Category: blog

Prior to connecting with Oreggano for hooley with Plastic Paddies at the local pub, I had to attend a business meeting. The meeting was going just fine until one of the attendees decided to flash a little Irish temper and shouted out, “This is bullshit!” She continued ranting (imagine Linda Blair in The Exorcist) for about 90 seconds, then announced, “I need a break!” For the grand finale, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door. As this transpired, I looked at the cold coffee in my cup I thought, “This is bullshit. I’m mitchin’ this place, heading to Oreggano’s house and getting some good old fashioned Irish coffee.”

 

Upon arriving I was welcomed by Tree and Irish coffee. Cream of Tartar was busy teasing what was left of his lovely locks so they would stay in place the duration of the festivities. Tree, having “a job, kids and responsibilities,” – something he only started saying since he got a new job and began helping his sister with her kids – only had a cup or two and then had to leave. It was around this time that It’s The Eyes arrived.

 

It’s The Eyes loves green and was fully equipped with extra clothing, make-up and accessories. Oreggano and I decided to use some of the eye make-up. “I hardly ever wear eye shadow,” I stated. “Me neither,” said Oreggano. “Not me,” said It’s The Eyes with great Irish pride, “I wear it all the time. I love hooker eyes!”

 

Once we were hook’d up, we started applying temporary shamrock tats and stickers on our faces and wrists. Cream of Tartar, who bore a striking resemblance to Charles Montgomery ‘Monty’ Burns form The Simpsons, joined us and I painted a four-leaf clover on his landing pad. With all of our accessories in place, we started our walk to the train.

 

While waiting for the train, It’s The Eyes was telling Cream of Tartar he was a man of much luck to be with three beautiful women. “Especially looking like that,” Oreggano said while eying his newly bald head. “I don’t want any pictures with you today.” Another patron waiting for the train looked at his head, then looked at me, and mouthed, “It does look pretty bad.”

 

As luck would have it, we were able to secure several tables for our group. In the process, I had the privilege of meeting a real live librarian. It was at this point that I knew the luck o’ the Irish was upon me. As It’s The Eyes and I were discussing our luck, she confidently informed me, “It’s the eyes.” She might be on to something.

 

Several Irish Car Bombs into the craic, Passed The Sniff Test, Dr. BJ, Not A Skirt Chaser, and Bitchin’ Camaro joined us. Cream of Tartar was exercising proper Irish etiquette by ordering rounds for everyone, getting completely bollixed, and not tipping the bar staff. In fact, in addition to not tipping the bar staff, he left the bar without closing or paying his tab; which left Oreggano in a bit of a pickle.

 

While we were discussing this pickle in the loo, the door to the loo opened, Dr. BJ stopped dead in his tracks, and never looked so surprised, “Oh no, this is the women’s!” Right in the middle of our pickle, in walked another.

 

The answer to Oreggano’s pickle was simple: soften Cream of Tartar’s cough by leaving the tab unpaid. Once she came to this conclusion, she looked It’s The Eyes and I in our hook’d up eyes and said, “Let’s go ladies. Quick!” Thus, we took care of his unfinished business in the same manner as he, by leaving it.

 

While making our way home, It’s The Eyes had concerns about our safety. “We are totally going to get hijacked.” “I don’t think one can get hijacked when they’re walking,” I replied. “Right,” Oreggano added. “What are they going to do? Cut off our feet?” A few blocks later, after refueling with food, we weren’t hijacked, but we were propositioned at a stoplight by the passenger in a vehicle full of rat-arsed lads, “Hey, my pants are already down. Do you want to help finish the job?” “What is up with all of this unfinished business?” I asked them. “It’s the eyes,” It’s The Eyes advised.

Had the privilege of dining with Oreggano and Cream of Tartar and, while dining, we decided to do some couples therapy – with me as their therapist. “This is going to be good,” Cream of Tartar excitedly stated, “Better take notes for the blog.”

 

Last weekend, Cream of Tartar was planning to go on a fishing trip and, as a courtesy, picked up a cup of coffee for Oreggano prior to departing. “Very nice gesture,” I commented. “Right, except it was from 7-11 and it was black. Exactly how I don’t like it,” stated Oreggano. “I got it from there because it was free.” “The coffee was free?” I paraphrased (professional therapy standard). “Yes,” Cream of Tartar confirmed, “Because I was in uniform. It’s the thought that counts.” “That is true,” I validated, like most good therapists do and then added, “But if you’re not really thinking, it isn’t a thought, thus, doesn’t count.”

