Category: blog

Like so many good ideas, the communication plan On My Terms and I had only appears to have a two mile radius, if that.

 

When the walkie talkies arrived at her house, On My Terms took a picture of the boxes and sent it to me. I excitedly asked when we could meet up’ She advised me she planned to test them prior to splitting them up and, if they worked, she would leave a handset and charger in my milk box. A few minutes later she sent me this text, “They COME WITH BELT CLIPS.” This was going to be awesome.

 

The next day, On My Terms utilized the assistance of her neighbor to test them out. “Just drove down to state street & 8th South. Radios didn’t work from that distance. Doing more testing.” That distance was only 2.5 miles from her house and the online description stated the radios worked up to 27 miles. Things weren’t looking good. I suggested she send him to my stoop to test them, since our purpose for having them was to communicate from home. “Maybe it was a channel problem. He left but we can try more later,” she replied.

 

Later, via another form of communication (twitter) we have been utilizing, she sent me this message, “Maybe these stupid things are only good on flat land? Not having much success with testing in our coordinates. May return.”

 

Two days after receiving them, and less than two miles away, On My Terms will most likely be returning our communication dream. Guess we’ll have to go back to landlines and letters. Luckily, the United States Postal Service and the telephone company work within our two mile radius.

I think I would be willing for work for peanuts – again. I love them. Years ago, I worked in a nut house (both the kind that roasts nuts and the kind that caters to the mentally ill). My job was simple – roast and sell nuts.

 

There were a few times when the roaster oil caught fire and the fire department would shut us down, but this type of situation didn’t deter my bosses who would advise us to continue to roast regardless of the fire department’s concerns. Being that I was only making $3.35 an hour and living at home, I didn’t have a lot to lose by continuing to roast. Plus, freshly roasted nuts are hard to resist and one of my job perks was product knowledge, so I ate a lot of nuts. Chocolate covered, shelled, seasoned, the works.

 

My working for peanuts didn’t start at the nut house. Prior to this highly gainful employment, I would babysit for nuts, specifically pistachios, and chocolate covered orange sticks. At the time, it seemed like a fair trade.

 

I really wouldn’t mind working for peanuts again. I do, in a way, but it isn’t as carefree as it used to be. Now, when there are fires or fire drills at the office, they are followed with lengthy emails and memos about the process. People are often interrogated or disciplined. It’s nuts, really. Gone are the simple days of clearing out a mall because of a grease fire and, hours later, being back in business, working with and for peanuts. When I tell people I miss this, they often tell me I’m nuts. I guess we are what we eat – and work for.

Knowing we had the best caps in the big city, Sleepless and I headed to the local thrift shop to find camouflage tops and overalls to compliment them. We felt luckier than a two-petered dog to find two incredible pairs of overall shorts and two very similar camouflage tops that would be perfect for the fair. We took them home, pulled up our boot straps, put our hair in ponytails and braids and hopped in the car to pick up Ice Cream Man.

Being that he, too, had spent the previous evening celebrating their upcoming wedding, he was a bit hungover. “You know the best thing for a hangover?” he asked as he rolled out of bed to join us. “More drinking.” We agreed and encouraged him to grab his coonskin cap (yes, we bought one for him too) and white trash flask (breastmilk bag with whiskey in it) so we could get to one our favorite events – the Demolition Derby at the State Fair.

We arrived at the fairgrounds to find others with our same idea – not too dressed up, like they would be if going to Walmart, but looking good. They were wearing overalls, half shirts (splattered with redneck prints and sayings), no shirts, boots, caps and cowboy hats. We also saw some people who were real life rednecks. No lie. “Look at that guy – he is for real,” Sleepless said while pointing to a man with 70s style feathered hair, wearing Wranglers, a tight shirt, fanny pack and several gadgets – to include boondoggle.

After stopping to see the animals (an Ice Cream Man must – what ice cream man doesn’t like ‘kids’?), we enjoyed some of the finest deep fried foods the fair had to offer, grabbed some beers and found our seats in the stadium. We immediately observed a very slick couple and quickly redneckonized them as part of our group. Leave A Light On and her husband were truly dressed for redneck success. “You two look so great,” Sleepless told them. “I just got a fistbump for my NASCAR cap,” he proudly told us. “As you should,” Ice Cream Man stated and followed up with a fistbump.

