Category: blog

Spent the day pretending I was a photographer. Pictures aren’t new to me. I’ve been in them, taken them, sketched them, the works, and for many years. Even with all of my experience, I wouldn’t profess to be a photographer. I mean, I make my bed, wash the dishes, vacuum and, sometimes, dust, but I don’t go around telling people I’m a maid.

Anyway, I was taking some pictures with a camera from the office that was much more sophisticated than my drunk Canon Power Shot and I decided to use the strap – I have a weakness for accessories. So, with the camera hanging from my neck, I started snapping photos. As I was doing so, I was reminded of Mel Brooks’ movie, High Anxiety.

The movie takes place at the Psychoneurotic Institute for the Very, VERY Nervous. There is a scene when Nurse Diesel, Dr. Montague, and Dr. Thorndyke are leaving the facility and Brophy attempts to take a picture. They are all opposed to having their picture taken and verbally express their disinterest, all the while turning away from the camera. When Brophy places the camera in position they all immediately stop what they’re doing, face the camera, and pose for a picture.

This is exactly what happened when I was being a photographer. The only difference is I wasn’t at a psychoneurotic institute, I was at a secure/lock-up facility, and my name isn’t Brophy. At one point, I thought I would be clever and attempted to slyly take a shot by just holding the camera out and snapping. Unfortunately, I forgot the camera was strapped around my neck. Needless to say, the picture didn’t turn out as planned and I now have a bit of a crick in my neck.

After this little stint, I decided I needed to relax, and did so by attempting to be a bowler. It should be noted that, at this point, I was out of lock-up. You know what they say about bowling. You can take the bowler out of lock-up, but you can’t take lock-up out of the bowler. I would venture to bet about 90% of the bowlers have had their pictures taken. And by picture, I mean mug shot.

I had the good fortune of catching the tail end of league night. I had the bad fortune of not having my camera. The photo opportunities were endless. Leaguers are definitely a  monochromatic androgynous lot. Truth be told, if I were to see them in a lineup, I wouldn’t be able to single any of them out. Unless, I saw their balls. Yes, all bowlers, regardless of their gender, have balls. Some have one, others three.

After taking in a week’s worth of visuals, I bowled a couple of games in the 70s; which exceeded my goal of 30, so I was pleased. I don’t let the score get me down. I own Wii Sports, mastered the balance handheld bowling game, and have watched Kingpin several times, but that doesn’t make me a bowler.

If having a name for a business is an important start-up step, I am well on my way to being a small business owner. Brûlés. If you’re in the market for burnt food, my diner is in the market for you.

As of late, I have been specializing in blackened goodness. I typically try to only do this at home, so as to not make others jealous, but today was the exception. I decided to partake in an activity that often results in a complete building evacuation – I attempted to make microwave popcorn.

It has been some time since I have cooked with so much technology; my cooking is usually limited to toasters and open flames (and by open flames I mean the fake fire at OregganO’s), so I made sure to thoroughly follow the instructions. I read the instructions on the bag, removed the plastic wrap, unfolded the bag, read all directions, centered the bag on the turntable, and set the cook timer for three minutes and walked away. Looking back, I shouldn’t have walked away, I should have run.

I returned to find smoke coming out of the microwave and then noticed what appeared to be a thick layer of smoke taking over the room.  I yelled out to my coworker, “Grab your coat and most cherished belongings.” I then opened the microwave door to be greeted by more smoke and a blackened popcorn bag, which I promptly threw in the garbage.

Within seconds, the smoke and smell had filled the building and, surprisingly, the smoke detector failed to chirp. Regardless of that fact, I suffered two consequences: 1) No popcorn 2) I didn’t get to leave work early. Looking at the positives, I did come up with a small business name/opportunity and, coincidentally, later in the day I heard and loved the song, Smoke Detector by Rilo Kiley.

I currently believe Sleepless to be one of the luckiest people ever. Unlike the rest of us, who were most likely working today, Sleepless is on a vacation of sorts and getting paid $18.50 today and, for each additional ‘vacation’ day, $49. Yes, Sleepless is a trier of facts for the next five days and will soon be rolling in the dough. Did I mention they also pay for her parking fees? No valet, but, still. She’s making at least $100, maybe, math isn’t my forté. 2011 is shaping up very nicely for her.

We had hoped to go on this orderly vacation, a timeshare of sorts, together, but I didn’t receive my winning yellow card until this weekend. And, to be honest, I’m not sure we would have both made it through security. Based on the dates of my winning yellow card, it looks like my ordered vacation begins when her’s ends.

