Category: blog

Yesterday, when I posed my midlife crisis question, I was scheduled to meet with That’s Not Chinese for dinner. Originally we planned to meet at her house. Due to Unfazed not feeling well, we changed the location to my house. “I know I’m your meat source, but I’m just going to grab a rotisserie chicken,” That’s Not Chinese advised. She says this because, although I’m not opposed to red meat, I don’t often eat it. She, on the other hand, would bathe in it if she could.

 

Being that she arrived at my house before I was home from work, she took her position on the stoop and, tempted by the delicious smells of the rotisserie chicken, opened the bag and started eating. She phoned me to advise me of the situation, “You aren’t here so I have no other choice than to eat this by hand. Your neighbors probably think I’m nuts. If I had a wine opener I would open this bottle of wine and start drinking.” “I doubt they think you’re nuts; I’m sure they know it to be a fact. Corkscrew, it’s called a corkscrew. You should go knock on doors and see if any of my neighbors have one you can borrow,” I replied. “Oh, look who has come to visit, it’s Nora,” That’s Not Chinese, omnivore and lover of cats and shiny objects, stated.

 

By the time I got home Nora had retreated to her on stoop and That’s Not Chinese was extending her hand to me – not to shake my hand or welcome me home, rather, to alert me of her midlife crisis. “Look at this! We have got to take care of this,” she said, all the while shaking her right hand in my direction. “What is it?” I asked. “Fur. It’s fur. I had been petting Nora with my left hand and eating chicken out of the bag with my right when I thought I would be kind and share some chicken with her. I put a piece in my right hand thinking she would eat it, which she did, but she then rubbed her body all over my hand. Now it’s greasy and furry and I can’t eat any more chicken until it’s clean. I’ve been sitting like this for at least five minutes. It’s horrible. We’ve got to get in the house and clean this off quick!”

 

Fortunately, we were able to remedy this situation with a little soap and water and all was good until a few hours later when That’s Not Chinese was cleaning up and accidentally flicked a large piece of chicken into my (full) wine glass. It was at this point that she almost peed her pants; if it weren’t for Kegels we would have had another midlife crisis on our hands and, more importantly, in her pants. Unfortunately, my midlife crisis could not be diverted. Although wine and chicken are generally a good pairing, they don’t make for a good sangria. Alas, I had to throw out the red wine in my glass. Doing so kind of made me want to replace it with a red convertible – luckily, I exercised self control and, instead, just poured myself another glass. Midlife righteous.

A lot of people experience what many refer to as a midlife crisis. For a majority, this occurs in their early forties or after a divorce – and are often the reason for a divorce. As I’ve heard stories about others in this mode and have witnessed several people I know doing things that could be deemed midlife (for some, based on their age, they won’t live long enough to benefit from the senior discount at TJ Maxx – so sad), I’ve wondered if, perhaps, I should give having a midlife crisis a go.

 

With this in mind, I conducted a modern-day study by making my thought my facebook status, “Thinking about having a mid-life crisis. Any suggestions?‘ The suggestions came in full force – many with a common theme: boy toy” Other suggestions were right on track with things I’ve heard or witnessed: sleeve tattoo, nude beach, red convertible, boob job, drink a lot of wine, motorcycle with leathers, and, my favorite, “Hide your porn in the heat vent, drink vodka out of a gas can, buy a stupid sports car and cheat on your wife.” That suggestion came from my cousin and those were all things her ex did, in his forties, just prior to their divorce. Textbook midlife.

 

I’ve not yet decided a course of action, nor do I know how old I’ll be when I die, which makes planning a mid-life crisis rather difficult. In the meantime, I plan to pull out my 49cc Twist n’ Go scooter – complete with leather tassels on the handle bars, don my eightball helmet, throw a bottle of wine in the seat, and cruise somewhere at a cool 26 mph while sporting a tank top that accentuates my 100% natural boobs – those on the front of my body and on my back.

 

Today I went to lunch with a few coworkers – one of whom recently had the “What do you like to put in your mouth?” discussion with me.

 

As we talked about meal options, she made a few comments that seemed to go hand in hand, or foot in mouth, with my suggested question. “When I get bored mouth I put pretty much anything in it,” was her first comment. She went on, “I’ll put anything in my mouth once, usually twice.” “Thank you for letting us know, in very general and clearly very unbiased terms, what you like to put in your mouth,” I said.

 

“You’re welcome,” she said taking a bite of her Reuben. I’m hoping she did that because she was hungry and not bored. Being that she immediately took a second bite, I have a feeling (and hope) it was hunger.

