Category: blog

I met with my boss the other day to discuss a recently proposed on-call policy prohibiting any alcohol consumption. “Not a lot of wiggle room,” he told me. “Not at all,” I replied. “What do you do now?” he asked. “I get super drunk and hope nobody calls me,” I replied.

 

Policies are interesting. A while back I was discussing telecommuting with a supervisor and he said, “I’m fine with someone telecommuting because they’re getting carpet installed or someone is working on their house, but if they want to telecommute just so they can work from home in their pajamas, that’s not OK.” That sounds about as off-base as this comment from a coworker, “I’m planning on telecommuting tomorrow, but if it snows I won’t be able to plant my rose bushes.”

 

Today, as we were working late to finish a holiday decorations memo for staff, I asked a coworker, “Do you work four tens?” “I’m just here late sometimes,” he replied. “Me too, but usually in the morning, not at night,” I said, then looked at the clock and added, “I best get out of here before the on-call policy changes – don’t want to miss last call.”

 

 

Professional lives in a small town where the only crime that occurs is pumpkin smashing. “You’ve got to say it right, ‘punkin smashin’,” she regularly corrects me. The other day, in the big city, I noticed a few smashed pumpkins. “Looks like the country folk are infiltrating,” I advised her as the two of us headed to a the movie theater.

 

We arrived at the theater and, before going in, Professional changed from her grey comfy cardigan to a black coat. “I’m like Mr. Rogers, but I’m not changing my shoes.”

 

After enjoying the movie marathon, we returned to her car where I immediately saw a grey jacket on the ground near her car. Then, I noticed broken glass, everywhere. “Is that your jacket? Somebody broke into your car,” I asked and reported without taking a breath. “What? Why? Why would someone do that?” she asked in shock.

 

Turns out, somebody broke into several people’s vehicles, and he hit a gold mine when he broke into Professional’s car because he secured a leather messenger bag equipped with a MacBook and an iPad, as well as a large teal tote perfect for carrying any other items he pillaged.

 

Fortunately, a few individuals on a smoke break heard the car alarms and chased the suspect. He entered an elevator which left him only a few options – stay in or get out – and when the elevator stopped on the main level, his only option was to get out with his newly acquired messenger bag, teal tote, and broken glass in his pockets. “You know what we call this in police work?” the officer asked the suspect, pointed to the broken glass and then answered his own question, “Clues.” “I could do without your smart aleckiness right now,” the suspect replied and surrendered all that he had pinched.

 

Professional, whose stolen items were essentially immediately returned, was still in shock. “Why would someone break my window? I just don’t understand. And why didn’t he want that grey jacket?” “No sense of style,” I responded. “I mean if he asked I would have given him money or a ride,” she told the officer. “Bad idea ma’am,” the officer advised and added, “He’s a drug addict. Don’t give him or any other drug addicts any rides or money. From now on, you should put your valuables in your trunk.”

 

Professional opened her trunk and we all quickly realized why these items were stolen from the backseat of her car. “I kind of live out of my car. You never know when you’re going to need something. Like this mobile wrapping kit,” she said and held up a small container with wrapping paper, tape, scissors, ribbon and cards. “Too bad that wasn’t in the backseat. Your thief could have left you a thank you note or wrapped the computers and tried to convince the cops they were gifts,” I told her.

 

“Sorry,” Professional told the officer while continuing to rummage through her trunk and justifying all of her belongings, “I’m suffering from PTSD.” “Pretty sure it’s just TS right now, drop the P and the D,” I quipped. Professional agreed, put her bags in the trunk and asked, “Why didn’t he want my jacket? It would have looked great in a mug shot.”

Not one to let my health, or anything else for that matter, get in the way of a good time, I bucked up, did some yard work, then enjoyed a bottle of wine with Live Longer. I did so, however, with a disclaimer, “I’m probably pretty ripe. I haven’t showered for two days.” “That’s fine. The other day I had a total sweat circle under my right pit,” she replied.

