Q.

 

She became interested in a public intoxication taking place across the street and got off of her treadmill to open the blinds and ‘observe.’ She opened one blind, went back to the treadmill, realized it was really the other blind that provided the best view, got off the treadmill again, closed that blind and opened the other.

 

“Crap. It looks like the best view is through both blinds,” she realized upon return to her treadmill.

 

“I’ll get it this time,” I told her.

 

I got off the treadmill, opened the blind she had first opened and walked back over. Unfortunately, I forgot to do one thing: remember that the treadmill was running.

 

I came at it from the side and as soon as I stood on the walking belt I was reminded of what I forgot. Try as I might, and holding on for dear life, I could not get my feet to move to the side. My feet, legs, arms – truly my entire body, was at the mercy of the treadmill. I did exactly what we have all seen on the youtube videos – I flew off the back of the treadmill.

 

As I sat in a contorted ball on the floor at the end of the treadmill, I was reminded of something else: Q and I were not alone in the office gym today. One of her coworkers was working out in the corner and, just seconds before my ‘incident,’ another coworker had walked in.

 

“What happened?” he asked. “When I first noticed what was going on I thought you were purposely doing some kind of crazy dance. Then I realized that wasn’t the case and I wondered why you weren’t pushing the ‘stop.’ Then I realized you couldn’t because you were on the floor. Are you OK?”

 

“This is pretty standard for her,” Q stated and added, “In fact, earlier she mentioned it had been so long since she worked out that she couldn’t remember how to operate the equipment. This is proof.”

 

I shared this story with Tree who advised me, “Sometimes you just need to let go.”

There are some moments, visuals and bacterias that are best not shared or ‘regifted.’

 

Sleepless just returned from Las Vegas where she experienced many moments and visuals. In an attempt to cleanse her mind of them, she shared them with Progressive and I at lunch. “I told you, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except the STDs,” Progressive reminded her.

 

There are a couple of things that tend to be recession proof: weeds, obesity and STDs. Fortunately, the latter is a souvenir Sleepless did not bring back from Vegas. “Ugh, thanks,” she told Progressive. “I may not have STDs, but I’ve got some pretty nasty visuals.” “Just visuals, right? No audio?” I queried. “Yes, just visuals,” she replied.

 

We’ve all been there. Sharing a room with someone while on holiday or living in a place with thin walls and hearing the person in the other bed, room, apartment, et cetera, having sex with someone. Or, perhaps, just enjoying their alone time – it is the year of the Rabbit. “These types of things should only occur when one is in their teens or when they are a senior with impaired hearing and sight.” If you are into that, good on you. I, however, am not hearsexual. Hearing sex does not do anything for me. I remember living in a three story condo and hearing the woman above me having sex and the man below me snoring. I remember thinking, “This is bullshit. Two reminders of what I’m not getting: sex or sleep.”

 

Sleepless continued with her Vegas stories and advised us she “felt so dirty, that one day I took two showers.” “Speaking of showers,” I interjected, “I got a shower chair for Mini Me. My sister loaned it to me.” “Why did she have a shower chair?” Sleepless asked. “Not sure,” I replied and added, “That’s one of the those questions that will most likely never get asked. Like your Vegas trip, there are some things we wish didn’t know.”

Oreggano is a jack of many trades and, as a result, so am I. This week, we ran a photography business. I have a major camera stipulation, so she is in charge of the photographing and editing and my duties include location scouting, props and creative direction.

 

Our first gig together involved Baby Q. I had scouted out a location with a creek and great architecture. When we arrived, we saw four ducklings paddling behind the mama duck in the pond area. “That is a great back drop,” I told Oreggano. She agreed and after a few photos we were crossing the bridge when I noticed one of the ducklings was stuck in between the pond and the creek. The creek water was moving really fast so I, of course, tried to save the duckling. Oreggano was helping me and we were trying everything we could to get the duckling out of harm’s way.

 

Unfortunately, our efforts were in vain because the rapidly moving waters swooped up the duckling and we never saw him again. “You did your best,” Oreggano tried to console me. “You tried to help and he resisted. Most likely suicidal.”

