Category: blog

Providing presenter introductions is not easy for some and when we asked Calling The Dog to do so she panicked a bit. “I just hate doing it. I never know what to say. What do you do? How do you do it?” she asked the committee member in charge of plants and the Color Guard. “I just read their bio and then ask if there is anything that isn’t in their bio which they would like me to share. They usually say ‘no,’ I paraphrase from the bio, and then say, ‘Little known fun fact: They are also a child sex offender. They just haven’t been caught yet,'” was the wisdom he provided her.

 

“That’s perfect. Thank you,” she replied and headed off to introduce her presenter and share a little known fun fact.

Planning a conference can be a lot of work. Luckily, I get to do so with a team of people, all of whom have their own role to ensure all boxes are ticked and the event goes off without a hitch.

 

As we discussed the centerpieces, which are put together by inmates at our state prison, one of the committee members informed us of some sad news, “Captain Ivy won’t be delivering the plants this year.” We were pretty disappointed, primarily because his name was so fitting. We were, however, hopeful that Officer Aphid or Lieutenant Evergreen might be able to deliver instead.

 

Later in the evening, we realized the Color Guard had not yet been confirmed but were, per tradition, the first agenda item. The committee member in charge of the plants was also in charge of the Color Guard, so I gave him a call. Apparently, he sent an email three months ago requesting the service, however, never heard back from anyone. Based on how things were going for him, I suggested we change the agenda to read “Person of Color Guard.” This comment, and the fact that he never confirmed the Color Guard, did not, surprisingly catch him or anyone else off guard.

 

 

The other day, while it was raining outside, I did what a lot of people do (whether or not it is raining outside)  – I caught up on celebrity news. Always a fan of Drew Barrymore, I was excited to learn she had started her own cosmetic line and that all of the products are made in the U.S.A. – little Gertie has come a long way!

 

Once the rain let up, I hopped in the car and drove straight to Wal-Mart to purchase the highly recommended “Get to the Poinsettia.” I found the make-up section and immediately fell in love with the lipstick color she was wearing in the display photo. So, one lipliner and two lipsticks later, I was proudly supporting American-made products and one of my favorite Angels.

 

As soon as I got home I applied the lipliner and lipstick, exactly as instructed in the article. At a quick glance, the color appeared very bold and seemed it might bleed (as bold colors often do). By the time On My Terms picked me up, it seemed the lipstick had, indeed, begun to bleed a bit. “I think Drew Barrymore and I may end up in a fight,” I advised On My Terms. An hour or so later, On My Terms confirmed this for me, “Your lipstick color is staying on your lips…and spreading across your face. Looks like Drew is in trouble.” “I’ll defnitely be letting her know how I feel,” I replied, lipstick still smeared.

 

As much as I liked the color and the ’cause,’ I was a bit disappointed in my purchase. $21 dollars to look like I just ate a Carl’s Jr., unacceptable. A day or two later, On My Terms asked, “How’s the letter to Drew Barrymore coming along? Have you finished your online review?” “Not yet,” I replied and added, “She may consider it a ‘smear’ campaign.

 

I sat down to start writing and decided to do a quick online search for ‘Drew Barrymore.’ It turns out E! and Daily Mail were already smearing her name like it was a tube of her lipstick. The respective headlines read:

Drew Barrymore Transformed a Motel Chair into This Unflattering Oversized Outfit

Headed to a slumber party? Drew Barrymore wears a sleeping bag-like dress to GLAAD Awards

I thought it would be nice to have dinner with MiniMe, so I sent her a text to invite her. Prior to accepting the invitation, she asked, “With whom?” “With me,” I replied. “LOL, OK,” was her gracious response.

 

We went to an Indian restaurant and enjoyed coconut curry, bhindi aloo, pakaro, kulfi and chai tea. After the meal we hopped in the car, together, to drive home.

 

Most everyone knows ‘this just in’ is a phrase used to announce breaking news. ‘This just out’ is a phrase I coined after MiniMe broke wind in my car – something she tends to do on a regular basis, when the windows are rolled up. Kids today often refer to this as a ‘clutch oven.’ Even though my car is an automatic, the impact was the same.

