Category: blog

Even though we had been rudely, abruptly, and inappropriately cut off while in Seaside, we decided to attempt pubcrawling again, this time in Portland.

 

Our host was “already three wines in,” so we decided to take a cab to Mississippi; Ave, that is.

 

We stopped into one bar, had a drink, then ventured over to a bar down the road. We bought the first round and the second round was purchased for us by a ‘regular.’

 

Further rounds were offered – nobody ever discussed cutting us off – and we eventually decided to call a cab and return home.

 

We provided the driver our address, he appeared to enter it into his GPS, and, in addition, our host – now at least seven drinks in – provided detailed instruction, “Turn left here; take a right; just a few more blocks; this is it – we’re here.”

 

 

Except, we weren’t. “This isn’t your house,” I told her. “You’re right. La de da de dum, la de da de dum. What’s the name of that song? La de da de dum la de da de dum, something something birds…” was her pleasant response. I it was then I realized I needed to step in and did my best to help the driver enter her house address in his GPS. Unfortunately, the language barrier – he didn’t speak English, slur or la de da – prevented us from communicating effectively.

 

Miraculously, we eventually made it home.  Not surprisingly, we still don’t know the name of that song or how we finally got there.

While visiting friends in Portland I ended up spending a bit of time babysitting.

 

The kids were cute – three years old and almost one. Being that they were so young and it was the first time we met I didn’t expect they would remember me.

 

Day two of hanging out I became ‘the lady.’ “Mama, where is the lady?” “Mama, when is the lady coming back?”

 

By day three, when we were all hanging out again, I was in the baby’s room rocking him to sleep when I heard the three-year-old ask MiniMe, “Where did your friend go?”

 

“Hey, lady friend, somebody is looking for you,” her mom shouted out, laughed for some time, and then said, “Lady friend, that’s great.”

I recently had the opportunity to experience what it is like to sleep with me.

 

I was babysitting an adorable eleven-month-old baby and, as it neared 8:30 PM, I changed his diaper, made a bottle and fed him while rocking him.

 

As I did so I admired his ability to drink while sleeping. If I did that I would get both cut off and kicked out of a bar.

 

Once he finished the bottle he started to coo a little so I rocked him and sang to him. He would appear to be falling asleep but then he would open his eyes, smile and babble something completely incoherent. Then, he would move around a bit – tossing and turning – in an attempt to find a comfortable position, kicking off the blanket and his socks.

 

Between the eyes wide open, smiling, cooing, wiggling and hot flashing, he would take power naps. Some naps were a minute, other more powerful naps were ten minutes.

 

When I felt he was tired/asleep enough to put him in the crib I would gently lay him down and quickly discover that he, like me, wakes right up when moving from one sleeping spot to the next.

 

After more than an hour of rocking and singing, I  decided to put him in his crib and let him fall asleep on his own. He cried a little, but not much in my opinion (pretty sure MiniMe and I’ve Noticed agreed). His parents soon came home, couldn’t bear to hear him cry, and immediately pulled him out of bed. This is where me and an eleven-month-old differ – nobody (especially my parents) pulls me out of bed when I can’t sleep and, lacking both estrogen and emotion, I don’t cry. Instead, I just get up, find a snack, and watch TV.

We decided to spend St. Patrick’s Day in Seaside, doing as the locals do – nothing special. Our day started with a quick walk on the beach; the walk would have been longer but it was freezing cold and it started to pour.

 

We then went into town for breakfast, hit up the arcade, and returned to the rented beach house where we decided we would go back into town for dinner and libations.

 

After dinner, and before we started pub crawling, we ended our time at the restaurant with an Irish Coffee and a shuttle/taxi service recommendation.

 

We we arrived at the first bar, grabbed a table, ordered a round of drinks, and sadly learned they weren’t doing karaoke this evening and neither were any of the other (there were two other) bars.

 

They were, however, hosting a dance party, featuring “classic, unheard of, and soft rock.”

 

Our first round of drinks arrived and we quickly discovered this was not a top, or middle, shelf establishment – their well drinks were going to make us quite unwell. The second round we ordered, in hopes of avoiding or covering up bad liquor, were shots. It was around this time that the music selection started improving so we decided to take over the dance floor – an easy feat since nobody else was dancing.

 

After a few songs we sat down and ordered a round of martinis. The server brought us our drinks and our bill. “What time is it?” “Did you announce last call?” We asked. “I’m cutting you off,” he replied. “Why?” We asked. “Oregon law,” he flatly replied. “But we aren’t driving or even walking home – we have a shuttle service lined up,” I informed him. “Doesn’t matter. Oregon law says if someone appears intoxicated we can’t serve them.” “Did that law just go into effect? I was here a few weeks ago and it definitely wasn’t enforced then,” I said. “Have a good night,” was his only reply.

 

ln true Irish tradition we did not let this get to us and, instead, walked to the nearest bar and finished off St. Party’s Day in style – with a shot that would guarantee we would be still be green in the mornin’.

