Category: blog

Seasoned travelers regularly rely on multiple travel sites to find low-cost accommodations and review feedback from others. In my travels, specifically those up or down the street to see my neighbors, I have often wished there was a site that would allow me to provide reviews of them. Sadly, TripAdvisor is not keen on registering people’s homes as a travel destination – they may want to take a minute to look up the word ‘travel.’ According to several online dictionaries, it means ‘to go from one place to another.’ Thus, walking to my neighbors house is, by definition, a form of travel. This will all be in my review.

 

Another important word related to travel is ‘trip’ – a journey, voyage or excursion. Like so many English words, it also has other, non-related, meanings – stumble, to catch one’s foot and fall, to caper with quick light steps, mistake, blunder, hallucinatory experience. With these definitions I will briefly explain how I ended up with a greater tuberosity fracture.

 

While on a trip I was tripping down the street when I tripped – it was totally trippy.

 

Knowing what I now know about the rough city streets, I’d like to start my own travel site and plan to call it ‘Trip, Advise Her.’ The site will be cautionary by nature, warning potential travelings of potential tripping hazards they may encounter on any travel they may make. If someone had advised me of the dangers of Rush and Hour, I could have avoided a major trip while on my trip. Trip, Advise Her (or him).

 

 

I’m on my third week back in the office and I’m learning several things 1) many coworkers didn’t know I was out for two months 2) those who did know I was out didn’t know why 3) rumors were flying and 4) my covered parking spot was a hot commodity.

“I didn’t even know what happened to you. Obviously, I knew you weren’t at the office, but I didn’t know why until you told me. I mean, I heard the rumors,” one coworker told me. “Rumors?” I asked. “What rumors?” “Just dumb stuff,” she said with hesitation. “Dumb stuff like what?” I asked again. “Something about drunk driving,” she replied. “Are you serious?” I asked. “That’s just what I overheard one day,” she replied. “What were the other rumors?” I asked. She changed the subject.

This morning, while getting ready for work, I missed a call from a coworker. She left a message asking if the rumor she heard was true and, if so, could she please park in my shady parking stall.” I, sober and not driving, sent her a text advising her I was not, in fact, in New York City and would be parking in my spot shortly.

I’m not sure why or how why these rumors got started, but I’m with Hugh Jackman on this one, “I have a wife and a son and the gay rumors have started. I guess it’s a sign that I’m moving up the ladder.”

The other day I made (the money to purchase) a delicious German potato salad for a barbecue. It was a hit, so I decided to make/buy it again. I went to the store immediately after work and, while waiting to pay, saw a former coworker. “Wow. I hardly recognized you. You look so conservative,” she said and added, “You know what I mean. Usually your hair is wild (this bit included hand gestures that implied more big than wild) and so many different colors. You’re wearing a nice dress. I mean, you always did, but, truly, I didn’t recognize you. I heard you hurt your shoulder. I guess that’s why you can’t do your hair that way anymore.”

 

A few hours later, wearing the same outfit, I met Standard Time for drinks. As I approached the table she said, “Look at you! Do you always get dressed up for work? I mean, you know what I mean. You look really pretty.”

 

I can actually do my hair. I couldn’t for a while – especially the first few weeks after I fractured my shoulder. I wouldn’t, however, use the word ‘conservative’ to describe my current appearance; nor would I use ‘dressed up.’ In fact, based on these two very different yet similar comments today, I’m not sure what I’ve got going on. I am sure, however, that a change is due. As soon as my cord zipper pull arrives in the mail I’ll unzip this dress, send it to good will, buy some Clairol Loving Care and wash the conservative right out of my hair.

To show my gratitude to Sleepless and Ice Cream Man for all of their kindness I offered to take them to dinner. Specifically, to sushi.

 

As Ice Cream Man reviewed the menu he excitedly said to me, “I think I’ll eat you.” At this particular sushi restaurant there is a roll that bears my name. #114 (aka, me roll) consists of shrimp tempura, cream cheese, cilantro and jalapeno, topped with k/crab salad, tempura crunch, and spicy mayo sauce. Sounds exactly like me – hot, creamy, occasionally fake and very spicy.

