Category: blog

Everybody remembers ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?‘ – the whacky, improv comedy show that originated in the United Kingdom. The question is, who remembers the whacky and always improvisational, never aired, but possibly recorded, and most likely found on youtube, sensation, ‘Whose Wine Is It Anyway?” Probably nobody because they had way too much wine to remember much of anything and I just thought of the title one evening while out with MyFace and her friends. As the evening of imbibing progressed, one of her friends kept drinking from her glass. “Why do you keep drinking my wine?” MyFace asked her.

Fair question, however, being that it was poured from the same bottle, it caused me to wonder, “Whose Wine Is It Anyway?” Her friend kept drinking from her glass and we decided to play a game we often play when drinking. In this game, we taste the wine and then try to guess the descriptors detailed on the bottle or box, we’re equal opportunity imbibers.

“I sense a hint of oak and maybe a little bit of pepper,” one of her friends said after tasting the wine. “Flamboyant,” another interjected. “With a hint of fruit,” said another. We checked the bottle and the only description found was a government warning: “According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.” “Funny, I didn’t taste that at all,” I told the group.

These descriptions get even better when drinking some of the finer wines, like Riunite and Franzia. “This is nice. Sweet. The ice is a great touch. Truly, the perfect blend for a day full of picnics and beach runs.” “Mine is crisp, with a hint of cardboard.” “Cardboard? Really? Mine is mild, not too acidic, with a hint of plastic pouch.”

Regardless of the flavor, the device from which it was poured, or the glass from which we drink, we imbibe because, at the end of the day, the question is not as important as the answer. Whose wine is it anyway? If it is in my hand, it is mine. Besides, everyone knows, a glass of wine in the hand is better than two in the bush.

Tree has an opportunity before him – he can continue in his current career choice or pick a different path. “Have you ever heard of Essential Oils? I have a friend who makes a couple thousand a month selling them.” he told me.

“What’s your dream job?” I asked him instead of answering the question – a little diversion trick I learned from years of dealing with unwanted solicitors and, in more recent years, TooStalky. “Trust fund baby,” he answered. “Being a trust fund baby, though a lot of work, is not a job,” I advised. “All I know is I’d like to get paid really well for a little work,” he informed me and added, for emphasis, “Trust fund baby.”

I’m not quite sure why he would want to work as a trust fund baby. It seems his time would be much better spent borrowing hobbies, like Penelope in The Brothers Bloom. Until he gets to that place in life, when he miraculously discovers he is a trust funder, he’ll have to work, at least a little.

To mix things up a bit and to add a little spice to his life, I suggested he do just as I recently did: apply for a job with this as the opening statement,  “Please accept my resume in application for any position you see fit for me.” “What if they give you some grunt job?” he asked me. “Well then, I guess best start grunting,” I replied. “Have you heard of Essential Oils?”he quipped.

After a lovely afternoon at the ballet, Sleepless, Beaner, Live Longer and I enjoyed a nice bottle of wine at my house. Not one to use a lot of lighting, I lit the candles. Being that this was not enough light for everyone, Sleepless attempted to dim the overhead light. “Doesn’t  your dimmer switch work?” she asked. “Yes, I’ve just got old electrical and sometimes it takes turning things completely on and off again to get them to work,” I explained and added, “I really need to get my electrical updated.”

“I need to get some electrical fixed too. My emotion detector isn’t working,” Live Longer told us, in all seriousness. “Your emotion detector?” I asked. “Yes. You know what that is, right?” she replied. “Yes, yes, I do. Mine isn’t working either, just ask MiniMe. She always tells me I have no emotions.” “I’m talking about the light with the sensor thing on it,” Live Longer clarified. “That’s a motion detector. Not emotion detector,” Sleepless laughed while providing clarification.

In the meantime, Beaner was busy assessing her glass of wine. Smelling, swirling and admiring her legs. “What do you mean legs?” Sleepless asked. Beaner explained the meaning behind wine legs and Sleepless took a close look at her glass. “Why can’t I see any legs?” she asked. “You’ve got the Oscar Pistorius blend,” I quipped. “Too soon?” Beaner asked. “Like I said, my emotion detector is broken. Anyone know a good electrician?” I replied.

