Category: blog

It’s been a while since Add-ly and I have hung out so when we met up this weekend we decided to make up for lost time. We started with a drink at her house, then went to a patio bar for drinks and fries, then we went to another patio bar for pizza and drinks, and, to end the evening, we went to a bar I haven’t been to since the time I received a ‘dating card’ from a customer at my part-time job.

 

Several years ago I was working my part-time job when a customer came in, made a payment, and asked me out. I respectfully declined and he boldly handed me his ‘dating card.’ The card is similar to a business card in size, however, instead of a simple signature line, this card is laminated, double sided and features what he considers his ‘services.’

 

The front of the card features his name across the top, italicized, in all caps. For the purpose of this entry, and having zero interest in providing him an avenue to promote himself, I’ll refer to him as “THE DOUCHE.” Immediately following his name were his ‘services.’ Gun-Runner: Revolutions & Insurrections; Bootlegger & Protector of Virtue (& Vice); Massage for the Ladies (only); Enforcement of Gentlemanly Conduct. Below these items are a toll-free number and a direct line. The toll-free number is a novelty number ending in “OOH DOUCHE.”

 

Flip the card over and it just gets better….or worse. The header reads “You may know a douche or 2 or 3…but now you’ve met “The Douche.” A definition follows. [the] (the before a vowel; the before a consonant) 1. a. Used before a name to denote that particular, specified person: (“The Douche”) b. Used to emphasize one of a group as the most outstanding or prominent: (“The Douche” is considered to be The Man.) c. Used to indicate uniqueness (The Pope or “The Douche”). Below the definition, additional services were detailed.

 

Following Services are available for Certain Ladies:

Dinner, Drinks, Laughs, & All-Around Good Time

Stress relieving massage  –  “Equalizer” Service

Have truck, will haul anything & Emergency road service

Passion & Love Defined (Go ‘head, ask me!)

 

I shared this story and card with Add-ly who asked, “Did you ever call him?” “Hell no,” I said and, being that we were a few drinks in, we decided to give him a call. Add-ly blocked her number, put the phone on speaker and anxiously awaited a response. The man on the other end said hello, she said hello, and then she got nervous. It became very clear the toll-free number still belonged to The Douche when we heard him attempt to use a phone sex voice and say, “Talk to me.”

 

We didn’t talk to him, rather, we hung up on him. We don’t need The Douche to enjoy dinner, drinks, laughs & all-around good time. We also don’t need a truck to haul things. I’ve got Dirk. If you need things hauled, talk to me….

Each year Tree invites me to participate in the AIDS walk. Each year, I have to work and cannot do so. Being a sugar self with copays is a lot of work, literally.

 

Fortunately, this year, I didn’t have to work. The night before the walk Tree sent me a text, “Let’s dress up for the walk….Richard Simmons realness.” I was more than ready for this theme. Actual Richard Simmons autographed tank top, check. Short gym shorts, check. Tube socks, check. Sweatband for head and wrist, check. Napoleon Dynamite wig, check. Bulky white sneaks, check. Tree had all of the same minus the ND wig – his wig was more 70s porn and worked out perfectly. Awkward had just cut his hair in a very slick style, so opted against a wig but donned all of the other necessary items.

 

As we approached the event Tree made an observation, “We’re entering through the talent section.” I also made an observation, “Based on our theme and our behavior I believe our hashtag for the day and, perhaps forever, should be #channelingourinnerdick.” They agreed, we took a few selfies instead of taking pictures of the ‘actual talent,’ made our grand entrance and then quickly took a seat so we could mix our Bailey’s into the free coffee. A few minutes later, a girl approached me and asked, “Is that your real hair?” “No, it’s a wig,” I replied. “It looks real from across the way,” she said. “Really? Good. No, my hair isn’t that curly. Not the hair on top of my head, anyway,” I informed her and she took that cue to leave. Inner dick, channeled.