 

“Did you just fart?” I asked her. “Yes, fine, I’ll roll the window down. You do it all the time,” she said. “Not true and not in the car,” I replied. “Oh, really? Should I ask my uncle about that?” she said in response. Approximately 20 years ago my sister, Contestant #56, started dating her now husband. In the early stages of their relationship they stopped by the house and, as I was reaching into an upper cabinet, I let one slip. Or, as her husband remembers, I let one rip.

 

That is the one and only time I farted in front of him yet, for some reason, MiniMe likes to use this act to justify her clutch ovens and any other time she breaks wind. “That was 20 years ago and I haven’t seen him for years so I highly doubt the Courts of Flatulence would consider him a credible witness,” I advised her. “Whatever. It’s your fault my farts smell so bad,” she always tells me. “How so?” “Genetics,” is her standing and, in my opinion, stinky, response. “I think what you eat and how your body processes it is a more likely cause,” I advised. “Still your fault. You picked the restaurant,” she quipped.

Bruiser loves an opportunity to get together with her friends so we scheduled a date and then decided on a theme. Being that she selected 4/20 as the date, we opted for a ‘4:20,’ tie-dye affair. For those who are unfamiliar with ‘4:20; 4/20 or 420’, it is a time of day (and now a date/annual event) dedicated to smoking pot. The closest I was getting to pot was a hot pot buffet at a local Chinese restaurant with a Portuguese name, but I love a reason (or no reason) to dress-up.

 

Live Longer didn’t own tie-dye so I suggested she wear something a skier or snowboarder would don. She surprised me with a Ke$ha/Kardashian look – also very 420. As we drove  to Bruiser’s house, On My Terms made an announcement, “I didn’t make brownies.” “Probably best,” I replied. “It’s hard to find recipes that call for green butter,” she informed us. She should probably check Pinterest next time.

 

We arrived at Bruiser’s to find an array of tie-dye shirts, tablecloths, napkins and plates – she clearly checked Pinterest. In addition, incense was burning. Everyone knows bakers burn incense to cover the smell of Mary Jane (I’m not talking about their girlfriend, well, maybe, sometimes). We all, except On My Terms – remember her name, donned tie-dye shirts, even if it meant borrowing one of Bruiser’s and let the munching begin. Unlike those who celebrate 420, on 4/20 and everyday, we don’t need weed to get the munchies.

 

Being the primary wine drinkers, Live Longer and I each brought a bottle of wine and each drank a bottle of wine. On My Terms opted not to drink any alcoholic beverages on this sacred day. As a result, she was tired by 11 or so. We quickly took some  ‘candid’ photos with Scared’s camera – that is what happens when Scared leaves early – one more reason to be Scared.

 

As On My Terms drove us home she was perplexed, “I can’t figure out why I’m so tired.” “It’s because you’re not drinking,” I advised and was not referring to alcohol. On My Terms likes to mix rum and Diet Coke – emphasis on the Diet Coke. She can ‘slam’ a two-liter or two in one evening and her ‘flask’ of rum will, inevitably, still have enough in it for next time. Mayor Bloomberg would not be impressed. Live Longer, however, was and sent me this text in the morning, “Oh boy do I have a headache….I need to start bringing 2L diet coke.” Who needs green butter when you have Diet Coke?

I have a coworker with whom I speak quite candidly. The other day he entered my office and said, “When you have a minute I need to tell you about a dream I had. I’ve been taking this stuff to help me sleep and, well,” he said while walking nervously around my office, then added, “it involves you and That’s Not Chinese.” “Let me guess. We had a threeway?” I responded. He shut the door and I immediately knew I was on to something.