 

Sleepless decided she wanted to taste me so Ice Cream Man passed her a roll. “Wow, spicy. How do you keep eating it!” she asked. ” I love it. I know it’s spicy, but it’s so good,” he replied. “I get that all of the time,” I informed both of them.

 

I opted against trying me – like tickling, I figured it’s never as good as when someone else does it.

Although Ice Cream Man left some of the roll unfinished, I didn’t blame him – I’m a lot for one man to handle. Luckily, my fortune was positive: The current year will bring you much happiness. Not too shabby. Looks like I’m ‘on a roll!’

It’s been a while since just Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and I have hung out so when we had the opportunity to do so we took full advantage of our time by pouring a drink and watching Dodgeball.

 

As we watched the movie we laughed a lot. “Have you not seen this movie?” Ice Cream Man asked. “Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s just been a while,” I informed him. “Can she not laugh if she has seen it before?” Sleepless asked. “No, it’s fine,” he told us.

 

I’m glad it’s fine. If it wasn’t, there are a lot of things I’ve done once and, upon doing a second, third or trillionth time, I’d like to have the same experience (assuming it was positive) as the first time. I understand that isn’t always possible, and that’s why we have the restaurant scene in When Harry Met Sally. I’ve seen that movie several times and I laugh every time at that scene. If watching that scene with me, one would never know if my laugh is real or fake or if it was my first or second time watching.

 

Quite frankly, it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re enjoying whatever is happening, it shouldn’t matter if you laugh, make a lot of noise or lay listlessly. It also doesn’t matter if it is your first or second time. Although, I must admit, the second time around I am almost always surprised by something I missed or wowed again by something great. As Captain & Tenille so wisely sang, on more than one occasion, ‘Do that to me one more time.’

FatGirl is known for many things but language skills is not one of them. Well, actually, in a roundabout way, language skills is one of them.

 

A sweet, little (short) Hispanic boy from a small town North of the ‘big city,’ FatGirl’s first language is English. His second language is Valley Girl, however, many who don’t know him might think his first language is Valley and second is English. He loves to draw out words while pronouncing many of them incorrectly and, on most occasions, making many of the letters (primary ‘t’) silent. Examples include silen(t), moun(t)ain, impor(t)ant and exac(t)ly.

 

In addition to having his own dialect, he also has a tendency to swear a lot. Swearing has never been an issue for me – I don’t mind hearing it and I don’t have any difficulty enhancing my vocabulary with ‘profanity.’ I do, however, understand some people have issue with it and try to be respectful. Emphasis on try.

 

FatGirl, on the other hand, just lets it roll. “Sorry, I swear a lot,” he told Awkward’s young daughter and a few seconds later was at it again. “My apologies,” I told Awkward’s daughter. “He is in a Tourette Test Group and, clearly, is receiving the placebo.” FatGirl giggled, looked at me and said, “Fuck you! Even if it is true. Shit!”

MiniMe is moving to a very small town in Alaska where many of the luxuries of modern city living, such as cars and shaved ice shacks, are not common. Although some people have cars, many walk or use ATVs or snowmobiles. As far as shaved ice shacks go, however, the whole area is essentially an ice shack – pre-shaved.

 

Knowing that not having a car, thus, not being able to just take off and drive around town, was a big deal for MiniMe, I decided we should take an improptu road trip. So, at 3 PM on Independence Day, we each packed a small bag and began our 300+ mile car ride to Sun Valley, Idaho to watch the fireworks. We arrived just before 8 PM with enough time to tool around town for a bit and grab a quick bite to eat. A few minutes after 10, just seconds after laying a blanket down on the ground, the fireworks show began.

 

Ten minutes later, it was over. It’s been a long time since I’ve driven over three hundred miles for ten minutes of ‘fireworks.’

 

The next morning, as we drove home, we stopped at a gas station to refuel and pee. When I got to the restroom I quickly realized we weren’t the only travelers with this idea. As I waited in line the woman in front of me looked back at me and said, “This is why I wear diapers. I’m 85 years old. You from these parts?” I replied, “Diapers would be very helpful right now. No, I’m not from here. You?” “I’m from Denver and I’m moving to Seattle to live with my son. I’m wearing white pants so using my diaper might not be good,” she replied. “Good point,” I agreed.