 

We were soon joined by Sleepless, Ashterisk and company who were also donning proper attire. The walk started and we assumed our position, in the rear. Seemed appropriate considering the event. “New hashtag: #bringinguptherear,” Sleepless advised.

 

After the walk we decided to grab brunch. “I can’t believe I’m going into a restaurant dressed like this,” Awkward said as we approached the restaurant. “I can’t believe we don’t do this more often,” I replied. Once seated, a guest at  a nearby table asked, “What did you guys do today?” “Family photos,” I replied. Soon after that, Tree took off his wig, “Oh, this is so hot and itchy. Can I just leave it on the center of the table?” I didn’t mind the new centerpiece, but Awkward found it awkward so Tree put it on his lap and we ordered our food in accordance with our theme – eggs been a dick and juevos.

 

Once Tree was done eating, always dramatic for his lover, he rested his face in his hands and said, in a sultry voice, “I’m so tired.” Awkward immediately grabbed his phone to take a picture. “Give me a break. You are such a dick. You’re only doing that so he’ll take  your picture and add your favorite hashtags, #youareadorable  #shamelesslypromotingmyboyfriend.” Tree, busted, giggled and began to focus on his wig. “You should put it in your shorts so the hair sticks out of both sides,” I advised. He did; we took several photos; some men at a nearby table chimed in, “That’s great;” and then we decided to leave. Sadly, the hair from the wig was not visible outside of the shorts when he stood up and instead just appeared to give him front butt. Thus, he immediately pulled it out of his pants, an action that compliments another of our hashtags, #stayclassy.
All in all, it was a great day to increase awareness….of us.

For the last five months I have been seeing a guy a couple of times a week. We get along quite well and have spent enough time together that we often go without talking for some time when we’re together. Most of the time, however, we chat quite a bit.

 

The last time I saw him he pointed something out to me, “Protruding scapula.” “What?” I asked. “You’ve got a protruding scapula. It’s not too bad though. At least you don’t have winged scapulas. A lot of swimmers get those,” he said. “This is exactly why I quit swimming before getting good enough for the Olympics,” I advised him.

 

After about an hour of me showing him I was capable of quite a bit, despite my protruding scapula, we decided to end things. “I don’t think you really need to come here anymore. I mean, you can if you want, but you’re doing really well,” he informed me. “Are you saying I’m too good for you?” I asked. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” he said.

 

With that, I thanked him for the last five months, told his assistant I would not be needing to keep my next physical therapy appointment, and I walked out the door, anxious to update my dating profile to include ‘protruding scapula.’

Sometimes I wonder why I work. Then, I attend a meeting or two and am quickly reminded why: blog material.

 

While Sleepless and I attended a very important meeting one of the members provided a subcommittee report. “I met with my subcommittee everyday last month; It’s just me, I’m the only member. I have a lot of good ideas.” Later, the chair asked other members if they would like to join the subcommittee. “I’d like to join, but I can’t meet that often,” someone replied.

 

In another meeting someone mentioned they wouldn’t be distributing the large foam thumbs created for their campaign. “Is that because of Miley Cyrus?” I asked. “Yes,” they replied. Fortunately, I convinced them otherwise.

 

Then, while some teenagers who haven’t had the best lives were presenting their successes and recommendations to a panel of lawmakers one of the lawmakers said, “I’m surprised. You look so normal.”

 

While this was happening someone was in a courtroom somewhere discussing a man’s penis. “We’re willing to stipulate to the fact that he is uncircumcised because we have no way of knowing.” “Sure we do. We can all go in chambers right now,” suggested the judge. At this point nobody cared about briefs. What was important, however, was jurisdicktion. Last thing anybody in this courtroom wanted was a hung jury. Or did they want a hung jury? What a second, everybody’s attention please. Looks like somebody is about to give an oral argument.

 

Bored meeting? No way, not today anyway.