If I could retire tomorrow, I would. Unfortunately, I cannot, so I don’t. Live Longer feels the same way about this and, as we discussed the costs of retiring one day, she came up with a plan.

 

“We should just commit a really horrible crime and get locked up for life. Then we don’t have to worry about money, insurance, taking care of a house – anything, really,” Live Longer suggested. “If we do that we need to commit different crimes – completely unrelated – so they’ll put us in the same prison. Unless, of course, you’d like new friends,” I added.

 

On My Terms is currently trying to figure out a way to never work again or live on less than $1000/month (although she’d prefer not to work), so Live Longer offered a helping hand, “You should get in on our retirement plan.” After hearing the plan On My Terms asked, “Have you girls seen Orange is the New Black?” “Yes, we’ve done our research,” Live Longer replied. “I’ve also seen Chicago and Oz,” I informed On My Terms.

 

Although these productions clearly don’t mirror doing actual time, as an optimist I hope that, at a minimum (or maximum – sentence, that is) there will be singing or karaoke. If not, well, that’s a real crime.

A few days ago I started to get the feeling that I might be receiving a visitor. Not Aunt Flo (not possible) or Boo T. Call (also not happening right now); rather, Carl. It’s been a while since Carl has made an appearance on my face, but once he started knocking on my pores I knew my face as I once knew it would soon be changing. By Friday, this was confirmed. Carl was of epic proportions and I had a feeling he was going to be with me for a while. “Hopefully he’ll stay at least six months so I can claim him as a dependent,” I told Sleepless. She didn’t respond at the time, but later, when we were taking a walk at dusk and the sun was hitting Carl just so, she said, “Your zit is awesome.” “Thank you,” I replied.

 

Luckily, I wasn’t the only one with a new dependent in the mix. Ice Cream Man had taken Little Sleep to an animal adoption event earlier in the day and, no surprise to most, came home with a six-week old Boxer Mastiff. Like Carl, this little girl was going to get much bigger over time. “She is spayed and licensed,” Ice Cream Man proudly told us. “I’d like to neuter Carl,” I replied.

 

As we walked around town both Carl and the puppy were noticed by others. The puppy was receiving all kinds of positive attention – petting, photos, compliments; Carl, not so much. I’m not surprised. I’d much rather pet a puppy than a zit.

Live Longer loves drag queens. She follows them via several social media platforms and watches all of their TV shows. Also a lover of drag queens is Tree. So when it was announced that RuPaul’s Drag Race Battle of the Seasons (affectionately known as #bots) was coming to town we knew exactly where would be that night – tickets in hand, anxiously awaiting their arrival.

 

What we didn’t know for sure is what we would wear to the show. We contemplated dressing in drag – something Live Longer, Beaner and I did when we saw Sharon Needles in New York; however, opted against doing so. Probably best. I get the vibe that dressing in drag at a drag show is probably like a guest wearing a white dress at a wedding – catfight worthy.

 

Once in the venue we purchased a round of beverages and then made our way around, checking out the people – especially the queens, the set and souvenirs. I decided the DayGlo tank top featuring Pandora Boxx was something I must have. Tree agreed, “Pride Day, girl!”  Sold. I tried to convince him to purchase one, however, he didn’t want to spend the money. A few seconds later he had ripped the case off of his iPhone, thrown it in the trash with a sassy, “Bye, Bitch!”, and was replacing it with a Michelle Visage case. “This. This is how you know I’m gay!” he cheerfully told us. With his new case and his beverage consumption (wine, two shots of tequila, beer) he was both gay and rocking the socialite glo, aka, GayGlo.

The beauty of book(ed) club is it pulls women together from all around the city/county, or at least within a zero to 60 mile radius.

 

With all of us in one room it can get a little loud at times and it is not uncommon for multiple conversations to take place at the same time; as was the case at the most recent book(ed) club. Ashterisk was chatting with Beaner, BioMom and I when, all of sudden, she switched gears and started speaking with two other clubbers, “I totally know this guy you’re talking about.” Two of the other club members were describing a guy who one of them met online. As they shared details with each other, Ashterisk overheard and provided a few more details about him. “How do you know this guy?” they asked. “He’s my insurance agent and we might have gone out once or twice, but we’re just really good friends now. I would never go out with him seriously,” she stated.

 

As the stories about this chap continued Ashterisk offered to reach out to him by text in an attempt to catch him in a few white lies. Prior to sending the text, Ashterisk shared a bit more information, “I may have made out with him. Just a little.”  “Anything else we need to know?” I asked. “Is that how you pay your premium?” Beaner quipped. Ashterisk giggled, which caused us all to wonder if, perhaps, she was still working with him on her ‘out of pocket’ maximum.