 

Oreggano was right. I did all I could and, in doing so, sustained an injury. In my attempt to get as close to the water without going in (I learned from That’s Not Chinese’s duck saving adventure), I crawled under the railing and didn’t duck (pun intended) far enough. Thus, I have a massive goose egg. Next time I’m not going to try and save that little ducker. As far as I’m concerned, he can duck off.

The other day Q and I were at lunch and discussed my dating situation. “This is definitely a horrible town to be single,” she told me. “In Denver, there were all kinds of hot single guys.” “I’ve dated ‘hot,’ and it’s not always good,”  I replied. “True, but now all you seem to meet is gay or married,” she reminded me. “There is that,” I agreed.

 

Unlike S-Unit, I haven’t set a wedding date, so I’ve got plenty of time to find a straight and single man. And, unlike Passed The Sniff Test, I’ve decided to set a higher standard, which may take more time. Passed The Sniff Test just bought a new house and was excited to learn he lives down the street from a women’s clinic, “Best place ever to meet loose women.” That’s Not Chinese found this comment both crude and not Chinese. As mentioned, I’ve set a higher standard. The closest business to my house is a dry cleaner – nothing dirty coming out of there and, what may come as a surprise to That’s Not Chinese, dry cleaning was not a Chinese invention. The first dry cleaning, or nettoyage à sec, business began in France by Jean Baptiste Jolly in the mid 19th century.

 

Also French, is the last name of the musician who’s concert That’s Not Chinese, Passed The Sniff Test and I were walking to when Passed The Sniff Test shared the news of the clinic. We had all expected to have a great time, relaxing on the lawn, among friends, and enjoying good music. Upon arriving at the concert, I saw my ex, Dr. BJ saw his ex, and That’s Not Chinese saw her ex. Oreggano was planning to join us and told us, “I’ve no doubt I’ll see one or more of my exes there.” The opening band played several cover songs, many of which were about cheating and relationships. “It’s like they knew all of your exes were going to be here,” Passed The Sniff Test told us. “Mmmm hmmm. Looks like all of our exes don’t live in Texas,” Dr. BJ quipped.

 

Oreggano and I eventually escaped to an exterior bench – still within the walls of the concert but far away from the exes. While sitting on the bench, we were greeting people and watching some of them stumble over the massive and dark incline, when we met a concert goer from Switzerland. He decided to join us on the bench and attempted to carry on conversations with us. When we experienced a lull in the conversation he posed a question, “So what kind of sex do you girls like?”

 

I have heard a lot of unexpected comments over the past few days, however, this one seemed to take the cake. Regardless, we both provided an answer, “heterosexual.” I don’t think that was the answer he was expecting, but as we’ve all learned, expectations are not always met, except for when they are. For example, the guy from Switzerland is in a relationship. Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything different.

 

I’ve been away for some time and this has been upsetting to Tree. I phoned him today to catch up and he started telling me about his latest adventures, finds and desires. “My mom came up with a delicious wine spritzer,” he informed me. “In fact, I’m sitting in the back yard drinking it right now. Sleepless would love it – it has white zinfandel in it.” “White zinfandel? Really? And you like it?” I asked. “I love it. In fact, it got me thinking. We should totally dress up as old women – wear some really great hats and a nice polyester suit – and go around town drinking wine spritzers.”

 

“That is a great idea. Where should we go?” I asked. “I don’t care, but it can’t be anywhere I’ve worked or where people know me,” he replied. “Or where you may work in the future. It would be good to go somewhere old women drink,” I added. “Yes, but where would that be?” he inquired. I had no idea, but I figured I could ask one of my older friends, like That’s Not Chinese. I have a feeling she may just say, “home, in the rocking chair on the porch, in a smoking jacket.”

 

“Speaking of age,” I told Tree, “I’m thinking of coloring my hair platinum blonde and getting a cute, chin-length, a-line haircut. I’m not sure though. I’m worried I may just be mid-lifing.” “You are nowhere near mid-life. You’ve got at least another five years before you hit that. I’m not sure about the platinum blonde, but an a-line always looks good on me,” he replied. “When did you have an a-line?” I asked. “I have a platinum blonde, a-line, short wig that I wear every now and again. I’ll probably wear it for wine spritzers. Alright, well, enough about you. I’ve got to go take a shower,” he said and bid me farewell. It’s good to be home.