 

“Not really a threeway. You and I were getting it on,” he started with his story. “That was a Debbie Gibson moment for you – only in your dreams,” I interrupted. “I know, I know. Anyway, That’s Not Chinese walked in on us and was pregnant and really upset. Apparently we were married,” he said. “You and I?” I asked. “No, me and That’s Not Chinese, but later I found out she was married to someone else,” he replied. “That’s a dick move – cheating on your pregnant wife – even if you later find out she is married to someone else. You probably owe her an apology. While you’re at it, apologize to me too. Dick,” I stated.

 

A few minutes later he returned to my office, looked around as if others were in there and might hear, and said, “I woke up feeling really bad for coming between the two of you. She was really mad at you.” “It was a dream and, clearly, in the dream you didn’t really ‘come’ between the two of us. That’s Not Chinese doesn’t get really mad at me. Confirmation, again, that it was just a dream. Regardless, you owe her an apology.”

 

I followed up our conversation with an email to him. The content was simple:

Flight of the Conchords elevator apology

 

My office participated in a fake earthquake the other day. The reason for doing so was to prepare us for the real thing. I think people should say that when they get caught faking orgasm.

 

My job, assigned by me, was to take photos of people properly staging under the desks when the alarm blared. I found several people who were oblivious and others who were obediently holding on under their desk. When the alarm advised us to exit the building, we did so like cattle with nowhere to go. “Do you want me to shove someone so  you can get a good picture?” my coworker asked. “That might be a good idea,” I replied. She went on, “When I was under my desk I found a piece of candy, in a wrapper, so I unwrapped it and ate it. Then I sent a text to my son saying, “I’m under my desk eating candy I found there.’ He probably thinks I’m crazy.” “There’s a good chance,” I replied.

 

Once in the parking lot I ran into our leadership team. “Did you drop, cover, and hold on?” I asked. “What to do you call me, an auditor and a division director under my desk?” one director asked me. “A HR complaint,” I replied, then snapped a picture of everyone shivering in the cold outside while the fake quake shook nothing.

 

Later that day I met up with a coworker at a different office and we shared stories from the exercise. “I realized I’ve got to lose weight.  I almost got stuck under my desk,” she said. “Glad you got out alive and unscathed,” I consoled her. “Alive, yes. Unscathed, no. I’m still fat.”

I’ve never really been a fan of book club. This isn’t because I don’t like to read, I do, I just like to do it in my own time and with books I choose.

 

The other day I received an invitation to participate in a newly formed club – with people I know and like – and as soon as I saw the date I assumed I had a conflict. When I realized I didn’t have a conflict, I tried to create one. After that, I didn’t pay too much attention to the email exchange.

 

A week or so later I was riding to dinner with Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and their sisters when Ice Cream Man said, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” “I love that line. Have you gotten to that part yet?” Sleepless asked me. “That’s in a movie, right?” “It’s in our book club book,” she replied, slightly shocked. “Did we decide on a book?” I asked. “Yes we decided on a book – Perks of Being a Wallflower,” said Ice Cream Man’s sister and added, “You better start reading it. Do you know how hard it was to find a book with 200 pages or less?” “Why did you use that parameter?” I questioned her. “Because you said you wouldn’t read or participate unless the book was 200 pages or less!” she replied. “That makes sense,” I said and immediately begin searching my local library app for the book.

 

I couldn’t find a hardcover or paperback, but I did find the audio CD, and it is within my audio CD limit – let the reading (to me) begin!

Approximately three years ago I was in a wine cave when I met my twin, Dimple Sister. Since that time, we’ve stayed in touch – reuniting in the same cave and wine country last year.

 

This year, she traveled to my neck of the woods and we met for drinks and dinner. She is in town for a convention and, as we walked to dinner she told me of her adventures the night prior. “I was walking to a restaurant and some Asians, tourists I’m assuming, approached me and asked, ‘Which way to the ricker store?'” “Were they looking for a record store?” I asked, always about thirty years behind the times. “No, not a record store. A ricker store,” she said and then clarified, “You know, liquor store.” “Oh, yes, ricker store,” I replied.