 

 

I actually read this month’s book for book club – this is not a regularly occurrence for me. The fact that every chapter was essentially unrelated to the previous probably helped make this happen – I’m a sucker for disconnected beauty.

 

Unfortunately, what I didn’t read, was the invitation. The theme was Pajama Jam and, being that I came straight from work  and hadn’t paid attention, I only fulfilled the ‘jam’ part of the theme. Others, however, showed respect to our host (they probably learned to do so thanks to the ‘etiquette’ chapter in the book)  in their cozy PJs. I offered to change into what I often wear to bed – nothing – but then put everyone’s fears to rest by letting them know I also regularly sleep in my clothes so, in a sense, I was perfectly in theme.

 

Ashterisk was in her pajamas, but her mind was in the gutter and she appeared to have left her balance at home. Within twenty minutes of book club she had spilled her wine twice. Luckily, it was white. Also lucky was that, instead of landing on the ground, the wine landed on the salami. “I like a little wine with my salami,” Ashterisk told us. Right.

 

Later in the evening, after Ashterisk had been lounging in the chair for some time, she stood up and I noticed something on her seat. “What is that?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Ashterisk replied, then picked it up. “Smell it,” Beaner advised. Ashterisk promptly followed Beaner’s advice, said, “It’s cheese,” made a gesture to imply it came of out her who-ha, and nearly knocked over Beaner’s wine. “Easy,” I said. “Don’t call me names,” she replied, grabbed some marinated salami, put it in her mouth and, wine in hand, returned to her cheese-free chair.

 

Based on the amount of trouble we get into and the little amount of reading we do, we should probably change the name of our club to Booked.

Due to the demographics of my coworkers, I don’t often know if, and very rarely assume, they drink – coffee or alcohol. As a general rule, most do not. As a result, they are like my mother when it comes to consumption by others. In their minds, one drink (of alcohol) equates to complete intoxication. One drink of either – regardless of intoxication – means eternal damnation. Hopefully I’ll be into S&M by the time I die because I am definitely going to be punished.

 

I was chatting with coworkers about this – not S&M and my eternal damnation, rather, about whether or not people ‘drink’ – and we were trying to figure out a way to determine this without asking. After much discussion, we decided the best way to find out is to actually ask and I proposed this question, “What do you like to put in your mouth?” Damnation.

 

A few days after crafting the best question ever, one of my coworkers came into my office and, somehow, we started discussing dickeys. “I’m a dickey don’t,” she informed me. “That’s a shame, everyone should be a dickey do,” I replied. “Dickey don’t,” she firmly stated. “Dickey do. We did Dickeyoke. It was great,” I informed her.

 

Between finding out whether or not others drink or dickey, I’ve got my hands full.

 

 

 

Sleepless and Ice Cream Man invited my niece and I to stay the night at their ranch and, never one to turn down an opportunity to get away, I respectfully and eagerly accepted their offer. When I told my niece about this opportunity – especially the bit about all of the animals at the ranch – she, too, was quite eager.

 

By the time we arrived at the ranch, actually, before we even left my driveway, my niece was fast asleep. Excitement can be so exhausting. She continued to sleep until the next morning at approximately 5:30 AM. I was in my bunk bed and she was in hers when I heard, “Pssst. I think it’s time to wake up.” Beaner had warned me this might happen. I convinced her it was still nighttime and that, even if we didn’t sleep, we should try to rest for a little while longer.  Less than two hours later we were up and at ’em.

 

Sleepless and Ice Cream Man also woke up early; a direct result of my niece yelling for me when I went outside to let some of the dogs in. No need to own a rooster on the ranch, just get a kid.

 

Once we were all up, we decided to walk around the ranch and check out all of the animals. The baby goat, Lucky, was quite attentive to us and very intrigued by anything we had that was edible; which, with goats, is everything. She would nibble on our shoes, sweaters, gloves, the works. After escaping her hunger we decided to pack up the car and head to Rated R’s for brunch.

 

We were all safely strapped in the car and ready to go when we found Lucky blocking the road. As we approached her, instead of moving, she moved toward the car. Being that she was little, we couldn’t really see her, but knew she was in front of the vehicle, so we were stuck. A few seconds later, we found her – she was trying to climb on the hood of my car and then slipped. She did that again and again until we finally honked, at which point she tried to climb the side of the car. With Rated R waiting on us, we really didn’t have time to kid around so we took our chances and drove forward. Fortunately, Lucky opted to save her life and moved to the side.