 

300+ miles for 10 minutes of fireworks, 85 years of wisdom, and one unused adult diaper – maybe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was invited to go to Magic Mike night with a friend and as we arrived at the strip club, which typically only features female dancers, two girls in short shorts and high heels walked out of the club. “Looks like the laide are taking a break,” I said. “Oh, those are my friends,” she informed me and I realized this night was going to be more than magical.

 

Besides the two girls who I mistook for employees, there were about five other females surrounding the stage where the male dancers performed. Each had their own themes going – some did a better job with others. When it came to the pole, however, none of them did too great of job. While the female dancers gracefully handled the pole the male dancers appeared to get stuck as they would attempt to slide down.

 

One of the dancers, probably our favorite, donned a cornrow wig for one of his songs. As he was dancing several of the cornrows covered his face so he opted to play a little peek-a-boo as he pushed the cornrows to the side of his face. A few seconds later he took off his pants to reveal a penis pouch with googly eyes. Nothing says sexy like googly eyes undies.

 

When he was done dancing he came over to chat with us and we asked him about his life. “So tell us the truth. Are you an attorney who started stripping to get your way through college, graduated, got a job in an amazing law firm, and then quit your job to pursue your highly profitable Magic Mike gig?” “Close. I was married to a stripper and then she left me so I decided, probably to make her jealous, that I would strip.” “OK. Second question. What’s the deal with your Googly eye penis patch?” I asked. “It’s supposed to be a walrus but my kids pulled some of the parts off,” he told us. “Do you go out with the strippers?” my friend asked. “No, not anymore,” he told her. “Let me guess,” I said and added, “Now you just give them the googly eye?” “Exactly,” he replied.

During my first physical therapy appointment they asked if I needed to return to anything right away. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You know, like are you training for a triathlon? Do you need to return to work soon?” My answer to both was ‘no.’

 

As time has passed and my abilities have returned I have started telling them about various competitions and events that are awaiting me.

 

“I signed up for a breakdancing competition in August,” I informed my therapist. “Are you serious?” “No, I’m just kidding. I am, however, registered for the Rock, Paper, Scissor Championship this month,” I replied. “That you can probably do,” he informed me. “You’ve never seen this version,” I quipped.

 

Other competitions I have been advised against participating in include Archery, Body Building, Krumping, Arm Wrestling, Boxing and Amateur Night at the local strip club. “I guess my only remaining option is kayaking, ” I suggested to my therapist. “No, not that either. I would recommend you not be an athlete and instead be an athletic supporter,” he advised. Pulling a Principal McGee is a surefire why to get me to comply. One competition I could do is the Robot. My left arm is rocking the stiffness and, if I throw in some of my signature Hobot moves with my right arm, it will take my competition ability up a notch.  Now on stage: RoHo.

Hours before departing to New York City we learned a few people in our party would not be joining us. As a result, Sleepless and I ended up staying in a different hotel but still packing and donning (with the complimentary animal print robes) our dickies.

 

In many ways, it was a relief to not stay at the Yale Club – full of collars, old men and rules. In fact, as we returned Standard Time there after one of our evenings out she informed us, “This place is so stuffy.” It was, in fact, quite stuffy. After buzzing the doorman for entry (midnight curfew was clearly violated) it was apparent he was not pleased. No shoes (she ditched them in Times Square), no collared shirt, Standard Time was lucky she got service.

 

Not wanting to let the stuffiness get in the way of a good time, we continued on with our adventures in the city. A little less like Carrie and the girls in Sex in the City and a little more like Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever on a date with Hannah Horvath and the Girls. After making a ‘reserved’ room our dance floor in Manhattan, we grabbed a kabab and hopped on the Brooklyn bound subway (Standard Time was still shoe free and this concerned several helpful hipsters) for more late night adventures.

 

Along our way, I was asked if I had ever been told that I look like Bethenny Frankel. “No,” was my response and then, not knowing who she was, I did some quick research. As I browsed through pictures of Bethenny I failed to see the resemblance until I saw the picture of her in a bikini – it appears we may have a similar mole.

 

I shared this story with barefoot Standard Time and she told me, “Bethenny Frankel. No! We’re not the Real Housewives of NYC. We’re the Unreal Housewives of NYC.” She may be on to something and if we hadn’t opted to take a cab home that night there is a good chance we might have been the next cast of Jersey Shore.