 

As the story of the fishing trip continued, I maintained the professional stance – head nodding, occasional ‘uh huh’ interjected, and taking notes. They got to the part when Cream of Tartar came home one day and six hours later than planned. “It was daylight savings time, so we lost one hour. It should have really been two when I called,” Cream of Tartar defended his Tartardiness. Not a fan of punctuality, I did my best to remain neutral. “That is not going to cut it,” Oreggano replied. “The traffic was bad?” Cream of Tartar attempted, yet again, to defend his position. “Nope, not buying it,” Oreggano stood firm on her stance. “When he called to tell me how late he might be I responded, ‘I’m pissed.'” Cream of Tartar giggled and replied, “Oh, that’s not all she said, but we’ll leave that out of the report.”

 

Being trained in relationships, Cream of Tartar changed the subject and the channel on the TV, to one of Oreggano’s favorite cop shows. “This is Oreggano’s dream,” he told me. “She watches it all of the time.” Oreggano humbly replied, “Not really. I mean I once thought it would be cool to be a cop, but, you know.” The show continued and Cream of Tartar made an observation, “Usually, she is yelling at the TV, saying things like, ‘Shoot the mother fucker! Loader pull over!'” “Ah, that’s cute,” I replied. Cream of Tartar turned to OregganO and said, “You’re not saying the things you say when other people aren’t here,” and then made a ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’ sound.

 

A little while later, Cream of Tartar decided to shave the center section of the hair, leaving a lovely man-made male-patterned baldness appearance. Oreggano was not pleased, but Cream of Tartar and I could not be happier. Being in the market for must stache hair,  I requested the clippings. “Sure, you can have them. They’re kind of clean,” Cream of Tartar informed me as he was applying product to and teasing his remaining locks.

 

As the night was coming to an end, I was discussing hair product with Oreggano and Cream of Tartar, who had taken his bald ass to the other room to tie flies, said, “Main and Tame.” “Really? It was what you suggest? I asked. “Yep, amazing,” Cream of Tartar confirmed. it was on this note, that I grabbed my (actually, Cream of Tartar’s) bag of hair and headed home to prepare for Thanks Patrick’s Day – one of Oreggano’s favorite holidays.

 

It has come to my attention that not everyone is doing well in the love arena. I found this both disappointing and entertaining. Disappointing because I am a romantic at heart. Entertaining because when it doesn’t work out, there is often a good story or broom behind it.

Sleepless was telling me some interesting date requests that she has received as of late. Both were received electronically, neither were ‘verbally’ exchanged. The first request was sent via email,” We need to lunch. I can bring my secretary.” We were both confused by the latter part of the request but finally agreed the secretary’s participation would be solely related to dictation. The second request was from a different suitor and came via text, “I’m happy to do lunch, dinner, coffee…snacks…drink…maybe even drive-thru if I’m that bad.” We both appreciated the quick and easy drive-thru option.

Until we hit the karaoke bar, I hadn’t really had any ‘date’ options. Harmonize was at the bar, by himself, with a tambourine and was frequently offering to ‘harmonize’ while we sang. As Sleepless and I were at the bar enjoying a lovely conversation with Giddy Up, Harmonize approached me, showed me his karaoke request, and said, “I was going to sing this song anyway, but now I’m going to dedicate it to you.” Long Cool Woman, with a tambourine,  was what I got – as an afterthought, but a thought nonetheless.

KJ soon joined us at the bar and began talking about midgets. “I can’t stand ’em right now,” he told us. Sleepless and I thought that was a bit harsh, so we questioned his feelings. “My girlfriend had a thing for ’em. Saw one doing stand-up at a comedy bar and slept with him.” “Wow,” we replied in unison, but I couldn’t stop there, “You should tell her you have very little patience for that kind of behavior.” “We broke up,” KJ informed us. “Good idea,” I said and added, “Sounds like she was short on love.”

It doesn’t matter how often I’ve experienced it, I cannot seem to get the hang of daylight savings time, especially in the Spring. Although Benjamin Franklin coined the term, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” it was George Vernon Hudson who proposed Modern Daylight Savings Time (DST) because he liked the extra daylight time to collect insects. I should have known a Kiwi was behind this concept.