The derby started and we were all happier than a tornado in a trailer park. We hooted, hollered and talked about entering next year – mostly so we could hang out in the cattle stables and wear matching coveralls. I’m interested in driving the car and told everyone I would practice my derby skills on the road over the next year. The derby, sadly, ended and several people in our group went home. Leave A Light On, her husband, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and I opted to hang out like a loose tooth.

We grabbed more beers, did the large slide a few times, and tooled around the fairgrounds a little while longer. During which time, we ran into the mayor of a neighboring city who had concerns for our well-being; mine, in particular. “Will you please take her home with you tonight?” he asked Leave A Light On’s husband. “Umm, he’s my husband,” Leave A Light On advised him and then told me, “We’ll leave a light on for you.” Kind of her.

After several hours of the fair, which was far better than, but somewhat similar to, a family reunion at the prison, we decided to go find some food that would compliment our evening of drinking and attire. Within minutes we were at our favorite 24-hour Mexican restaurant. As we were enjoying our meals we noticed Sleepless had been in the loo for a bit. I checked on her to find she wasn’t feeling so well. Hard to determine if it was the deep fried fair foods, the alcoholic beverages or the most recent food consumption. Either way, it was the perfect ending of a redneck evening. Why fart and waste it when you can burp up and taste it?

With a demolition derby and wedding (to attend)  in my near future, I knew two things were absolutely necessary: coonskin caps and an impromtu bachelorette party.

 

So, while Sleepless tried on wedding dresses, Not Racist and I called around town looking for coonskin cap retailers. By ‘around town,’ I specifically mean a town several hundred miles South of the city, in which I have seen coonskin hats for sale at the gas station. By the second gas station/retailer call, I had found the caps. I advised Not Racist of my finding and, knowing we needed to throw together a bachelorette party for the evening, we decided to search for surrounding bars and lodging. Although lodging was plentiful, there was only one bar/lounge in this Southern town, so, with nothing but the clothes we were wearing and a yearning for coonskin caps and trouble, we hopped in the car and headed South.

 

Sleepless, like so many others, couldn’t believe we were really driving to Beaver (yes, that’s the name of the town) and was surprised we hadn’t checked with inner city retailers/gas stations. Coonskin caps aren’t typically found in the big city – they’re found in big Beaver country. And so the jokes began. “Who doesn’t want to stay the night in Beaver?” “Just checked in at the Fillmore-Beaver area.” “We come from Beaver.”

 

Three hours later, we were in the gas station purchasing three coonskin caps and a couple of I heart Beaver souvenirs (t-shirts and bracelets) – all of which we opted to don for the duration of the trip. We drove down Main Street, found the only bar in town, and selected lodging accordingly (something within walking/stumbling distance). The parking lot at the hotel was pretty full for this sleepy Southern region (Beaver is a Southern region if you’re from the North), so I approached the front desk prepared to be told what many hear when trying to stay in Beaver, “No vacancy.” I requested a room with two beds and the front desk representative replied, “Three.” “Yes, we have three people,” I said, knowing he could easily see the two other girls in coonskin caps. “Three. I only have a room with three beds,” he clarified. “Perfect. We’ll take it!” I excitedly replied.

 

None of us had ever stayed in a room with three beds and our imaginations led us to envision a room with three twin beds in a tidy row against the wall. We opened the door to find three full beds, two on one wall and a third tucked in the corner of an adjacent wall. “It was meant to be that we stay in Beaver,” Not Racist observed. “That’s what he said,” Sleepless quipped.

 

Not wanting to waste any precious bachelorette party time, we headed straight to the bar. The town was quiet – no cars or people out and about. As we arrived at the door of the lounge we placed bets on the number of patrons. Our numbers were between 8-15 and we were all wrong. There were three people in the bar. Four if you count the bartender. Within seconds, one of the locals/locos, presented at our table with his phone and said, “Will you say something to my friend? He can’t believe there are people, girls, here.” We did as he requested and, within minutes, the bar had one more patron – his phone friend. “So you guys were just passing through Beaver and decided to stop?” they asked. Giggles from us – the Beaver jokes will always be funny. “No, we came to Beaver. On purpose,” Sleepless advised them (and several others throughout the night). “Who doesn’t like Beaver?” Not Racist quipped. More giggling.

