Category: blog

I ran into a coworker who was wearing a boot and, due to my recent personal interest in injuries, I asked her what happened.

 

“I haven’t really told anyone the truth,” she told me and I knew it was going to be juicy. “It got tangled in the sheets and someone rolled over it. My friend told me she was proud I was having sex at my age.”

 

“Wow. You have a way better story than me,” I replied. “Well, I’m kind of embarrassed,” she replied. “I’m kind of embarrassed that my story is so lame. Mind if I use your story?” I asked.

 

Let the record state, I was in bed, my shoulder got tangled in the sheets – possibly a Eurpoean closure pillowcase, and someone rolled over it.

 

 

With the weekend upon me and not much on my calendar I decided to take BeCuz with me to our local version of Le Tour de France. Not having attended the tour, in France or locally, I wasn’t sure what to wear so I did a quick online search. With the exception of a helmet (safety first for spectators and riders), I didn’t find any other must-wear items. I did, however, find some tips for watching in person, one of which was sport VIP.  I’m not much into sports, but I love sporting VIP.

 

We arrived at the race and leisurely walked toward what appeared to be the sponsor tents. “Ladies, you’re VIP, you enter by the Start and Finish Line,” one of the event staff kindly advised us after checking our badges and then directed us to a tent filled with food, drinks, bam bams, cowbells, couches and TVs.

 

I was ready to embrace this race and shadow it’s every move. As the racers lined up at the Start line, I lined up at the bar. As the person at the head of the bar line moved, the other patrons and I closed in tightly behind him – the reduction in drag was incredible. We were in pure peloton form!

 

With my wine, bam bam, camera and cowbell in hand, BeCuz and I stood at the sidelines – best tifosi ever! Like the other tifosi, we picked a ‘favorite.’ My favorite – and something that almost made me consider competing but the free drinks in the VIP tent were far more appealing – were the broom wagons. “I could do that,” I told BeCuz. “I want to do that,” she told me pointing to the camera guy riding bitch on a motorcycle.

 

Truth be told, if either of us ever raced it would most likely end up nothing like a peloton and exactly like one of my favorite Summer Saturday activities,  a yard sale – complete with bam bams, cowbells, helmets and bicycle parts scattered everywhere.

 

This is not a reminder to my creepy neighbors to move, although I’m happy to provide them one if they need it. This is about memory – something I have lacked as of late.

 

According to the European Society of Anaesthesiology, if you receive anesthesia in your ‘mature’ years you are 35% more likely to experience dementia. It’s a good thing I’m still in my immature years.

 

Unfortunately, however, a recent survey of local residents aged 60 and older indicates 18% of them experience memory loss and cognitive decline. When I saw the press release I quickly shot the author a question, “If I move before I’m 60 can I avoid this?” “What do you mean by move? Start an exercise program or move to another state?” she replied. Touché.

 
I have got to remember to move soon. If not, I just know I’ll wonder to myself one day, “What was that really important thing I was supposed to do?”

 

 

 

 

Lately, with the exception of my job and physical therapy, there aren’t too many ‘commitments’ that I remember. As a result, I end up double booking and pissing people off. Fortunately, this doesn’t bother me, just them.

 

This happened most recently when a coworker told me he had a wine I might like. Apparently, during this conversation, we made plans to drink it on my stoop.

 

As I was going about my day at work, he stopped by my office and said, “Don’t forget, wine at your house after work tonight.” A few minutes later FatGirl called me and reminded me we were going house hunting, also after work. Realizing I double booked I had to problem solve. I decided the three of us could go house hunting and then return to the stoop for wine. I shared this plan with my coworker and, “I don’t like to share wine with people I don’t know,” was his reply. What’s the point of drinking wine if you’re not willing to do so with strangers?

 

I arrived home too late to house hunt and found my coworker waiting on the stoop. We opened the wine, started drinking, and he started talking. We were only one glass in and he was telling me things that are generally reserved for the second bottle. “If we didn’t work together I would have sex with you.” Really? Do I have a say in this? “I would never go there now, because we’re working together, but if we weren’t.”

 

When FatGirl arrived I thought his presence might change the dynamics, but it didn’t. My coworker was telling FatGirl how much he liked my personality, I stood up to pour more wine, and he said, “I can see your underwear line.” “I’ve seen more than that,” FatGirl interjected and added, “I’ve seen way more than I’ve ever wanted to see.” It’s true, he had, and I blogged about it.

 

FatGirl eventually left and it was just me and my coworker, drinking wine. “We have a pact, right? If we’re not working together and neither of us is in a relationship we’re going to have sex,” he again told me. “I’m definitely not planning on quitting any time soon,” I replied. He stood up to pour more wine, then leaned down in toward me and said, “Let me try something.” I knew exactly what he was attempting to ‘try’ and there was no way in hell it was happening. “Uh, no,” I advised.