I was telling one of my coworkers about Sleepless’ good fortune, primarily because I’m hoping to have the same good fortune next week, when she started asking me about criminal activity. Specifically, those crimes involving gang members. I was giving her a few bits of information and then decided to ask her a question, “If a gang member – who makes his living flashing signs, pressing the spray paint caps and thumbing through Benjamins – gets arthritis or breaks his hand during a fist bump, would he qualify for social security or workers compensation?” Sadly, my coworker  did not have an answer for me. She’s no Andy Griffith, but me and Sleepless, we’re like Aunt Bee and the case of the stolen TV – holding out for the facts and bringing order to the court, arthritic hands and all.

Sometimes in life, when we can’t change our current situation, we change our hair, the decor in our home, or from white to red wine.

That’s Not Chinese was in need of a change, so we began revamping her bathroom and kitchen. The plan was to turn the bathroom into a toilette and the kitchen into a cocina. To start the day off right, That’s Not Chinese decided to make a chicken & apple sausage. When I entered her house, it appeared as though I might be needing to phone Skiwi for assistance. The entire kitchen was full of smoke. “What happened?” I asked. “Oh, man. I decided to try and use the pan from last night and then the sausage…” The remainder of her response was entirely inaudible as she became completely consumed by the thin layer of smoke in the air.

Prior to getting started on That’s Not Chinese’s project, and in an attempt to avoid smoke inhalation, we stopped by OregganO’s to check on her current renovations. She and Cream of Tartar were watching reality TV – an activity that I typically only enjoy with OregganO. “Would you ladies like a mimosa?” OregganO asked – those classes at Pottery Barn have really paid off. We, of course, politely accepted her offer and joined them on the sofa.

The shows we watched were interesting, but we found the commercials to be the most entertaining. An ASPCA public service announcement aired and That’s Not Chinese became very emotional. “I can’t watch this, poor Mink.” Mink was a small dog in a stainless steel cage who, like so many of us, ‘has been abandoned and just wants to be loved.’ “Poor Mink,” Cream of Tartar scoffed, “Look at her, she is behind bars. Probably killed her family – the entire litter – that’s why she is abandoned.” “Yep,” OregganO piped in, “Mink is doing time.” “Maybe you could send her money and they can put it on her books,” I added. “You know what,” That’s Not Chinese began to scold us, “it is a good thing I’m on anti-depressants.” “Whoa, easy, easy,” Cream of Tartar said in an attempt to console her, “those dogs are just actors.”

We eventually left the mimosas and reality TV and started ticking boxes on our to-do list. Within several hours, That’s Not Chinese had a toilette adjacent to her cocina and Dr. BJ had stopped by for wine and conversation.

We began reminiscing about the Second First Annual Brunch of the New Year and my love for cleaning supplies, specifically Orange Glo. “I still can’t get over you ‘squeezing the glo,'” That’s Not Chinese told Dr. BJ while shaking her head and then looked at me, “You’ve corrupted him.” “Listen,” Dr. BJ informed her, “I was squeezing the glo long before her.” “My eyes, my eyes, I can’t take the visual,” said That’s Not Chinese. “I can’t believe you were squeezing the glo long before me,” I said and tilted my head to the right (my version of winking’).  “Mmm hmm,” Dr. BJ said with a Cheshire Cat smile, “I like sausage.”

D-Dog and I were both in need of hair care and decided to set appointments at the same time and place.  As they were assessing our hair, several stylists came by, commented on, and touched D-Dog’s hair. “Wow, this hair is amazing. Virgin, right?” D-Dog would give a sly smile and proudly reply, “Yep.”

D-Dog’s stylist was teasing her hair, trying to give it a little oomph (a combination of pizazz and lift, as well as a the name of a Neue Deutsche Härte musical group), when he asked her a question, “What kind of product do you use?” D-Dog started to reply, “Oh, not a lot really, just your basic stuff.” “Don’t be shy, just tell him,” I piped in and added, “She uses Suave.” With a gasp, complimented by a look of sheer terror and a quick surveillance of the room, he moved in closer to the both of us and said, “Shhh. Don’t use the ‘s’ word.”

Product and product placement is a big deal – especially in the big hair world. Whenever I’m yearning for the that instant volume, confident, just stepped out of a salon, rock a bob look, I set a hair appointment at this salon.Once there, I am surrounded by numerous hair ideas for next year’s Halloween costume(s) – it’s slightly intoxicating. Today was no exception, I was gifted with an onslaught of Kate Gosselin and Snooki gone bad (oxymoron, I know) creations. 

Snooki. S-Unit loves her. “I totally watch Jersey Shore. Do you?” “No,” I replied, “I’m not even sure if I have MTV.” “Oh my God, you’ve got to see if you do and, if you do, you’ve got to watch Jersey Shore Miami,” S-Unit excitedly told me and continued, “I started watching it and totally want to be Snooki’s friend.” “Really?” I asked, “Snooki’s friend? Why?” “Because she’s a hot mess, that’s why.”

