Category: blog

Having lived in Paris, Maverik Midget King advised MiniMe and I he would be our tour guide, “I know two things in Paris: barber shop and bakery.” When on vacation in a big city nothing quite compates to a local’s perspective.

 

After seeing his barber shop and neighborhood bakery we decide to do as all tourists must do when in the city of love, we went to see the Tour Eiffel. As we made our way we were approached by several individuals selling plastic Tour Eiffels. “Madame, Monsieur, three for $5.” “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Maverik Midget King responded and then told us, “That is French for ‘no’ and is like being schooled.” Despite the tsking, they persisted. We attempted to ignore them when one individual said, “Just look before you say no.” “I like that,” I told MiniMe and Maverik Midget King, then added, “I think that will be my new slogan.”

 

After several hours in the city we started heading toward home – a feat that required two Metro rides. Maverik Midget King provided us with tickets and as we were walking through the Metro tunnel to the second part of the journey we encountered the Metro Police and a ticket check. Merde. I had just thrown mine in a rubbish bin. I explained this to an officer who (surprisingly) allowed me to look for it in the bin(s) – I couldn’t remember which one – so as to avoid a citation. I looked for a bit, but ultimately had to tell her, “I looked but, no, I could not find it.” Fortunately Maverik Midget King had an extra unused ticket and she had mercy on us.

 

Once on the train, sans citation, Maverik Midget King asked, “Why did you throw your ticket away? You never throw your tickets away. What if you could not pay the fine and they took you to jail?” “That would have made a really good blog entry,” I replied.

After the last flight, I wasn’t sure how things would work when checking in for France.

 

Fortunately, all went well. When checking in I gave the agent our passports and a note that read, “She doesn’t know we’re going to France – thinks we’re going to Canada. It’s a surprise.” The agent smiled, processed our paperwork and asked, “Do you ladies drink?” “Yes,” I replied and added, “The only reason we aren’t drinking right now is we don’t want to risk missing the flight on account of public intoxication.” “I totally understand,” he replied, handed us six drink coupons and said, “Enjoy your flight.”

 

I managed to keep the destination a surprise until about five minutes before we boarded he plane. We had tooled around the terminal, intentionally avoiding the gate, for hours. When we finally approached our gate I said to MiniMe, “Weird. I wonder if they changed gates. This plane is going to Paris, not Toronto. Why don’t you ask the gate agent if fit is really going to Paris? Maybe we should check our tickets.” That is the precise moment when MiniMe discovered we were going to Paris. Good surprise, eh.

 

 

Once on the plane the flight attendants were incredibly kind. They brought us warm towels to cleanse our hands; made sure we had wine, coffee and tea; and were, overall, very attentive. The pilot was also a friendly fellow – continually wishing all of the passengers well and advising us we would arrive sooner than planned thanks to a generous tailwind.

 

Who doesn’t like a generous tailwind? Mary Poppins thrived on them – always traveling any way the wind blew and landing to find all kinds of goodies in her bags. I feel like she and I share some things in common, although the only goodie I’ll probably find in my bag is a notice from TSA advising me that they searched it.

 

Upon landing in Paris, the flight crew sang Christmas songs to us (very Mary Poppins of them) and  graciously welcomed us to Paris. This flight definitely made up for the flight to JFK and, thanks to the very generous tailwind, we were able to arrive sooner than planned at another destination with a generous tailwind – Maverik Midget King’s house. Anyone who knows Maverik Midget King knows he is extremely generous and has more “tailwind” than anybody….well, maybe not if you compare him with Live Longer in a sauna suit.

 

While in New York with MiniMe she told me, “Oreggano might be right.” “About what?” I asked. “She always says, ‘One day you guys are going to call me and tell me to sell all of your stuff because you’re not coming back from wherever it is you are vacationing.'” “Yes, she is probably right,” I said and asked, “Should we call her?”

 

“I don’t think I would want her to sell everything,” MiniMe replied. “Why not? Pretty much everything can be replaced,” I advised. “I would miss some of my books. Plus, it seems like I lose a few things every time I move,” she told me. “Books can easily be replaced and I know what you mean about losing things in moves. I still wonder where my rice cooker may be.”

 

“I can’t replace some of my books because they have special messages and notes in them,” MiniMe, clearly not wiling to let her books go, told me. “I know what you mean. My rice cooker had a special note too, but it has been so long now, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter anymore.” “What is the note?” MiniMe asked. “A warranty form. Pretty sure it was only good for one year and since I can’t find the rice cooker, its good for nothing. Should we call Oreggano?” “Not yet,” MiniMe said. I think once we get to France she may change her mind.

I can’t take credit for this blog title, rather, must give credit where it is due: to the incredibly witty Celia Rivenbark.

 

Is it ironic that I was reading Chapter 8, Airlines Serving Up One Hot Mess, in her book, You Can’t Drink All Day If You Don’t Start in the Morning, on my flight to New York? Yes, actually, it is.