 

Towards the bottom of the bottle, her husband, Tongue-adoras, contacted her and we decided to meet them at a restaurant within walking distance of my house. Being that I had only a few minutes to get ready, I threw on a skirt, sweater, boots and then took a look at my hair. “I’m not sure what to do with this. It’s kind of doing it’s own comb over in a variety of directions,” I told Live Longer. “Hmmm. Do you have a headband?” she asked. I did, and I put it on, but it was clear more help was needed. “Maybe I should wear a beret,” I suggested. “Or a wig,” Live Longer quipped.

 

Once at the restaurant we immediately started eating and drinking. Tongue-adoras was thoroughly enjoying all of the intense flavors. In fact, he was doing so with much more intensity than the rest of us. “I’ve got what they call a topographical tongue. I’m very sensitive to taste,” he told me and then showed me his tongue. “No pressure for me,” Live Longer whispered to me.

 

After sharing several tapas plates, Tongue-adoras said, “I like dining like this. What is it called? Al fresco?” “She’s learning French, ask her,” Live Longer told Tongue-adoras. “I’m pretty sure that’s Italian,” I replied using my arms for emphasis.

 

Regardless of whether Italian or French, the meal was superb and I learned something new, “It’s called tongue-adoras, right?” “No, topographical,” Tongue-adoras replied, then stuck out his tongue again. Just as Italians speak with their arms, Tongue-adorians speak with their tongues.

While at the doctor’s office the other day, she surprised me with a rhetorical question, “Flu shot?” The next thing I knew my arm was tender and I was coming down with cold and flu symptoms.

 

Being that I was in Oreggano’s neck of the woods when the symptoms presented, she and I decided to meet up for appetizers and drinks. Or, as I referred to them, get well drinks.

 

Well drinks, by definition, are typically mixed drinks made with the bar’s least expensive, generic liquor. Liquor varieties include vodka, bourbon, whiskey, gin, tequila, rum and brandy. I started with bourbon. Being that it was paired with peach, mint and bitters, I figured I would get well in no time.

 

Oreggano opted against getting well and instead focused on her heart with a glass of malbec. By round two, I decided to take my attempt for wellness up a notch and enjoyed (medicinally only, of course) a hot toddy made with whiskey. “That’s disgusting,” Oreggano told me after tasting it. “The steps we take to get to wellness are not always pretty,” I advised her.

 

I’m not sure if I’m well yet. Thus, I’ll give it another go again today. This time with brandy – she’s a fine girl.

I’ve traveled with Oreggano and Sleepless on numerous occasions. On one trip, they decided they didn’t want to participate in a particular activity and instead of telling everyone in the group, they told me and asked that I share their feelings with others. Since that trip, they have been practicing using their big girl voices and I’ve been very proud of them.

 

This trip, we discussed a visit at the Turkish Bath House, thus, I advised everyone to bring a swimsuit. The day we were considering going, Oreggano told us she didn’t bring her suit. “Nothing wrong with going naked,” I told her. “Except germs,” Sleepless interjected. A few hours later, Oreggano told us, “OK, you know what, I don’t want to go to the Russian Bath House.” “What about the Turkish Bath House?” I asked. “You know what I mean. Aren’t you proud of me for using my big girl voice?” she replied. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I told in my proud mama voice.

 

Later that night, after several hours of dancing and drinking at one of our favorite Manhattan pubs, Sleepless approached me, “I think we need to go soon. Oreggano is getting tired.” I looked over at Oreggano who did, in fact, appear tired. I shared Sleepless’ directive with Live Longer. “Why didn’t Oreggano use her big girl voice and tell us herself?” Live Longer asked. “Good point,” I replied.

In standard form, Freestyle Five ate and drank their way across NY and Brooklyn. When we weren’t eating and drinking, we were taking pictures, having our picture taken by others (we, of course, would ask, “Would you please take a picture of us…with your camera?), or wreaking havoc on some city block.