 

After Sleepless and I danced to a few songs on the empty dance floor, one of the patrons sent a round of shots to our table. After he sent another round of shots, we invited him to have a drink with us and asked him what he was doing in Beaver. “I’m taking over this Beaver project. It’s a huge opportunity for an undergrad,” he replied. We got it – a Beaver project is often a huge opportunity. We continued chatting and learned he was staying at the same hotel and had drinks in his room. “I’m just here because I didn’t want to drink alone and I like being with anyone who can appreciate my alcoholism,” he told us and then said, “You’re welcome to come back to my room and have a drink, but you can’t stay.” Such a Beaver thing to do – invite ’em in and quickly kick ’em out.

 

We took him up on his offer, enjoyed a cider with him, and returned to our room. “Three beds. One Beaver. Good times, good night,” I told Sleepless and Not Racist. “A good night it was,” Sleepless said and we fell asleep with our I heart Beaver t-shirts and bracelets on and our coonskin caps nearby – ready to cover our Beaver bedhead in the morning.

 

 

 

We’ve all heard the stories about red wine, in moderation, being good for our hearts. In many cases, it is also good for friendships.

 

Bringing a nice (emphasis on this adjective) bottle of red wine to another person’s home, unless they’re an alcoholic or non-drinker, is always a safe bet and may result in a repeat invitation. Bringing a crap bottle of wine (yes, those do exist) never garners good results.

 

The other day, I got a text from That’s Not Chinese which read, “What do you think about white zin?” That’s Not Chinese, like the Chinese, wholeheartedly believes in the power of red, so her text was interesting to me. I replied, “I like it, why? I like rosé too.” Her response, “Lame.” Turns out, That’s Not Chinese had been watching a Bears game, ran out of wine, and sent a text to Mini Me asking her to stop at the liquor store. Mini Me kindly obliged and, in addition to bringing red for That’s Not Chinese, brought white zinfandel for herself. In the case of That’s Not Chinese, I would recommend always taking at least two bottles of ‘nice’ red. Once she drinks them she won’t notice or care about what color of wine you are enjoying.

 

Alice is a lot like That’s Not Chinese when it comes to red, in that, she loves her red wine. A few days after receiving That’s Not Chinese’s text messages we all got together for red wine stooping. That’s Not Chinese advised us that, although red wine is both good for her heart and soul, it has been causing her some problems. “Acid reflux,” she told us. “Tomatoes and red wine seem to be causing major heartburn for me. So, I’m cutting back on my tomato consumption.” “Good thinking,” Alice stated.

 

That’s Not Chinese eventually went home, leaving Alice and I to stoop on our own. We did so for several bottles and hours – something we don’t do very often because, as ‘they’ suggest, moderation is important. We fed our souls, hearts and friendships – all very good things. We didn’t, however, feed our bellies, which made me wonder the next morning, when my stomach was growling and my head was pounding, “Better off red? Not today.”

One thing I’ve learned about business is a lot of meetings are held just for the sake of the meeting.  In addition, many focus groups are held to appease  funding requirements 0r create the appearance of caring about what others think. Strategic planning, a popular business phrase and concept,  is something that often takes place as a result of focus groups and management meetings and can take months and many meetings to complete.

 

I understand the importance of meetings. Without them, when would I practice my cursive? Focus groups are important too – they provide an opportunity to have work events catered. Strategic planning, however, I don’t entirely embrace. I’ve participated in several and, in most cases, have enjoyed the opportunity to gripe with coworkers and/or reconnect with old friends/work acquaintances.

 

When I was recently asked to facilitate a strategic planning, I replied, ‘yes,’ hung up the phone, and muttered, “shit!” I am the last person who should be in charge of such activity. I get derailed, encourage debates (about everything, but in this case, about vision v. mission), and, put simply, don’t focus. Surprisingly, after almost eight hours of facilitating, we completed a strategic plan in which their vision became their mission (Or did their mission become their mission? I can’t remember), and they had no more than five easily obtainable goals. In addition, we completed the process with an hour to spare.

 

The latter was the most important because, as it started to get closer to five, I started to focus less and less on the planning and more and more on the cars leaving the parking lot to go home. This became my driving force, literally, for finishing with an hour to spare. I would have ended sooner, but we had break food coming and it was really good – strategic planning I can totally embrace.