 

Clearly, there is a reason why I forget certain appointments and if I didn’t have a reason to keep my day job, I do now.

 

A while back one of my coworkers attended a harm reduction training for prostitutes. He returned with a wealth of information and incredible swag.

 

Although he attended the training many years ago, he regularly closes his conversations with me with the following salutation (tips he learned at the training, which I now extend to you):

 

Keep your shoes on, stay on top, and get the money first.

Like most people, Tree takes advantage of the warm summer weather. In addition, he also takes advantage of the pool at Ice Cream Man and Sleepless’ condo. Each day, while others – Ice Cream Man and Sleepless included – are wishing they were poolside, Tree is checking in at the pool. “The other day I was leaving the condo and there he was, sitting at the pool, waving hello to me,” Ice Cream Man told me the day we all had the luxury of living Tree’s carefree poolside life.

 

To enhance the afternoon, I brought a chilled magnum of chardonnay and some chips that I’ve been trying to get rid of for some time. Awkward, Tree and I started drinking and, an hour or so later, were joined by Ashterisk, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and FatGirl.

 

Being that it was incredibly hot I decided to hop in the pool and do some resistance training. FatGirl saw this activity and decided to join in. “Look at us!!! Look at us!!!!” he screamed to the others as we splashed around. “It’s Splashdance!”

 

Splashdance it was and Flashdance it soon became. As we jumped up and down in the water my bikini bottom came right off. I thought I had it fixed and then I attempted to hoist myself out of the pool. Down again. Then, just like with Lindsay Lohan and Brittney Spears, the cameras came out. What a feeling!

 

 

Recently, during a ‘spot’ inspection at a local nail salon, things got pretty heated, law enforcement got called, and the brawl made the news.

 

Sleepless and I were sharing this story with Ashterisk and she said, “That is so weird. Did they have names like the pilots from Asiana Airlines?” Sleepless giggled and I replied, “Yes, yes, they did. One was, ‘You Want Flower?'” “And ‘Pick Your Color,'” Ashterisk added. Like the pilots, there were four salon employees. I’m guessing the other two were,  “Water OK” and “Credit Card Broken, Cash Only.”

 

Sadly, all four of the staff were arrested and booked in jail (not to be confused with gel). An additional employee was cited, but not arrested. Her name was Shellac A License.

 

 

The fore (front) part of our heads is known as the forehead and for most, it is a four head – four fingers in size. There are a few people who have a fivehead and others who have a threehead or a twohead.

 

I was discussing this with a coworker who told me, “I have no head. Bangs get me head.” Once it came out of her month (indeed, another pun), we both raised our eyebrows and giggled like school girls – school girls who have been held back year after year and love detention. “I can’t wait to tell my son this,” she added as she walked away. Awkward, but expected from someone who has no head.

 

In addition to hosting elite alumni reunions, I’m in the business of hosting elite family reunions. Each year, when members of my family gather together, BeCuz and I have our own gathering. This year, we selected a posh tapas style Asian restaurant for our reunion.

 

When our food arrived BeCuz granted me permission to pick up the entree plate and push the food onto my salad plate. “We can just scoop it off with our forks or, better yet, we can use our chopsticks.” “Oh, no. I don’t use chopsticks. Only pretentious people use chopsticks,” she replied. “Really? I don’t think that’s true,” I said, opened my chopsticks and began using them.

 

I successfully finished my initial portion of pad see ew and decided to have a little more when I realized my chopsticks were upside down – so pretentious of me.

 

Confucius may say man with one chopstick go hungry but pretentious woman with two upside down go back for seconds.

 

If you’ve ever thought about joining a book club I highly recommend joining mine. We’ve met twice and currently have a third evening planned. Fortunately for me, and most likely because I’ve been dictating the selection, all of the books we read are books I’ve already read or movies that I’ve seen. On average, at least one out of three book clubbers have not read the book or seen the movie, which is fine because we really just get together to drink, dine, and dish.

 

Our most recent book, which I read at least five years ago, was Dixieland Sushi. While munching on our spring rolls (we try to pair our food with our books), and admiring On My Terms’ incredible rolling abilities – she zigged and zagged like nobody’s business – we discussed aging, wrinkles and Botox. While some didn’t mind a little facial botulism, others weren’t so keen. “Has anyone ever had Botox in their vagina?” one of the girls – I so wish I could remember who – asked. Not surprisingly, nobody had. “Why would someone shoot Botox into their vagina?” “It increases stimulation, makes the sex better,” was the response.

 

I’m not sure whether or not that is true, but if it is, why would anyone settle for botulism when, for a few extra dollars, they could get crotchulism? It does seem strange that Botox will paralyze your face but sensitize below the waist. That said, if it is true, crotchulism is definitely something I can wrap my head (and legs) around.