 

Although the gate agents helped me keep “the France secret” (not to be confused with “Ancient Chinese Secret”) from MiniMe, which was nice, the rest of the employees weren’t too interested in making our flight magical.

 

As we waited to board we inquired about an upgrade to first class. Without even looking at our boarding passes or “status” the agent curtly told us, “$150 each.”

 

Once on the plane, and sitting in coach, we noticed there was an empty seat between us. I advised a flight attendant our seats were supposed to be next to each other and she replied, “I wouldn’t worry about it.” When the gentleman, with “the boarding pass to prove it,” informed us the middle seat was his, the flight attendant shrugged her shoulders and quickly walked away.

 

Middle seat man ‘graciously’ traded me seats despite the fact that he “booked the seat months ago.” Me too – I even have an itinerary to prove it. As we got ready to depart he noticed an empty seat on a row across the way and quickly moved. Once in the air I kind of wished he hadn’t moved, but only because my headphone jack didn’t work very well, his movie looked good, and I had a splitter just waiting to be used.

 

As the coach class bitch I am, and most likely always will be, I cheated on the crossword, plugged my $2 headphones into the shotty jack, and chair danced “like a white girl” – as Tree and Fat Girl would say – while listening to Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits.

 

Due to my faulty equipment, the lyrics were a bit inaudible (like me when I sing in the car, shower or coach), “The….been told….you….crazy….I….know.” Though inaudible, I didn’t let it get me down and, like a gypsy, I continued to go my own way – I sang along (sometimes aloud), chair danced, took over both seats, and kept it (coach) classy.

 

There’s no place like home for the holidays – which is exactly why I decided to go on vacation this year. As I contemplated locations, I knew I needed to go where I left my heart – New York City. I’ve been to San Francisco and I didn’t leave my heart there, but I’m pretty sure I accidentally left a really cute black tank top.

 

I started looking at airfare and was chatting with Maverik Midget King about my travel plans. “Come to France,” he begged of me. Not one to want my friends to have to beg, I decided to do so. Being, however, that I needed to retrieve my heart and had promised MiniMe we would be in New York for Christmas, I booked a trip with a 19 hour layover in New York. I figured a surprise trip to France, after a few hours in New York, wouldn’t disappoint her – hopefully I’m right.

 

12 days prior to my departure date I began receiving gifts on my stoop. The initial gift/letter was signed by the Twelve Day Foxes. Plural – this could make my investigative process (solely for the purpose of providing gratitude) a little more difficult. I discussed it with That’s Not Chinese one day and told her I had a feeling Sleepless was behind it. “Why does she have to be so fucking thoughtful?” That’s Not Chinese asked. “One of us in the group needs to be,” I replied. As the days went by I received great gifts, many of which I will use on my trip.

 

When the 12 days prior came to an end, and I was discussing home safety with Sleepless, I advised her I would most likely leave my Christmas tree lights on as they have been on 24/7 since I put the tree up two weeks ago. “I’ve noticed that,” she said. “When? When you were being a Twelve Day Fox?” I asked. She giggled, turned a little red and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you may want to talk to Oreggano and Live Longer about that.”

 

So to my Twelve Day Foxes – whoever you may be – thank you for everything you did/do for me or, as That’s Not Chinese might say, “Thank you for being so fucking thoughtful.” You will make coming home a great gift. There’s no place like home, with amazing friends, after the holidays.

 

 

Several years ago I found trace evidence (droppings) of a mouse in my house. The mouse appeared to be anorexic, because I never found any proof food was eaten. Being that I was finding droppings, I probably should have checked my laxatives.

 

One morning I decided enough was enough and started looking for the mouse. I had put out poison and the brick was missing, so I was ready to find a mouse militia. As I searched a basket full of scarves I started to see blue poo and I knew I was on the right track. A few seconds later, a mouse peeked out of a scarf scurried to the bottom of the basket. I grabbed the basket, opened the back door and threw the entire basket outside. The scarves went flying. The mouse landed and ran right back into my house.

Although I think that mouse finally passed on, as it has been years, I recently discovered fresh droppings. I put out the poison and waited. The other night, after enjoying a few drinks at That’s Not Chinese’s house, I came home, sat on the couch, and started tooling around online. I was up for several hours and when I finally fell asleep I did so on the couch in my clothes – sweater, mini skirt, tights. The next morning I woke up and did a few things around the house then went in to use the bathroom. As I begin to pull my tights down I could feel something near the back top of them. I reached down and pulled out a blue poo. While I was sleeping on the couch a mouse shat on me. “That’s some funny shit,” Tree told me and added, “I would shit on you too if you poisoned me.”

 

Disclaimer: This entry was written when I was extremely tired, had (perhaps) had a drink or two, and would have preferred to be in bed, fetal position, sucking my thumb.

 

Everybody knows Dr. BJ is a sucker for a camera – especially if he is the only one in the frame. In addition, he is notorious for not editing or deleting photos. Thus, once they’re made public, everyone can see your ‘why I’m single facial expression,’ muffin top, poor posture and anything else he manages to capture and not edit or delete.