Skiwi loves waking up early. Just the other day DDDG was telling him she didn’t have enough time in the day. He provided her a response the next morning when she was sleeping in, “This is why you don’t have enough time in the day. You’re wasting precious hours, pumpkin.” She responded with a common phrase, not Benjamin Franklin’s phrase, but a common phrase, nonetheless.

I’m with DDDG on this one. It’s not that I need a lot of sleep as much as it is I really like taking my time. Instead of collecting insects, I prefer to collect minutes – many of them laying in bed (CO chair) or lollygagging around the house. Some may see it as losing minutes, to which I say, “Why so negative?” I see what I do as  a hobby of sorts. Once I collect enough minutes, I’ll have nothing but time on my hands. Unlike the Styx, I’m not worried about having too much time on my hands, I can use those extra moments to practice my Mr. Hoboto.

Planning events with my friends is a lot like planning a wedding – only about 70% of  those who you invite actually attend and a fully stocked bar is appreciated. I decided to host a brunch and invited twelve of my closest friends.  Unlike a wedding, only 40% attended. Fortunately, like a wedding, we had plenty of beverages.

Immediately upon arriving, Skiwi was assessing my entertaining amenities. “You need speakers in here,” he said while checking out all of the corners of my home. He spent the rest of the time, outside of the quarter of an hour or more that he was fixing my fanlight while DDDG held his legs so he wouldn’t fall off the chair, assessing my speaker needs and discussing his ‘zones’ with others.

After Skiwi and DDDG left, That’s Not Chinese, Tree and I were sharing stories with Oreggano. “I cashed in all of my coins for a bottle of wine,” Tree informed us. “The worst part was, the wine store was closed, so I had to drive all the way into the city (approximately ten miles) to buy it and when I got to the liquor store I realized I didn’t have my ID. So, I picked up FatGirl and secretly exchanged money for liquor in the parking lot. It was like a drug deal.” 

“Speaking  of deals,” Oreggano interjected and then turned her attention towards That’s Not Chinese, “What’s the deal with you and boys? I thought you liked girls.” That’s Not Chinese, in typical That’s Not Chinese fashion, said, “Look,” took a sip of champagne, put her left hand in the air in the ‘talk to the hand’ position, closed her eyes for a second, and then finished her statement. “I’m not a lesbian, but I deal with those types and sometimes end up in relationships with them.” “Girl, you’re feral like Errol,” I informed her. ‘Feral like Errol’ is a new little catch phrase Tree and I proposed last night when discussing brunch. He mentioned he was “In like Flynn,” and then asked what it meant. I mentioned Errol Flynn and, well, that is how our magic happens.
Later in the evening, That’s Not Chinese, Dr. BJ, Disdain and I went to a wedding reception where people were both in and ‘out’ like Flynn and we, as usual, were feral like Errol. Like many events with my friends, the bar was fully stocked. Unlike some events with my friends, attendance was high, at approximately 60%.
Dr. BJ was very excited about the reception because he and several of his friends were going to perform to Single Ladies by Beyonce. He had been practicing the routine for at least a week and had even opted against going out once so he could break in his new shoes, “I’m just going to go home, put my heels on, and iron.”
With only minutest to prep, That’s Not Chinese and I assisted Dr. BJ with his make-up, while Disdain documented the event. The dressing room was incredibly hot, so the main performer, Hell Savior, found us a different room. As we were all making our way into the new room, he humbly brought attention to his efforts, “You’re welcome for being saved from hell.” “Wow, Hell Savior, thank you,” I quipped. “You should get ‘hell’ tattooed on your ass and then you can tell people to go there and win again!” Hell Savior batted his glittery green eyelids at me, smiled and said, “I’d like that.”
Then he put one hand on his hip, the other in front of him, gyrated his hips and uh oh oh oh oh ohed his way to the dance floor, with Dr. BJ in tow. Very feral.

Occassionally, I decide to stay home and clean. Frequently, this doesn’t go as planned. Last night I was cleaning – moving things from one room to another, finding nostalgic items and getting distracted for hours – when I received a text from Passed The Sniff Test. He was studying for an upcoming exam and needed a break from his books. I had vacuumed one room, loaded and started the dishwasher, and was exhausted, so we deicided to stoop.