 

After we finished our meal we returned to her hotel and decided to have one more glass of wine before calling it a night. As we were drinking the wine the bartender began preparing for closing and turned up the lights. “I’m much more pretty in the dark,” Dimple Sister advised him. A few minutes later, he dimmed the lights again. “See, he saw me in the light and changed his mind,” she told me. Eventually, the rest of the patrons left the bar. “The beauties stayed,” Dimple Sister told him. We did stay, even when the lights were bright, because – to be honest – the ricker store was closed.

 

 

I’ve been dealing with some issues for a year or so and, after giving in to That’s Not Chinese’s nagging and following my doctors advice, I set an appointment for a colposcopy.

 

This is an outpatient procedure in which the doctor, typically a gynecologist, looks at one’s vagina. Being that That’s Not Chinese was both concerned and supportive, she accompanied me to the appointment. I introduced her to my doctor, my doctor reviewed the procedure with us, handed me some disclaimers to sign, and left the room.

 

I completed the paperwork and handed the clipboard to That’s Not Chinese while singing, “Can I get a witness?” “No, seriously, I need you to sign as a witness,” I told her and forced the clipboard into her hand. My doctor returned, That’s Not Chinese handed her the clipboard, and I said, “She signed as my witness.” “Can I get a witness?” my doctor replied in song. “That’s what we said!” That’s Not Chinese and I said in unison. “Can we make today’s appointment like the musical episode of Scrubs?” I asked. “I haven’t seen that,” my doctor replied. “Well, you should,” I replied and immediately regretted that I didn’t sing it.

 

My doctor then sat at the end of the exam table I was laying on, ass end exposed, and said, “I shouldn’t have worn a skirt today. It is really hard to straddle everything. Sorry if you see things.” “Seems like fair game at this point, but I can’t see anything from here,” I replied. “Once, when I was wearing a skirt, I had to tell a husband he would have to stand elsewhere,” she told me.

 

As soon as my doctor ‘got in there,’ she exclaimed, “Your cervix is so weird.” “Thank you. I don’t believe anyone has ever told me that,” I replied. “I’m going to do a biopsy at four,” she said to her assistant and then said to me, “That means you’ll have to sit like this until four.” Being that it was only half passed nine, That’s Not Chinese asked if she could leave and come back later.  “Real supportive,” my doctor quipped and said, “I mean four, like the position of the hands on the clock.”

 

After approximately eight times of trying to get a biopsy – she scraped, but the tissue samples ‘slipped’ every time – she decided to try a different tool. “I’ll have my assistant, Carol Merrill, retrieve that for me,” she told us. “I once knew a real life Carol Merrill,” That’s Not Chinese advised. Unfortunately, fake Carol Merrill, real name Carrie or Karen – my doctor really didn’t know, was unsure as to where the ‘good’ device was located, alas, my doctor de-straddled ‘everything’ to retrieve it. In doing so, she knocked over a bunch of equipment. This didn’t phase her for one minute. “I’ll get that,” fake Carol Merrill stated while cleaning up my doctor’s mess.

 

We eventually got, from the ‘good’ tool, a ‘good’ sample. “Depending on what the lab work shows, we may need to do a LEEP (Loop electrical excision procedure in which they essentially heat up a wire hanger, insert it in your vagina, and cut away ‘weird’ cervix tissue), but I’m not sure. Your cervix is so weird,” my doctor told me. “Well, now I can say I’ve heard that before,” I replied and asked, “If you have to do that, will I get a local anesthetic?” “Nah, administering an anesthetic is often far more painful than the procedure,” she said. It is so obvious that men invented these ‘cures.’

 

With that reassuring information in mind, and without ‘leep’ing to any conclusions, I left my appointment. “So, what did you think of my doctor?” I asked That’s Not Chinese. “That was probably the best gynecological appointment I’ve ever been to. I loved it when she told the story about having the husband move. She has no idea I like girls. So, awesome,” That’s Not Chinese said and added, “She is like the Nutty Professor.” That’s Not Chinese may be on to something. Hopefully, like the Nutty Professor, my doctor will be able to create a simple potion that will transform my weird cervix into something beautiful.