 

One evening while wreaking havoc, Oreggano advised us she wanted to purchase a NYFD t-shirt, so we stopped by a local station to inquire. Within minutes we were in the middle of a photo shoot, donning turnout gear, and attempting to slide up – not down – the fire pole. The latter resulted in an injury (I accidentally kneed Sleepless in the eye). I shouted out, “Medics,” however, nobody responded. My guess is they were distracted. We had been there about 20 minutes when their chief arrived. It was at this time that we knew we were outta there.

 

A few hours later, we stopped by Dylan’s Candy Bar for some sweet adult beverages. As we enjoyed our candied drinks, Sleepless and Beaner sought refuge at a nearby cupcake table and, within minutes, were sitting on top of the bench for a backside photo. “Ladies, get down from there! Ladies!! Get down! That is very expensive cushioning,” a female employee shouted from across the bar. “It’s pleather,” Live Longer said under her breath. Our server returned to our table and immediately provided an apology, “Sorry, she’s from Brooklyn.” “We’re from Brooklyn,” we all replied. “But we’re from Dumbo,” I said and added, “She must be from Dumb ho.” The rest of our time at the Candy Bar was supervised by security and we were essentially escorted out once we finished our drinks. Apparently they wanted us outta there.

 

We made our way to a nearby house party, assisted people with the beer bong, threw down some excellent dance moves, and then decided to move on – quickly, so we grabbed a cab and got outta there.

 

By the time we finally got home, it was late and we were feeling great. The next day, however, showed different results – especially for Beaner. She wasn’t feeling too hot and while heading to Manhattan on the subway she started to get pale. A few stops in and she was out. “I’ve gotta get outta here. Now,” she told us, then exited the subway. We grabbed our stuff and quickly followed. “Throw up on the tracks over there,” Sleepless advised. “Back up if a train comes or else the velocity of it will blow the vomit back in your face,” I advised. So helpful are we.

 

Later, when we told Live Longer about the incident, she said, “I always knew she was bulimic. Sorry, I’m an asshole.” Poor Beaner. She felt horrible, but wanted to continue to hang with the Freestyle Five. If she didn’t, she would be like her vomit, outta her(e).

 

It seems there is always one person in the group who assumes the caregiver/responsible role. If you lined up the Freestyle Five and did a quick assessment, you would probably guess that person would be Sleepless. Most times, this guess would be spot on. This weekend that person, surprisingly, was me.

 

Prior to leaving for NYC, I sent messages advising everyone to bring flashlights, warm clothing and swimsuits (the latter were for the bath house). Once in NYC, I channeled my inner Julie Andrews and became the hen in charge of the chicks.

 

I ensured everyone got to see what they wanted to see, didn’t get drinking glasses with chipped rims, had what they needed to make it through the weekend and got on the right subway. If needed and if the curtains were thicker, I would have made us matching outfits, just like Maria in The Sound of Music. Luckily, I didn’t have to do so, but, like Maria, I climbed a tree/fire pole, scraped my knee, and I’m pretty sure my dress got a tear.

 

If my little chicks needed me to hold their eyeglasses, wallets, hats, gloves and the like, I put them in my purse. If they needed dental floss, markers, gum, tissue, powder, lip gloss, wigs, tip money/tuppence, an umbrella, or a tape measure, I pulled it out of my bag for them. Whatever they needed, I had. “What all do you have in that purse?” Live Longer asked and then added, “You’re like Mary Poppins.” “Actually, I’m Mary Fuckin’ Poppins,” I replied, handed her a mirror, and said, “Spit spot.”

 

Before we took New York City by storm, Hurricane Sandy and Nor’easter Athena literally took her by storm. Knowing that the third time was the charm, we decided the little natural disaster we call ‘us’ needed an official name.

 

We started with Seismic Six, however, due to unforeseen circumstances (the weather), Big Bounty wasn’t able to join us. Thus, Seismic Six soon became Freestyle Five.