 

 

My neighbor’s cat thinks she is the government and regularly claims eminent domain of my home. Typically, she only takes over the front porch. Occasionally, however, she manages to make her way inside. I don’t usually realize she is inside until I see her darting from one room to the next at which point the chase begins and I ask the question, ‘How did you get in and how long have you been in my house?’

 

“You know she has peed in there,” Tree told me. “No,” I replied, adamantly denying such a claim. At the same time, I knew this could be a real possibility. “I haven’t found any poo,” I told him. “Cats bury it,” he advised.

 

At home, I’d walk into the basement, lay on the couch, or just be standing in the kitchen and think to myself, “Do I smell something?” I would then search the area and come to the realization that my middle name was not Columbo.

 

Today, however, was different. I woke up, got ready for work and then decided that, since I was already running late, I should make my bed. Being that my ‘bed’ has been the couch for the last few nights, I folded the blanket and began to pull off the couch cushions so I could ‘fluff’ them. As I removed the second cushion I saw something brown on the frame. “Holy shit, Tree was right!” I exclaimed, took a picture to provide him proof/validation, then grabbed a paper towel to clean it up.

 

I slowly and carefully picked up the poo with the paper towel then took it into the kitchen for inspection. As the saying goes, the proof is in the poo-ding. This was not a piece of poo, rather, a brown and black crumpled up pony tail holder. Like I said, my middle name is not Columbo.

Attempting to be responsible, with our rum in our Slurpees and whiskey in our breast milk bags, we decided to take public transportation to the fair. The ride there was amazing, for many reasons. The two primary reasons being we gave people multiple photo opps and Live Longer got a really good selfie with PDA in the background.

 

The way home, though good, was not as amazing. This was primarily because there was no way home on public transit. None. We were able to purchase tickets, but we weren’t able to use them. Unbeknownst to us, but detailed online and at the stop, the train stopped running several hours before we were ready to return home. As a result, we found ourselves in a position that at least three of us had been in nearly one year prior – stranded on the west side with no ride.

 

Being that we were all wearing boots, and they were made for walking, we did as we did last year and showed the west siders that we had ‘sole.’ Fortunately, no less than one block from the train stop, a cab pulled over. I’m not sure how he knew we needed a ride (perhaps it was our gait). More importantly, unlike last year when at least one of us was in deer hunter orange, I’m not sure how he saw us – the majority of us were in camouflage. Thankfully, he allowed all seven of us in the cab and we were with ride and east side (sort of) in no time.

There are times when I wish Rodgers and Hammerstein could provide some music for our fair shenanigans – wouldn’t that be kinda fun? I do believe the state fair provides for a fine night of a lot of things, singing being one of them.

 

We have had some musical masterpieces at the fair, specifically those involving Wilson Phillips and VH1. So glad we held on for that. This year, however, the only thing we hoped for was the sound of motors revving as the drivers prepared to ram their car into the other cars in the dirt arena. This sound is music to our ears.

 

We did our part for the event by dressing in derby appropriate attire – camouflage, never nude shorts, muscle shirts, flags, eagles, boots and fanny packs. I bedazzled my fanny pack just prior to the fair and, sadly, busted the bedazzler before finishing my work. As a result, instead of ‘DERBY,’ it read ‘DER.’ This seemed appropriate, so, I wrapped it around my camouflage body suit, donned my Jesus Inside ball cap, grabbed my bus pass, some Slurpees, a ketchup bottle filled with coconut rum, and met up with the gang. Luckily, they had breast milk bags full of whiskey, so I only had to share my hooch with a few of my friends.

 

We entered the derby fashionably late. Truly, we looked really good and we were quite late. The drivers did a couple of heats and then called it a night. How was this possible? How can one call it a night when the sun is still up and they’re not in Alaska? We paid extra to get in the fair just so we could attend this annual event. I don’t know about everyone else, but I paid a total of at least $13.69 for my outfit. Combine that with my ticket price, beers and fried food and my total is more than I make hourly. Totally (state) unfair.