Sleepless, Ice Cream Man, Bruiser and I decided to spend a Saturday night in, swapping war stories. As we did so, we figured out that Bruiser’s husband and Ice Cream Man have a lot in common, namely, a familiarity with the Latin language, de jure.

After sharing silva rerum, Bruiser headed home and Ice Cream Man suggested shots and Saturday Night Live. Sleepless and I, fans of both, grabbed some pajamas, our cups, and phones and found our positions in their bed.

Within minutes of hitting the pillow, Ice Cream Man fell asleep. Sleepless and I stayed up,watching SNL and giggling. At one point, however, I fell asleep. I know this because I woke myself up – right in the middle of a dream about me snoring – because I was snoring. “Was I just snoring?” I asked Sleepless who laid wide awake in between Ice Cream Man and I. “Yes,” she giggled. “I don’t know why I was snoring. I swear that only happens here. Maybe it has something to do with this place or maybe I’m sick.” “Or maybe those are the two things you tell yourself,” she quipped. Ice Cream Man interjected, “Me too.” Unfortunately, he wasn’t really interjecting, just talking in his sleep. “Sorry you have to be stuck in between the two of us,” I told Sleepless. “It’s OK,” she replied, then changed the channel until she found Alaska State Troopers. “This is Acehole’s favorite show,” I advised and added, “No coincidence were watching it tonight.” She smiled and turned up the volume – most likely to drown out my snoring and Ice Cream Man’s talkin. Silentium est aureum.

Calling The Dog called a meeting. Well, not really a meeting, more of a tasting. As we enjoyed the comfort of her living room, a cozy fire, the warmth of an alcoholic beverage, and the lethargically delicious desserts, we also swapped jacked up work stories.

Being that she and I don’t work together, but often work together, we know a lot of the same people – many of whom are totally nuts. Once, during a meeting – a real meeting, not a tasting – a committee member started telling us about a convention he attended where, by the end of the conference, all of the attendees were completely naked. “At the beginning of the conference everyone is clothed. As the days progress, and you progress with your honesty, you progressively remove your clothing. By the end of the conference, if you’ve been completely honest, you are completely naked,” he explained to us. “Why?” I asked. “It is very difficult to be dishonest when you are completely disrobed,” he proudly replied. I’m not sure I totally believe him, for a variety of reasons, the primary being that he was dressed when he shared this information.

“That is such bullshit,” one of Calling The Dog’s attendees exclaimed after I shared the story. “It is way easy to lie when you’re naked. People do it all of the time,” she continued. “I came. Your dick is so big. I never swallow. I’m a virgin. Please. Naked truth my ass.” “You may want to rethink that last one, unless you’re really into that,” I advised, totally dressed, honest.

Sleepless owns a pair of underwear that clearly states her mantra, ‘Safety First.’ The message is stenciled boldly across her ass and, occasionally, she’ll flash it to others (close friends, Ice Cream Man and a photo opp every now and again). Even if you haven’t seen it, if you know Sleepless, you know she prefers to be safe.

So much so, she takes antibacterial lotion with her everywhere and is constantly assessing her surroundings. I don’t often partake in the lotion, but I, too, assess my surroundings. Instead of looking for dangers, however, I’m looking for photo opps, security cameras and paparazzi.

Recently, while at a farewell party for one of our favorite karaoke masters and enjoying our full pour of incredibly cheap and stale wine, our friend started tooling around the bar with a Nerf gun. Sleepless isn’t a fan of guns and with good reason – she has been shot, several times (back off Drunk Whisperer, this is not a competition). For the most part, the Nerf gun activity didn’t bother Sleepless until the gun and sponge ammo were both directed and shot at her. When this happened, she was both bothered and offended. Rightly so. As her friend, I consoled. “If you want to light him on fire that is totally fine,” I told her.

I said this because our favorite karaoke master and, now, not so favorite Nerf gun bearer, was drinking quite heavily one evening, passed out in the campfire, and ended up with burns over a majority of his body. As a result, he has stopped drinking. Why? He doesn’t want to get anywhere near the situation he experienced in the past  – just like Sleepless. Unfortunately, it’s not as easy for Sleepless to avoid sounds that mimic or are gunshots. Thus, she tries to steer clear of anything that bear a resemblance.