Although Alice only lives a few doors down, it has been some time since she and I have hung out. Luckily, we had the chance to do so last night. When I arrived I found her watching a Yankees game. The Yankees are sacred to Alice, thus, most of our conversation took place during the commercials. Once the game ended we made our way to the porch, where we were greeted by mosquitoes. I told her about the repelling power of mint and she suggested we walk to the park next door to pick mint leaves. We picked the leaves, rubbed them all over our bodies, and then put a bunch of them in a vase. Unfortunately, our repelling tactic was not entirely successful – although we did smell nice, and we were out of wine, so we retreated to the kitchen.

 

“I’ve just made some Limoncello. Would you like some?” “I would love some,” I replied. After a glass, maybe two, she showed me her Tarragon Vodka, “I made this too.” “It smells really good. Do you have tarragon in your backyard?” I asked.  “Yes,” she said and added, “I have a really big bush.” “I’m sure you do,” I replied.

 

After a few sips of the Tarragon vodka she looked at me with concern and said, “Oh God, I hate being drunk. Is tomorrow Friday?” “No. It’s Thursday.” “Oh well, I know I’m drunk and I know the Yankees won. And like you said, if you can’t do your job hungover you don’t deserve a job.” “All of those things are true, but I didn’t say that. It was actually said by 70s Disco Queen.” “Doesn’t matter who said it, what matters is it is true.”

 

As we continued to sip our tarragon vodka I showed her some pictures of my grandparents that I may use as inspiration for a tattoo. “Can I just tell you my grandma’s name?” she asked me. “Yes, of course,” I replied. “Oh shit. I can’t remember it. This is so disturbing. Pour yourself a drink or something. We may end up drinking this entire bottle.” “At the end of this entire bottle, what have we got?” I asked. “According to Pearl Jam, nothingman,” she replied. “Isn’t it something. At least we smell good,” I told her. And smell good we did. In fact, I believe the combination of herbs and fruits provided us a mint condition status.

Lohan. Sambora. Winehouse. Grigio. What do these names have in common? Rehab, that’s what. Good old fashioned rehab – short for rehabilitation.

 

I may not have actually been in a licensed rehab/treatment facility, but after spending several sober days in a home with four guards (aka, seniors), located directly across the street from the prison, rehab was the best word I could use to describe it. We routinely woke up early, had scheduled daily activities, every now and again one of the seniors would mention a higher power, we always stayed together, there was no alcohol in the house, and we went to bed by 11 each night. I believe Lohan, Sambora and Winehouse would agree, that is rehab, and I am rehabilitated.

 

Like Lohan, I came home to enjoy a nice glass of wine. Luckily, I wasn’t alone, Oreggano and Cream of Tartar were right by my side. While enjoying the dark fruit and floral notes of the wine, we caught up on community events and Predator Quest. “Aren’t you glad you came to our house?” Oreggano asked and continued, “We show you only the finest shows. Alaska State Troopers. Predator Quest. Brandy and Ray J. Knowing that you don’t watch TV, we want to make sure you see the best TV has to offer when you’re over here.” “Thank you. I appreciate that,” I replied. I typically only pair wine with me, but I found it paired quite well with Predator Quest.

 

Towards the end of the show, Les was donning a very elaborate fur hat and making some amazing calls which resulted in him catching another coyote (his pronunciation: ki-yot). “What is he going to do with that coyote?” I asked. “Make another hat, of course,” Cream of Tartar replied.

 

Once the show ended, I thanked them for the wine, enlightenment and sponsorship and then headed home in hopes of a nice house arrest party.

I’ve been to Baltimore several times, however, I’ve never actually been to Baltimore – much like Charlene and ‘Paradise.’

 

Fortunately, my last day on the Eastern Shore, aka ‘The South’ (that was for you Dr. BJ), was spent in Baltimore – Inner Harbor, to be exact.

 

After a tour of Fort McHenry, we decided to grab a bite to eat. This made me happy because I’m a good eater and it’s always nice to eat a good meal before getting on a plane.

 

As we approached the town my Uncle began looking for one of his favorite restaurants. The Harborplace Mall was within eyesight and my uncle pointed out a restaurant to Aunt Winnie, “There’s that great seafood place.” I had a feeling he was mistaken, so I double checked, “Are you referring to the restaurant with the orange verbiage?” “Yes,” he replied. “That’s not a seafood restaurant,” I advised him and clarified, “That’s Hooters. You can probably get tuna there, but I’m guessing it isn’t the kind you had in mind.”