Passed The Sniff Test arrived just after nine and, just after midnight, we decided to invite That’s Night Chinese to our impromptu stoop time (which had moved indoors, it was cold outside). She came right over and we were having a lovely time sipping wine and reminicsing when I received a call from Tree.

“I’m at a college party with my FatGirl and I’ve got some shit for you to blog,” he excitedly informed me. I grabbed my pen and paper and told him I was ready. “OK. So, there is this Polynesian gay and he is walking out eating hot dogs.” “That’s it?” I asked. “Yes,” he proudly replied. “Why are you at a college party?” “Because FatGirl goes to college.” “Well leave there and come here, there are no Polynesians eating hot dogs, but I’ve got wine  and we’re having a little soiree.”

Several bars and phone calls later, we heard Tree and FatGirl outside. They were so loud, it was impossible to not hear them. “The gays are here,” I announced. Tree had an hankering for a cigarette and asked That’s Not Chinese for one. “I quit smoking in October,” she told him. “You don’t have any, not even one?” he asked and added, “I’m gonna have to smell my fingers if you don’t have a cigarette.”

A little while later, we decided to do our new favorite thing: the unison drunk dial. Rusty Rogue Rafael was once again the lucky recipient. To take it up a notch, we video chatted with him. Poor guy. Five people talking at him all at once and That’s Not Chinese, a lover of face time, giving and taking 100% of the lens.

Several hours later, we were all in bed. Some in our own bed, some not. Regardless of where we all laid our heads, one thing was certain, all of our heads were going to be hurting in the morning. As Mrs. Vernon-Williams would say, “Heavy hangs the head that last night wore (in our case, drank) the crown.”

I have pretty positive thoughts. In fact, if you could spend even an hour in my mind, I think you would be proper impressed (see, positive). As a child, I was taught that thinking was the same as doing. If your imagination is anything like mine, you know this can be very, very dangerous. By the time I was ten, I had lived quite the life…in my mind.

In addition to having a vivid imagination, I also have a strong determination to prove things – wrong or right. So, thought or not, I generally did it, whatever ‘it’ may be.

As I’ve gotten older, not much has changed. Although, I believe I may think about far more things than I actually do. For example, every morning, while cozy in my bed (or CO chair), I think about going to work. I also regularly think about cleaning, exercising, eating better, reading more, doing my taxes, and the like. Unfortunately, like so many other things we are taught to believe as children, this philosophy is not true. Thinking is not the same as doing.

Thinking about things does, however, help. I can walk proud knowing I have thought good thoughts and had good intentions – I just may not actually take this walk until later in the day, after I have had plenty of time to sleep in, stare at my fan light, and ponder things. Maybe I ponder more than I think. Definitely something to consider. Which I’ll do later, after I clean, aka, think ‘clean’ thoughts.

Sleepless invited me to join her and a friend for lunch and I, of course, obliged. Being that Sleepless is evolving, her friend, Progressive, was ordering different whites (wine, that is) to wet her pallet. As we were enjoying the meal, my age became a topic of conversation. I truly do not care about age. So much so that it is something I rarely think about and often actually have to think about when people inquire. “So, when did you graduate high school? ’83?” Progressive asked. “’83? Really?” I retorted. That’s Not Chinese would be so happy right now. Withing seconds, Progressive  became regressive. He is just like a camera, although instead of adding pounds, he adds years.

A meal isn’t complete without dessert, so Sleepless and I opted to share the molten chocolate cake. When it arrived at the table the plate was garnished with mint leaves, raspberries, caramel sauce, and whipping cream. “Look at that,” said Progressive, “they even gave you creme fresh.” “Creme fresh?” Sleepless echoed while laughing. “Yes,” I added. “Creme fresh. What is that?” “I speak European,” Progressive informed us, “It’s a combination of English and…..other languages. European.”

We decided to compliment our creme fresh with mexican hot chocolate and coffee. Prior to leaving to start our hot beverages, the server posed a clarifying question to Sleepless, “Do you want alcohol in your coffee?” “Yes. Absolutely!” Sleepless answered without hesitation. “That’s what I thought,” the server quipped.