 

With his deer antlers on, he was ready for photo opps and kindly offered to allow us to take one (or more) with his camera. As he started posing, we pulled out Donald Trunk. “It isn’t a real photo shoot until Donald is here,” Live Longer advised. Dr. BJ agreed, pulled Donald up over his pants, and Live Longer started snapping photos and providing direction, “a little to your right, eyes down, arm up, stick your bum out a little…” “Thumb suck,” Dr. BJ interjected and then stuck his thumb in his mouth while pouting slightly. “Oh, yes. I like that,” Live Longer told him and then asked me, “Why haven’t we ever done that? From here on out, we’re doing it!”

 

After seeing the photos, I realized Live Longer might be on to something. With everything else that is happening (and unedited) in our pictures, thumb sucking should be the least of our worries and could actually take our sexy street cred up several notches.

Whenever I’m deep in the throes of my pubic awareness efforts (Muffuary, Movember, etc.) I receive several email and, occasionally, gift cards, from people specific to waxing or laser treatment.

 

This last Movember was no different. Thus, I finally caved and decided to set an appointment for a Brazilian. Being a supportive friend, Live Longer joined me.

 

We arrived at our appointments ready to go. When one goes to the dentist, they brush and floss their teeth beforehand. When one gets a Brazilian, preparation is important. “I stopped eating certain foods so I won’t be gassy,” Live Longer advised me. “Oops,” I replied.

Not having had a Brazilian before, I wasn’t sure how it was going to go and didn’t even think about whether or not I might have gas. Luckily, I didn’t have gas and, even luckier, Live Longer joined me for my wax. Some friends buy each other bracelets, necklaces, rings, and charms. Not us, we show our loyalty to each other by getting Brazilians together.

 

My Brazilian went smoothly – pun intended. I only clenched my teeth, squealed and held Live Longer’s hand a few times. “There’s a chance you may be selling your other waxing coupon,” Live Longer giggled. When it was her turn, we traded places. She laid on the exam table and I sat in the chair, next to the table, close to her face. “You don’t have much hair, this should be easy,” the aesthetician told her. “She didn’t tell that to me,” I advised Live Longer. “I also have a high pain tolerance, I’m Asian,” Live Longer advised. “Can you please make her feel something?” I asked the aesthetician, and she did.

 

We left the salon a few ounces lighter and slightly chillier – this explains why the animals grow a thicker coat for the winter – and I quickly returned Live Longer to her home for a little Brazilian cinq à sept with her hubby. Unfortunately, he wasn’t home and she was locked out of the house. Thus, we did what anyone would do when they are all Brazilianed up with nowhere to go, we went to That’s Not Chinese’s house for wine, food, fire and That’s Not Chinese’s commentary about the ‘puff in the back.’ Yes, puff in the back. Not sure what it is? She is quite sure. “The puff in the back is the worst part,” she advised us. “Worse than the muff in the front?” Live Longer asked. “By far,” That’s Not Chinese proclaimed. Back, front, middle, they were all pretty comparable in my opinion. Regardless, I can now tick that (waxed) box. I’ve had  a Brazilian. Next time: vajazzling.

 

 

That’s Not Chinese invited me to her house for dinner and holiday gift exchange. Like any good hostess would do, she advised me in a stern voice, “We will be having meat.” Although this was sent to me, not said to me, I could sense the tone in her type. Even though I’m not a vegetarian, the only time I really seem to eat meat is when I am at That’s Not Chinese’s house. She loves her meat.

 

I arrived at her house, ready to get primal, and she poured me a glass of wine. Nothing prepares one for meat like a nice glass of red and a roaring fire, which That’s Not Chinese loves this time of year. We sat by the fire, drank wine and exchanged gifts. The gifts given to me by That’s Not Chinese and Unfazed were nothing short of amazing. I immediately donned the my dingle balls hat and Unfazed tried on her owl Wellies. That’s Not Chinese continued to relax in her chair with her glass of wine. “God I love these casweats,” she told us while tugging on the bottom of her cut-off sweat pants. “Casweats or sweapris?” I asked. “It doesn’t matter. They’re elastic waist, that’s all that matters,” she replied.

 

That’s Not Chinese eventually got up from her chair, grabbed an extremely small (1×5) stick, threw it in the fire and then prepared to return to her chair. “That’s it? That’s all you’re putting in the fire?” I asked. Unfazed, unusually fazed, concurred. “You know what? I don’t waste things like you two do,” That’s Not Chinese told us in that stern, “We will be having meat” tone. “What have we wasted?” I asked. “You’re wasting my time,” That’s Not Chinese quipped and returned to her chair.

 

Alas, with That’s Not Chinese in her casweats, Unfazed in her boots, and I in my cap, the fire roared (meowed might be more appropriate), the quips and wine flowed, and we all settled down, thankful for elastic waist as opposed to frap.