Sunday is a day that many people worship their Gods – for me that means a lot of time in front of a mirror or camera. Being that not everyone worships like me, I figured I would write about church; primarily because I just heard a great story.

 

Both of my friend’s parents are deaf and they go to a church where all of the members are deaf. A few years ago she took her boyfriend with him to their church and this was his experience:

 

“It was awesome! A deaf man plays the organ – it is totally off and incredibly loud so some of the members can hear the pitch. Everyone sings – regardless of the level of their hearing impairment – that’s pretty incredible.” “They sing ‘Engrish’,” my friend interjected.

 

Her boyfriend continued with his story, “The other amazing thing that happens at this church is the excessive amount of farting, burping and other bodily functions that make noise – they can’t hear it so they do it constantly and without shame.”

 

Although I’m not a believer, I believe I could enjoy at least one meeting at this church.

A few of my coworkers are a little older than me and, as a result, get senior discounts on their meals and other items. “I’ve had it. It makes me feel so old,” one told me. “Seriously? Can I take a look at your ID? If it looks at all like me I’d like to borrow it every now and again for a good senior discount,” I replied. She found no humor in my statement. Nor did I; I was serious, I wanted to borrow her ID.

 

She went on to talk about Botox and I informed her I didn’t have any, then scrunched up my brow for emphasis. This action reminded me of the other day at Zumba when I went to the bathroom, totally sweaty, and, while washing my hands, I noticed a small section of my hair had settled horizontally into one of the wrinkles across my forehead. It was at this moment that I seriously considered Botox.

 

That said, I’m only going to do it if I can borrow my coworker’s ID and get the senior discount.

Yesterday a couple of really important things happened.

 

1) Sleepless was told someone important was coming to her office so she washed her hair (very professional thing to do) and donned pearls.

 

2) Live Longer was busy buying shoes online, lost track of time and then had to rush to work with her hair dirty and unbrushed (so unprofessional).

 

Surprisingly, when I saw them later in the day, I recognized both of them – professional hair or not.

I recently attended an event where several of my former coworkers were present. One of the coworkers decided to say hello to others sitting near me and, being polite, I said hello to her. “Oh, I didn’t even recognize you because your hair looks professional.”

 

Luckily I get my teeth cleaned on a regular basis, which allows me to smile like there’s no tomorrow while thinking about all kinds of comebacks that I’ll never make, such as, “I didn’t recognize you because your hair looks washed,” or “So nice retirement allows you time to shower,” or, even better, “You disgust me.”

 

Wanting to keep my work clean and her hair dirty, I just smiled and walked the other way.

Thank you to Sleepless, Rated R and Standard Time for being like new batteries in my vibrator. I have had an off couple of weeks lately which has resulted in very blog entries. Fortunately, spending time with them tonight was better than receiving a Durex tin with 48 assorted condoms and three free vibrating rings. As a result, I am back on my game, for today.

 

As we caught up, Standard Time shared two primary concerns – the first being she doesn’t like her blog name.  “Just change your name,” Rated R advised, “I’ve changed my name several times on the blog.’ “I don’t mind changing your name, but you’ve got to give me something to work with,” I told her. At the time she didn’t have any ideas, so she instead opted to share her second concern with us.

 

“I left my vibrator out the other day. I was in a hurry and didn’t totally put it in the drawer because it was still plugged in,” she told us. “Wait, your vibrator has a plug?” I asked. “Yes, and my kids ended up needing to stop by my house to get something – I know they  saw it,” she said. “I’ve had one with a plug,” Rated R said. “Me too,” Sleepless piped in. “Seriously? I’ve only ever had batteries,” I told them and added, “I once threw a vibrator away because I didn’t want anyone to find it when I died.” “Just put it in a box, that’s where all of my stuff is,” Standard Time told me  – which isn’t entirely true since the electric vibrator is sticking out of a drawer somewhere  – then asked about changing her blog name. “So, I can change it?” she asked. “No problem, Electric Vibe,” I replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The other day, after doing Zumba and then going out to eat, I noticed my stomach didn’t feel too hot. I didn’t really understand why because I’ve been eating quite healthy lately – loads of vegetables, dairy/calcium fortified foods and liquor to stave off any bacteria.

 

I didn’t really let the stomach problems get to me because I had a full calendar and, like Carly Simon, I didn’t really have time for the pain.

 

The pain subsided two days later, at which point I was again at Zumba and ready to do back-to-back classes. I shared my pain with Sleepless and wondered, aloud, what might have caused it. “Exercise? Maybe you actually used muscles you haven’t used in a while,” Sleepless kindly advised. “Maybe,” I said, realizing I never even considered muscle gain as a cause for pain. I realize some say ‘No pain, no gain,’ but I’ll be honest, when I gained that little bit of extra weight it was pretty painless. Thus, I think the saying should go, “No pain, some gain.”