As Sleepless and I were enjoying our hot beverages, Progressive requested the check and proceeded to take care of it, sans us. “That is something we do not need,” Sleepless informed him and continued, “We’re sugar selves.” Without hesitation I added, “But thank you for lunch.” After the math I had to do to figure out that ’83 was not my graduation year, lunch was the least Progressive could do. He was wise to this and opted to head out before us. “Sorry to give you the shaft,” he said, “but I’ve got to get going.” “I don’t mind the shaft. Do you?” I responded and asked Sleepless. “Not at all,” Sleepless replied. “I swallow the shaft – have since ’83. Or was it ’69? I can’t remember.”

That’s Not Chinese had the good fortune of leaving work early the other night which, as fortunes go, resulted in me having the good fortune of her company.

Being that she works swing shifts, it was later in the evening when she stopped by. Nonetheless, I had wine in the decanter, ready for her consumption. We were discussing the past few days and the many opportunities we had to spend time together. “I love reading the blog about those events,” she told me. “I mean, we’re funny, but you make us sound even funnier. And, as I’ve told you before, I like reading it the most when I’m in it.” She, Skiwi, and Charlie Sheen have something in common: a passion for face time. Another trait she and Sheen share, the use of the ‘t’ word – That’s Not Chinese has been spewing ‘troll’ for years.

As we continued to chat, I started to get a little tired. “OK, I’m finishing this glass of wine and then I’m leaving,” she told me. “Sorry, I’m so tired. This chair is like carbon monoxide,” I replied as I leaned back further into my most comfortable piece of furniture. “It’s not the chair or carbon monoxide,” That’s Not Chinese responded. “It’s the fact that you keep the temperature at (she gets up and walks over to the thermostat) 72 degrees. You’re killing me!” “I do that for my guests.” “Uh huh, well, it has caused your eyes to be all droopy.”

I opted against verifying her claim and sunk deeper into my CO chair. She finished her wine quickly, like Charlie Sheen with tiger’s blood, and then bid me farewell. “Looking forward to reading about this in the blog,” she stated. “Oh, you’ll be in the blog – it’s all about the face time.” “Exactly,” she replied, “Don’t make me call you a troll.” “Nobody sticks baby in a corner,” I replied and added, “Been there, Sheen that.”

Per the recommendation of Sleepless, I checked out Gypsy – 1962 version – from the library. I had been watching it for about an hour when Tree came upstairs and joined me. Two hours into the movie and they still weren’t to the burlesque days of Gypsy’s life. “I can’t believe how long this movie is,” I told Tree. “I’ve got to get stuff done, namely, pick an outfit for tonight, so I really need the pace to pick up.” “I know, right?” Tree consoled me. “No violence, nothing exploding, no nudity. How do they expect to keep our attention?”

 

I decided to grab the costume boxes so we could select our outfits for the evening while waiting for Gypsy’s big break. As I set down the boxes, Tree was ecstatic, “This is great! You know I’m going to be borrowing this stuff, often.” “Yes, I know,” I told him and added, “I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to get into my box.” Gypsy was continuing to play in the background and we were loving some of the lines/lyrics. “Gangway, world, get off of my runway!” “If you want an ulcer Momma, get one of your own. You can’t have mine.” “If you want to bump it, bump it with a trumpet.” Sleepless was right in suggesting this film – Gypsy was clearly a girl with a soul like mine.

 

Since the theme of the evening was School Night, Tree and I picked a couple of really great school girl outfits. Luckily, I have the SPICE GIRLS hair play kit, so Tree was able to compliment his plaid skirt and white dress shirt with Baby Spice ponytails. I opted for some thigh high tube socks, a pair of old school, nylon, Spalding shorts, and a tank tube with a bobcat picture pinned to the center. We were going to own the runway and the mic.

 

Upon arriving at the bar we found Passed The Sniff Test at our table. Like a magician’s sleeve, something very special lie beneath his t-shirt and cargo shorts – a gold wrestler’s unitard. KJ was donning a nylon track suit and Giddy Up was decked out in all black, lipstick included. “Every school needs a goth girl,” she said while smiling and posing for a picture. “Oops, goths aren’t supposed to smile. Sorry about that.”

 

The only other people in the bar, besides the five of us in costume and Tree’s mom, were two men who had been seated at the bar since we first arrived. All of our other friends, several who had specifically requested this themed evening, were truant. Tree was assessing the patron situation and asked, “What do you think those boys think of school girls?” “I think they’re not supposed to be within 500 yards of school girls,” Passed The Sniff Test quipped. And on that note, Tree and I took our spot on the ‘runway’ and sang Raise Your Glass, while sashaying our school girl ass.