A hot mess was the state of That’s Not Chinese when I finally arrived, with my oomph factor hair, at her house for dinner. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I almost called the ER,” she shouted at me as I approached the front door. It was like a flashback to the late 1900s, when I’d arrive home after hours of shenanigans with friends to find Pops waiting for me at the door in his save the world undies, asking these same questions. “We didn’t set a time,” I coyly replied, “Do you like my hair?”

A few minutes into my visit with That’s Not Chinese, I noticed her zipper was down and, as friends do, I advised her. “Right, I know,” she said with a hint of irritation. “Some of my friends forgot to tell me I got fat so now my zipper won’t stay up and I’ve got camel toe.”

As the evening progressed, so did the Snookiness (aka, hot mess). Recently, That’s Not Chinese started doing yoga with Jillian Michaels and, each time she would bend or stretch (usually to pour more wine or just grab her glass from the coffee table), she would say the ‘j’ word. “Jillian! You’re killing me.”

Eventually, I decided to take my big hair and go home, “Gotta get some rest,” I told her. “Plan to the ‘e’ word with Q tomorrow.” “The ‘e’ word?” she asked. “Exercise,” I answered. And with a hint of irritation, coupled with high hopes and positive thinking, That’s Not Chinese adjusted her zipper, threw down the ‘j’ word, and waved me goodbye.

Guess who’s back, back again….

Yes, unfortunately, Carl is making a comeback. Can’t blame him really. My lips are pretty luscious.

Luckily my friends like him, because he goes everywhere with me. This morning, we were at OregganO’s for coffee and interior design activities and she was asking me what I did last night. “Just stayed in and watched documentaries. Carl doesn’t really like to go out.” “Right,” she replied, “I can see why. Speaking of, have you heard from Rhoid?”

Sometimes I wish Warwick and Houston could just tag along behind me, with the PhotoShop and YouTube crews, so that they could provide background music at these opportune moments. ‘For good times and bad times, I’ll be on your side forever more, That’s what friends are for.’

Unfortunately, they can’t just tag along. Fortunately, OregganO has other lovely ‘friend’ music on hand. Such as, Wilson Phillips. They are good for camaraderie and drowning out just about anything. Which is very important for people like me and Skiwi.

After coffee, OregganO and I took Dirk out for a spin and grabbed some French Dip sandwiches. We brought them back to the house, paired them with curly fries and cheddar cheese, chatted for a bit, and then I made an announcement and request, “I’ll be right back. Could you please put on some Wilson Phillips?” “Does it have to be Wilson Phillips?” she asked, “How about I just do a few lines?”

By ‘do a few lines,’ OregganO did not mean sing or snort coke. She meant sew; sew a few lines on the rag quilt she is making. As a good friend does when they can’t find Wilson Phillips, OregganO turned on the TV, increased the volume, and did a few lines.

A few pounds and minutes later, I returned to the front room. “Sorry about that,” I told her, “Meat and I have an interesting relationship – I can’t seem to keep it in me for more than 30 minutes. Maybe QuQueen is right. Maybe I’m a lesbian.” “Too bad you can’t do that with everything,” OregganO replied, “You’d be one skinny bitch.” Warwick, Houston, cue the music, please. YouTube, is the boom ready? Photoshop, we’re going to need the healing brush – I don’t want Carl in this shot. That’s what friends are for…..

I used to wonder about baby mix-ups. It seems it could happen so easily (unless one does a home birth). The baby is born, taken to the nursery to be washed, the mother stays in the labor and delivery room for post-pregnancy business. Then, the mother is taken to her room and the nurse returns with a baby. Nowadays, to avoid ‘misconceptions,’ they typically slap a hospital band around the baby’s wrist before wrangling them out of the mother’s oriface, but back in the day, medical staff just hoped that good intentions were enough.

With all of this on my mind, and my library membership in good standing, I decided to checkout Mix-Up ou Méli-Mélo, a documentary about babies who were given to the wrong family. It was filmed in England, about English people, however the entire film crew/production company was French. Talk about a méli-mélo of film. The documentary topic, alone, made it interesting to watch. The staging and edits made it like a train wreck with magicians onsite.

After watching the documentary, my histrionic early childhood dream of being switched at birth quickly switched to my histrionic mid-childhood dream that my mom hooked up with the milkman or mail carrier – a theory proposed to me by many of my childhood friends who, like me, were sure I was genetically different from the rest of my family. When we were able to ruleout these possibilities they would tell me, “Maybe you were adopted.”  Maybe.

Regardless of my ‘roots,’ the  family with whom I grew up still let me go with them on vacations, sleep in their house, eat their food, and, most recently, take one of their vintage snowsuits.