 

We ended up going to his favorite restaurant, buffet style. My experience has been that buffets, or more appropriately termed ‘buttfes,’ are nothing butt (pun intended) trouble. Just because it is all you can eat does not mean one should eat all they can (and many do). Some of that food has been turned more than a downtown trick on a good night.

 

Even though I was extremely careful with my dining choices, by the time I got to the airport I was ready to hear Muzak playing Wilson Phillips. That airline warning about belongings shifting, 100% true if you board a plane after a seafood buttfe. My internal belongings shifted the entire flight. Next time, I’m not correcting my uncle. Next time, no seafood buttfe. Next time, we’re going somewhere ‘delightfully tacky yet unrefined.’ Next time, we’re going to Hooters!

The seniors and I decided to take a day trip into DC to visit the National Gallery of Art (NGA). As we were nearing our destination, the traffic began to get thick and several roads were blocked off. They were all confused by the mayhem and wondered “what on earth” could have been going on. I quickly assessed the surroundings and advised them, “Gay Pride, that’s what. We just became part of the gay pride celebrations!”

 

We found a parking space and began walking toward the NGA. Ahead of us were several drag queens donning or getting ready to don incredible regalia. The colors of the rainbow were everywhere – including on my Uncle. He was wearing a striped dress shirt and the stripes were the colors of the rainbow with white accents. I advised Aunt Winnie of the coincidence. “Really? That’s his favorite shirt. He’s been wearing it for years,” she replied. “He’s a trendsetter,” I told her.

 

After visiting NGA, we decided to head back to the 55+ community (nap time). My uncle offered for us to wait on the corner and he would grab the car. “I’m going in there. Wish me luck,” he told me. By ‘there’ he meant the Capital Pride festivities; cutting through the festival was a shortcut to the car. After he left us, I took my parents and Aunt Winnie into the festival so they could catch a glimpse of it’s greatness. I’m pretty sure this was their first Gay Pride and knowing that I was the one who was with them to experience it made me oh so proud.

 

A few minutes later, my Uncle returned with the car and said, “Sorry it took so long, I was mugged by a drag queen.” In the back of the car I started singing, “Don’t be a drag, just be a queen….”

 

 

After several days of senior shenanigans, my cousins took me into the city for drinks. “I’m so glad you did this for me,” I told Painted White Rock. “When I was at your house last night I saw the bottle of wine and really wanted a glass. I even told my friend Oreggano about it. She was upset with me for not pulling you aside and having you pour me one.” “You should have. I’d had two glasses myself before y’all arrived,” she replied. Our elders aren’t drinkers and, although they know we imbibe, they prefer to not have it confirmed, especially in their presence. Thus, most times, we respect this.

 

Once we got in the city we found a great little riverside restaurant/bar and were enjoying our time catching up when the table next to us got into it with security. Painted White Rock and MoHo were listening intently. “Sorry, this is too good to miss,” Painted White Rock told me. It was pretty good. Apparently it was a family and one of the kids, who was under 21, had been dismissive to one or more of the security staff. As a result, they were asked to leave the restaurant. The daughter was a bit of a spitfire and was throwing all kinds of insults at one of the staff, “Nice dreads. Didn’t you know Bob Marley is dead?” We’re not sure where they ended up after being kicked out. There is a good chance they headed to Union Station and took the train home to Jersey.

 

We were deep in conversation again when an extremely loud helicopter flew by in very close proximity to the restaurant. “That’s quite rude,” I commented. “I’m pretty sure that was the President,” MoHo informed me. “Still,” I replied, “Quite rude.” If any of my stoopside peeps had been with me I’ve no doubt we would have advised them to slow down and fly quieter.

 

Toward the end of the night Painted White Rock was telling us how good her husband is to her and that he often “puts up with me.” “You look smokin’ hot in that little white dress,” MoHo complimented her and added, “Looking like that he should put up with you.” “I agree,” I stated. “He puts up and you put out.” “I do that,” Painted White Rock giggled. “Put up, put out. It’s a perfect formula,” said MoHo, “You should definitely tell him about it when you get home.”

 

And with that, we were up and out of there.