Category: blog

As of late I spend a lot of my time at Zumba – Sleepless, Live Longer, Beaner and Ice Cream Man are almost always by my side.

 

The more we go to class, the better we get (we think) and the more we prefer one instructor/style over another. This last Saturday we took it up a notch and participated in a class that involved toning sticks. Fifteen minutes into the class Live Longer began asking me the time. To her dismay, 45 minutes later, the class nearly ended. In true Better Off Dead math class fashion, the instructor noticed the time and informed us we only had time for one more song. “Ohhhhhhhhh,” cried out several of the disappointed students  while Live Longer grinned from ear to ear.

 

We survived the full hour and, a true die hard, Sleepless opted to stick around for another class. Live Longer and I decided to go to breakfast. While some may be better off dead and others may be better off fit, we are way better off fed.

 

The other day I stopped by Calling The Dog’s house for a little wine and grub. Being that she recently had rotator cuff surgery, and I was in charge of dessert, I picked up a box of Citracal chocolate chews at the nearby drug store on the way to her house.

 

We were discussing rehab and, as I shared my favorite physical therapy moves with her, I extended my arms so she could see how different they look; specifically, the fact that I can’t naturally turn my left arm inside out without using my right hand to move the top part of my arm. “You see that? It turns on a dime,” I told her. “Wow,” she replied with both her eyes and her mouth.

 

I then extended my left arm, again, so she could hear it pop. “I heard it,” she said. “No, that wasn’t it. That was my wrist and it was just a little snap, not a pop,” I advised, continuing to extend my arm until it popped. “That’s it.”

 

Before we knew it was time for me to head out, sans dessert. No worries, I’ve got plenty of chocolate calcium chews at my house.

Just prior to going to New York I started saying, “Holy Bananas!” I’m not really sure why started saying it, it isn’t like I’ve been reading a lot of Batman comics lately, and I definitely don’t feel like I need to censor my comments. Nonetheless, I was saying it. I shared this tidbit with Live Longer and added, “I thought it might catch on, but nobody else is saying it.” “What?” she asked. Case in point.

 

A few days after returning from New York I was teaching a class of seven Japanese students at a local university (which is a whole other story).  Once the class ended I was scheduled to meet a reporter for an interview. As I hustled from the classroom to the university library I encountered a young male student. He was quite friendly and, after exchanging niceties about the weather, he put his hand in has pocket, pulled out a banana and asked, “Would you like my banana?” “Wow, you really have a banana in your pocket,” I replied. “Somebody gave it to me and I don’t want it. Do you want it?” he asked again. “You would really like me to have your banana?” I requested clarification. “Yes,” he said. I graciously obliged and immediately observed this individual both had a banana in his pocket and was very happy to see me. I thanked him for the banana and he happily went on his way.

 

I approached the reporter and announced, “I just got a banana from a perfect stranger. Would you like it?” “No. I don’t take random fruit from random people,” he said. “What? Holy bananas, that’s crazy!” I replied.

 

 

I have a few friends (cue the faded text that reads, ‘That’s Not Chinese’) who regularly bail on planned activities. Typically, the bailing takes place only hours before we are scheduled to get together.

 

The last time this happened, she swore to me she would be available the next time we met. In fact, we planned our get together, which we coined ‘Dinner with Dicks,’ around her availability.

 

Hours before we were all scheduled to convene That’s Not Chinese sent us an email telling us to enjoy our time together because, due to flu symptoms,  she would not be joining us.

 

I understand people get sick, I also understand people are busy. What I don’t understand is how she doesn’t understand how difficult it is to have ‘Dinner with Dicks’ when she isn’t there. Guess we’ll just have to call it Dinner without Dicks tonight.

 

 

 

 

Airplane food, even when in first class or purchased, is not the greatest. Knowing this, Live Longer and I decided to purchase some cheese, crackers, popcorn and chocolate for our flight home. We stopped at Bedford Cheese Shop in Brooklyn and carefully selected these items. “We need a cheese that pairs well with airline wine. Red wine, not white,” I advised. The cheese expert found a cheese he felt would best compliment the wine and we excitedly made our way to the airport.

 

We stopped in the Sky Club for a couple of glasses of wine prior to boarding the plane, however, opted against any hummus, celery,  oils, snack mix or white chocolate covered pretzels because we didn’t want to taint our pallet with bulk food delights.

 

We confirmed our seats and, although we had not been upgraded to first class, we were pleased to see we were seated next to each other in economy comfort.

 

After a few glasses of wine, we made our way to the plane that had been boarding for some time. As we approached our row I noticed a woman was in my seat. I approached her and kindly informed her it appeared she was in my seat. “No, I’m not. This is my seat,” she told me, loudly and adamantly. “Let me double check my ticket,” I informed her. “If they screwed this up again. They always screw this up,” she said. maintaining her same tone. Live Longer and I stood aside while I verified that which I already knew – this bitch was in my seat. She was traveling with her husband and wanted to sit next to him, but I could clearly tell he was ready to disassociate from her in any setting. Plus, we purposely selected seats next to each other and we had our food bag ready to share.

 

The flight attendants immediately got involved and confirmed she was, in fact, in my seat. She begrudgingly packed up her stuff, gave her husband a look, he packed up his stuff too, and they temporarily moved to the galley. “This is his fault,” she said, directing her anger to her husband. “Sorry, it’s just that we also want to sit next to each other and we bought cheese to share,” Live Longer told her. She looked at our Bedford Cheese Shop bag and smugly said, “It isn’t Saks.”