Upon arriving in Nevada we headed straight to the seafood buffet. Although I’m not a huge fan of buffets, I am a fan of crab legs. The fact that they are pre-sliced to make meat removal easier helps me see passed the sneeze guards and hungry for more.

 

Our cute little lesbian friend ditched her friends and joined us while we dined on plate after plate and bowl after bowl of crab legs and melted butter. I could have stayed for hours. Unfortunately, the buffet was only open for another hour or so and we had tickets to a concert. Another unfortunate was the fact that none of us really knew the time. Crossing state lines and times zones can be so confusing.

 

The confusion and crustacean consumption resulted in us being nearly an hour late for the concert. As we walked our full bellies into the concert hall we quickly learned our tickets were more than just gratis, they were VIP. We proudly took our seats and then took a look at the crowd. Just like on the bus we were the minority. “We’re surrounded by white hairs,” Respectable Professional said to me at or around the same time that Sleepless said, “Look behind us. Seniors.”

 

There were a lot of seniors at this concert, a lot. In addition, there were a lot of visibly full bellies. The reason for both, I believe, is simple: the mariscos. The blame is always on the mariscos.

If there is a word or an entire language that I don’t know, I love to try and speak it – not just with my mouth, I throw my arms into the mix as well.

 

Such is the case with friggatriskaidekaphobia which, according to Wikipedia, is another way of saying Friday the 13th. If you can’t pull the trigga on frigga, try saying paraskevidekatriaphobia. Neither are easy to say, thus,  if you’re not armlingual like myself, I suggest you just stick to what you can handle. Unless, of course, you have a fear of that too.

 

I’m not a superstitious person, so when this day arrives I conduct my business as usual – full of spontaneity with lots of time to relax and a regular amount of unbalance. The Chinese would most likely be in support of my reaction because they believe the number 13 to be lucky. To fear this number, well, as That’s Not Chinese might say, “That’s not Chinese.”

 

Westerners (not the movies, the people) are to blame for this unfortunate situation. This ‘situation’ often results in no 13th floor or row in certain hotels, buildings, theaters or airplanes. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, actually, I love it, but 13 still exists in those situations, it is just disguised as 14. Westerners can be so foolish, it’s no wonder we have phobias. Yet, we have no problem comforting ourselves and attempting to calm our fears with a baker’s dozen of donuts. If you’ve ordered the baker’s dozen you know exactly what I’m talking about you devil dancer you. You purposely ordered the devil’s dozen hoping to get not 12, but 13 donuts. A phenomenon known, by me, as lucky unlucky luck. Fun fact: every now and again the baker’s dozen is 14, not 13, donuts. Again, 13 disguised as 14. Clever? Lucky? Unlucky? Maybe. Science would probably break it down to two causes: 1) Kindness 2) Public education. Public education + one dozen donuts = 13. Bad luck, no?

 

Turns out Westerners aren’t the only people with silly fears related to days of the week and numbers. Many Spanish-speaking countries and the Greeks consider Tuesday, especially Tuesday the 13th, an unlucky day. Shouldn’t Monday be the day we fear? We already dread it, why can’t we just fear it? That might provide a supported reason to not report to work after a long weekend. “Sorry boss, I won’t be coming in today. I’ve got monedaeivergophobia.” Like most reasons given when one calls in sick to work, I made this up. It’s a combination of the Old English version of Monday and the phrase ergophobia (fear of work). I added a ‘v’ to the mix, not for good luck or good measure, rather, because it makes it easier to say and, I believe, makes it look more official.

 

Beware, however, because if  you call in sick on Monday you’ll still have Tuesday looming. The Greeks fear Tuesday, with or without the 13th attached to it. Triti, that’s Tuesday to you non armlingual folks, is the third day of the week and is considered bad luck because it is believed that bad things come in threes. I would agree with the latter. Adding a third party to the bedroom never ends well and, like monedaeivergophobia, there isn’t a topical cream that can cure the trouble it may bring.