Sometimes, as an adult, I’ll see people and wonder if we’re related. For example, I was watching Foul Play the other day and couldn’t help but think, “Goldie Hawn and I have a lot in common.” Later in the week, I was watching The Sarah Silverman Show and wondered if she is missing a twin sister. My last theory, however, is probably the closest to the truth. I was listening to music and ran across my Jackie Brown soundtrack, when it hit me. I might want to do some geneology, research it a little further. So, I’m off to the library to checkout Foxy: My Life in Three Acts, Pam Grier’s memoir. This could get pretty crazy, or as the French would say, this could be a major méli-mélo!

I am washable. This was a tag on a jacket I recently purchased and my current motto. As lovely as it is to spend every day in my rollerskate pajama bottoms and wife beater, I do fancy a nice hot shower. I also fancy a bath every now and again, and people who wash their hands before cooking and after using the toilet. 

I was discussing washability with some coworkers and one was particularly disturbed by the fact that a certain employee does not wash his hands after using the toilet. “I’m guessing he is figuring he is the only one touching his junk and his junk is clean, so what’s the point.” “Oh no,” said my coworker, “that couldn’t be further from the truth. It is not clean, there is a lot that goes on in there.” I’m still not quite sure what that means, but I’m intrigued.

After work, I stopped by the library (for the record, I didn’t wash my hands before doing so). I had a few holds to retrieve and, while doing so, I overheard another patron reviewing his ‘checked out’ list with a library employee. “Yes, see, it is right there,” the patron told the library employee. “Yes, I see it,” the library employee said while pointing to a section of the list, “you’ve got Syphilis.” “Right,” the patron confirmed, “and I’d like to renew it.” Who doesn’t want to renew syphilis?

Every now and again, I exercise. As I have told many people, many times, last year my New Year’s resolution was to go to the gym, and this year it is to actually go in or maybe just get out of the car – baby steps as opposed to stair steppers and elliptical machines.

So, when Sleepless invited me to join her for a Zumba class, I agreed. Then I started thinking. I wasn’t really in the mood to fight for Zumba space with all of the people in the first and last week of their New Year’s resolution and quickly changed my mind. “We could just stay here, be warm and drink wine,” I suggested. Luckily, Sleepless agreed.

As we were drinking our wine – mine from a bottle, hers from a box, both in glasses – we were recapping some of the events of 2o1o and years prior. I, of course, had one less year to think about, thanks to my baby book. There were a lot of things that we decided were so last year and the year before that and the year before that and so on. So, like so many others, we decided it might be a good idea to only bring with us into 2011 those things that serve us best, such as waiters and bartenders.

We noticed the need for ‘help’ when we found we were continually having to get up to refill our wine glasses and cheese balls bowl. Serving oneself is so last year.  Sleepless had gotten up one last time to refresh her glass with the boxed wine from , well, last year, and shouted to me from the kitchen, “My box is empty.” We both giggled and agreed, empty boxes are so last year.

What DDDG said at the first brunch of the New Year dress rehearsal was absolutely accurate, “Jak na Nový rok, tak po celý rok.” The second first brunch of the New Year was full of all kinds of goodness. As mentioned in the invitation, some of the guests (me included) arrived in their pajamas. If we had given prizes for the best pajamas, Sleepless would have won. She arrived in a lime green one-piece with footies, that was covered in ice cream cones.  As we all squoze in for a group photo at the table she asked me to check  the latest shot, “Did you get my feet in the picture? I don’t want people to see the picture and just think I’m wearing a really cute sweater.”

Surprisingly, That’s Not Chinese was one of the first to arrive and did not wear her pajamas – must be some kind of New Year’s resolution. She was, however, drinking mimosas the way she always has, sans orange juice. We were teasing her about her nomosa when she said, “Give me a break. I’ve been drinking, I mean, here since the nine o’clock hour.” It was as if she and Skiwi read from the same script before knocking on my door.

Within several hours, the mimosa bowl was empty, my friends bellies were full and BeCuz was on her to pick a few of us up for afternoon shopping. Once BeCuz arrived we began looking through my chicken nuggets. Dr. BJ was loving this, “Read them your autobiography!” I did, and between that and my baby book I learned a couple of things. At the young age of eight years old my two favorite movies were Omen I and II. “That explains a lot,” said BeCuz. And, best nugget of all, I was born one year later than all of my legal documents indicate, which has to be true, baby books and grade school autobiographies don’t lie. 

BeCuz was on a tight schedule (unlike me, she didn’t just gain a year), so we threw my nuggets back in the box, hopped in the car and headed to IKEA. Being that CounterCat, Sleepless and I were still in our pajamas, BeCuz recommended we keep our sunglasses on for the excursion. We thought this was a splendid idea and immediately embraced the anonymity the sunglasses provided. Sleepless and I did as we always do at IKEA, pretended we lived there and took pictures to prove it – BeCuz and CounterCat were quick to share our fantasy world with us. Unfortunately, BeCuz had to get back to reality, “I have a family waiting for me to take care of them.” I had no idea BeCuz was working as a nanny.