 

It wasn’t Saks, but we couldn’t wait to crack open our coach class cheese; not because we were hungry, rather, because we knew the smell would permeate the cabin and the passenger in the place of least resistance was the woman formerly in 20E – now moved to 20B. We’re pretty sure the B stood for bitch.

When in New York, we like do to as the Romans do – begin our meals around 11 AM (when the alcohol can be served), continue to partake in small meals throughout the day and, of course, drink lots of wine.

 

This most recent visit brought us great concern because just before flying out we learned about a law that states bottomless booze brunches are illegal. Apparently. this law has been around for some time. Fortunately, most restaurants have not been following it. Being that we were hungry long before serving alcohol – bottomless or not – was legal, we decided against waiting until 11 AM to get our jentaculum (that’s Roman for breakfast) on.

 

We found a lovely restaurant, enjoyed a light jentaculum, and then began walking around the city. Approximately 30 minutes into our walk we stumbled upon a restaurant advertising a bottomless booze brunch. Being that it was just after 11 AM, we decided to enjoy prandium – that’s Roman for lunch; in ‘our’ language, it’s drunch. The sparkling wine and Bloody Marys were flowing from 11-3 and we took full advantage.

 

Several hours after beginning drunch, we finished our meals and decided to get out and about in the city again because, like the Romans, we had cena (dinner) to prepare for in less than two hours.

Live Longer is Asian. I share this information because we often have discussions about ethnicity and she regularly states, “I don’t see color.” She typically follows this up with, “Actually I don’t see anything.” These statements are both true – her vision is quite poor.

 

In addition to her vision being poor, her memory is a bit on the brinks and she is starting to do things I haven’t witnessed since grade school. Examples include putting her eyeglasses in her purse then looking for them – in her purse, on the plane, etc. – for hours. This is something several of my school teachers would do on a regular basis.

 

Most recently, she lost her cell phone. We had just arrived at the Sky Club, she had taken off her coat, and her phone was missing. She searched everywhere for the phone, all to no avail. I decided to help her search, picked up the coat, felt the pockets, and then decided to put it on and, once on, try the pockets again. As I attempted to put it on I found the phone – in the sleeve of her pocket. “I guess I just got tired and decided to leave it there,” she told me.  “Right,” I replied.

When I was a kid the neighbor kids and I would get together and pretend to go to ‘work.’ Yes, while other girls our age were playing house we were working –  at Penthouse and Playboy.

 

This all started some time after we found a Playboy magazine and realized the body is a beautiful thing, thus, grabbed the plastic pocket toy camera, with a ‘flash’ that rotated with each push of the button, and we posed.

 

Contrary to the popular belief of some, none of this behavior resulted in any of us actually posing for adult entertainment magazines as adults or thinking that fake cameras actually take pictures.

 

Years later, while at Zumba with Live Longer, Sleepless and Beaner, I noticed a major dust bunny near Live Longer’s shoe. “Did that come out of your pants?” I asked and gestured toward her cooch. “Don’t judge, it’s been a while,” she replied.

 

Indeed it has been a while. Gone our the days when thought we were Playboy bunnies, present  are the days that we collect ‘dust.’

While others regularly spend their time looking for Mr.  or Ms. Right, I spend my time looking for a good couch.

 

I don’t really need a couch, in fact, I’ve got several already. Nonetheless, I continue to look.

 

While looking the other night with Live Longer, I ran into an old friend of mine. She informed she had recently (last year) ended a five year relationship and was, again, looking for Mr. Right. She told us one of her furniture customers asked her out and that she had been seeing him for a while.

 

We talked about how difficult it is to find a good couch, I mean man, and how dating changes as one gets older. “Last night I went on a date with someone who wore white velcro tennis shoes,” she told us. “Ugh,” Live Longer replied. “So you’ve met someone else?” I asked. “What do you mean?” she said. “I thought you were dating a customer,” I replied. “That’s him. The guy with the white velcro shoes,” she informed us and added, “I settled. Dating isn’t easy. I had to have a drink or two before the date and pouring wine while driving isn’t easy either.”

 

Dating isn’t easy and neither is selecting a couch. I left the furniture store with lots of options, but no couch. Luckily, like my friend, I still had my wine.

FatGirl loves to criticize my dance moves so I decided to invite him to join me at Zumba. He eagerly agreed and sent me this message, “I will be honest I am fearful that everyone is going to hate me there. When everyone sees what a great dancer I am they are going to be sooo mad! I’m just going to have to dance my way into their hearts!!!!!” I knew immediately that this was going to be a great class.

 

About twenty minutes before class started FatGirl called, “I’m totally nervous.” “You’ll be fine,” I replied – I was wrong.

 

While Live Longer, Sleepless and I shook our groove things to the beat of the music, FatGirl squealed and complained from the back row, “Owwwww, you’re killing me.”

 

His lack of rhythm and balance remained consistent throughout the class. As it came to an end, however, his balance actually got worse. While we were all doing a form of tree pose, FatGirl wobbled about.

 

“I stand,” he started to say. “You were actually really struggling with standing,” I interrupted. “Shut up! As I was saying, I stand corrected – white girls can dance,” he said, then put his hand near my hair and asked, “What’s that in your hair?” With that he pulled my hair and said, “Oh, it’s my hand!”

 

Being that, unlike him, I’m balanced, I chose not to respond.