 

To be truthful, we couldn’t think of a good descriptor, so we were only Five until we arrived at Rockefeller Center to find ice skaters enjoying the Fall air. Their skating abilities varied, however, there were a few who were quite skilled. “Should we give it a go?” I asked (Adjective needed) Five. “I took up to Freestyle 3, so I should be able to do it,” Beaner replied. “I think we just found our name,” I replied. “Speaking of names, maybe you should change her blog name to Freestyle,” Live Longer suggested.

 

I’ll have to think about that one – Beaner was Beaner before beaner was bad. Freestyle is good, but I think something more along Beaner’s level of experience would be better. Maybe Salchow or Toe Walley (I dropped the ‘Jump’ from each on account of creative liberty).

 

In the meantime, the Freestyle Five are alive and well, though not necessarily disaster free, in New York City. We’re lutzing, axeling, camel spinning (preferred over camel toeing), and we may decide to open choctaw. Regardless of the activity we engage in this weekend, per the advice of our attorney, we’re taking the fifth…of vodka!

A while back I told Live Longer that I planned to post a sign in my yard advertising voice and piano lessons. I’m not skilled at either, and don’t own a piano, but I saw a similar sign in a yard nearby and thought it might be an interesting thing to do. While in New York, I thought of a third option: language.

 

I don’t recall why exactly, but at some point in the evening I attempted to do an Italian/English accent. “You sound like a Scottish Italian or the Swedish Chef from The Muppets,” Live Longer told me and asked, “What’s with the arm gestures?” “That is a the key to speakin’ Italian,” I told while shrugging my shoulders and raising my elbows t0 somewhat of a scarecrow position.

 

We met up with Bruiser, her husband and their friends and headed to an Italian restaurant where I was able to practice my accent. Live Longer got in on the action, but I had to remind her, both verbally and visually, “Use your arms.” “O a K,” she replied, using her arms. First graduate from my class – so a proud!

 

This success confirms my decision, so keep your eye out for my yard sign:

Voice and piano lessons

Language (arms required)

 

 

 

 

 

After several rescheduled flights, Live Longer, Beaner and I were on our way. But first, a stop at the Sky Club. Wanting to fly in style, we stopped in for some morning pre-flight cocktails. We enjoyed them up to the very last minute then headed to our gate and quickly learned we were the last to board. We took our seats in the very back of the plane and anxiously awaited our arrival at the connecting flight Sky Club.

 

We arrived at the next airport and checked the departures for our next gate which turned out to be the gate at which we arrived. Things were working out so smoothly. With only a few minutes in between flights, we hustled off to the Sky Club for mid-flight drinks. We didn’t, however, hustle while in the club. The Sky Club is not for hustlers. Thus, as we were walking back to our gate we heard a final boarding call for our flight. We started to run and quickly realized running does not pair well with wine. I called out to a nearby gate agent, “Will you please call B38 and let them know we’re on our way?” She agreed to do so and once we passed her gate we started walking again. A few gates away from our destination gate Live Longer made a suggestion, “We should start running again so it looks like we made an effort.” Beaner and I both felt this was a good idea and put our stride into action.

 

Our effort paid off because the flight attendants kindly welcomed us aboard, gave Beaner two drink coupons in exchange for a last minute seat change, and then we convinced some passengers to move so that we could all sit together. “You two realize you’re sitting in the exact same seats, right?” Beaner asked us. “I thought it was weird that the magazine was opened to the last page I looked at,” Live Longer replied. Just then the flight attendant walked by, “You ladies drinking?” “Do you mean on the flight or are you asking if we have been?” I asked for clarification. “Both. These ladies are right up your alley,” she told the other flight attendant and minutes later returned with three full glasses of wine for us. We continued to enjoy complimentary beverages throughout the flight.

 

As we did so, we shared our story of rescheduled and nearly missed flights. “You are some of the happiest rescheduled passengers I’ve ever met,” one of the passengers told us. He was right. It’s hard not to be happy when, even though rescheduled, your drinks are comped over a twelve hour period. While others prefer to sit front row in first class, we prefer to be back row in coach, sans class, and get trashed.