Oreggano and I made plans to get together for coffee. Our plans were solid until about eight hours before we were scheduled to meet when Oreggano sent me this message, “…we could skip coffee and do wine.” And so it was. We met, had dinner, and wine. Then we had an appetizer and wine. Then, we just had wine. The latter happened like this:

 

Server: “Would you like another glass of wine?”
Oreggano: “Why not?!? Let’s have another glass, we’re both driving.”

 

Surprisingly, even with Oreggano’s ‘you don’t say that kind of thing at the bar comment,’ the server still brought us the wine.

 

The next night, while holding an impromptu SL,UT Cuts, MiniMe was telling a story about her ex and his new love. “He’s better off,” Beaner stated. We all looked at her in shock and Bruiser’s husband said, “I know I’m a guy, and not really up on girl talk, but I don’t think that was good.” “I meant to say ‘you’re better off,’ I swear,” Beaner corrected herself. “Sure,” MiniMe replied, shocked and deflated. That was definitely something you don’t say to someone about their ex. Unless, of course, you’re Oreggano and I. In which case, nothing goes unsaid because, as we’ve said many times before, “We’ve been meaning to talk to you……” We do say.

Sometimes I just want to take the words right out of somebody’s mouth, song or movie and pretend they’re mine. It’s easy to do. For example, there are times when people will say, “What do you want to do?” I’ll reply, “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m easy. Like Sunday morning.” Thank you Lionel – you’ve made quick quips classy.

 

Other times, like when I’m accidentally peeing on my dress at the fair, I prefer to quote Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids, “Look away!” No need to be classy at a time like this.

 

Some of my favorites words are often shared with That’s Not Chinese. She’s Greek, but not a very good one – doesn’t like olives or ouzo. A while back, when we worked together, a coworker was putting together ‘diversity’ information and she asked him, “What about the Greeks? Where are the Greeks?” He informed her Greeks were categorized with refugees. From that point forward, I started telling her what Tom Petty has told many people, “It don’t really matter to me. You don’t have to live like a refugee. You don’t have to live like a refugee.” She usually doesn’t get too upset about our coworker’s ignorance or my comments because, like a good Greek, she is often doing as the French do – drinkin’ wine spo-dee-o-dee. That last line is courtesy of Mr. Stick McGhee.

 

 

I was taking a walk one day and a woman invited me into her garden. A sucker for horticulture, I anxiously accepted the offer. She showed me several of her fruits, vegetables and herbs, then gave me some to take home. About a week later, as I was making dinner, I decided to try what she shared with me. Specifically, the red Habanero pepper/chili. It was then I decided I prefer the Habanero visually as opposed to internally. As a lovely, vibrant, flowering perennial, it is great. In my mouth, ears (yes, my ears) and, eventually, out my ass – not so lovely.

 

Kind of reminded me of a time I dated a guy who had accidentally blown off several of his fingers with a stick of dynamite. Due to the nerve damage, he had a prescription for a topical cream to rub on the ends of the fingers (we called them ‘nubs’). One day, after applying the cream to his nubs, he decided the feeling was too good not to share. So, he put some topical cream on another one of his ‘nerve endings’ and, within minutes, I had to advise him (while fighting back the burning), “External Use Only.”

 

 

Wanting to be pampered, and never having done so together, That’s Not Chinese and I set an appointment for manis and pedis. We arrived, saw all of the women waiting in the chairs, and advised staff of our appointment. They looked at the appointment book – which had nothing but written in it and said, “Oh, yes, pick a color and sit.”

 

We picked our color, sat in the chairs, dipped our feet in the tubs, and enjoyed our ‘coffee.’ As the staff did our nails, I shared a New York mani/pedi story with That’s Not Chinese. The staff spoke with each other, quietly, in a language foreign to me. “That’s Not Chinese,” That’s Not Chinese told me. “No, it isn’t. It wasn’t Chinese in New York either. Regardless, I’m not sure how they hear each other – they speak so quietly and us, well, everyone hears us speak.”

 

A few minutes later the girl doing That’s Not Chinese’s nails told her she had been listening to us talk and trying not to laugh. “You seem to have a pretty good time. Next time when you come, instead of coffee in your cups, you should have wine or alcohol. Then you could have a really good time.” “That is a great idea,” That’s Not Chinese replied gesturing to the bottom of her cup where the wine had bled through. I acknowledged her gesture, raised my ‘coffee’ cup and whispered, “Cheers! That is a language we understand – we are now officially nail salon lingual.”