“You two are so insensitive,” Ice Cream Man told us in response to my comment. “We’re only joking and trying to make a point. We would never actually do it. Besides, he is drinking O’Doul’s and non-alcoholic means non-flammable,” I quipped. Safety and friends first – it’s a good motto.

Not having any plans for Valentine’s Day, I scheduled lunch with Acehole and Sleepless and dinner with Bruiser and Tree.

I met Acehole and Sleepless at lunch to find they both brought gifts. I was totally empty-handied with nothing on my person that I could even attempt to regift. “I’m such a dick. I have nothing for either of you. No wonder I’m single on Valentine’s Day,” I told them. They kindly smiled. Dick confirmed.

Later, when retrieving Tree for dinner, I told him, “I hope Bruiser doesn’t bring me a gift – I don’t have anything for her.” “Did you like the Valentine card I posted on my wall and tagged you in?” he asked. “You mean the one that is just pictures of you?” “Yes,” he replied. “Loved it. Right up my alley – totally self-absorbed.” “We are so good at being single!” he proudly stated.

We arrived at the bar and, luckily, Bruiser did not bring a gift. Tree’s friend joined us and was trying to figure out the relationship between Tree and I. “Are you bi?” he asked. “No, we’re not bi,” I replied. “Brother and sister?” “No, we’re just friends,” I advised. “I can’t believe you’re single. It makes no sense to me. If I were a lesbian I would go out with you,” Bruiser told me. “I was just telling Tree the other day, ‘If only you were straight and I were gay,'” I replied.

After Bruiser and Tree’s friend went their separate ways, Tree and I headed to a different location for dinner.  Once seated, I took a look around the room at all of the couples celebrating Valentine’s Day and asked Tree, “Do you think these people are wondering when I’m going to figure out that you’re gay?” He looked up from his phone, where he was checking his SCRUFF account, and laughed. Just then, his friend, who was also our server, approached the table. They started talking about Valentine’s Day and I zoned out – just like a real couple – until I heard Tree say, “Right, because she has a huge clitoris.” “Are you talking about me?” I asked. “Yeah, I told her that’s how I justify dating you,” he said and laughed hysterically. “Nice. Happy Valentine’s, Gay,” I replied.

For most people, BFF stands for Best Friends Forever. I’m not most people.

I often chat with my friends about different events and circumstances impacting the lives of our friends and other people. We’re often catty, sometimes sympathetic (please don’t tell MiniMe – she thinks I completely lack emotion), and regularly inappropriate.

One day, while being catty with Q and her coworker, I advised them it was likely I will be jinxed because of my comments. “What do you mean?” her coworker asked. “I mean I will probably end up a blind, near death, tramp with disabilities,” I explained. “Oh, I’ll be right there with you, but I may be deaf, not blind,” the coworker replied. Just like a BFF, no? Yes. And no.

Why no? Because BFF stands for Big Fat Fuck. Right, there I go again, being inappropriate. Except, I didn’t come up with that one, Live Longer did. She was recently telling me about someone who died and when I inquired about the cause of death she said, “He died because he was a big fat fuck.” Good one BFF – this time, that stands for bitchy friend forever.

Lately a lot of people have been using social media to track down their biological parents. In many cases, this method has been quite effective. As That’s Not Chinese, Unfazed and I watched a recent reunification news story I had what I believe to be a brilliant idea.

“So, I always wanted to be a foreign exchange student, but my parents (biological) didn’t feel I deserved a ‘reward’ such as that. I offered up the possibility of foster care, but they weren’t keen on that either. Now that I’m an adult, I think I’ll make a sign like that and see if social media can help me find my ‘adoptive’ parents,” I told That’s Not Chinese and Unfazed. They both agreed that would be a great idea, however, That’s Not Chinese didn’t want me to wait until I had a piece of poster board and encouraged me to take a quick photo and upload it to facebook with my message. Alas, on Chinese New Year’s Eve, after a lovely reunion dinner with chicken enchiladas as the entree, I posted this plea:

I’m really looking forward to meeting my adoptive parents….and a relaxing vacation at a French chateau.