Category: blog

BioMom, Oreggano and I have been longing for a girls night out together for some time and tonight was the night. As we drove toward our destination – a lovely bistro with a $1 cork fee, we got a call from Tree and FatGirl. They, too, were having a ‘girls’ night out, so we invited them to join us.

 

They arrived and FatGirl excitedly announced he was planning to buy a condo and become a foster parent. “I want a young girl,” he told us. “That may set off some red flags,” Oreggano replied. “Not too young, like 12 and older,” he clarified. “It still may be cause for alarm, but once they meet you they’ll know they need not have concerns,” Oreggano told him, then said to Tree, “You realize he is totally going to get into cat fights with these girls, right?” “Oh, I know,” Tree said as though it wasn’t the first time he and FatGirl had discussed it. “Yep, I want a girl. 12 years or older. Hispanic. With long hair,” FatGirl advised us. “This isn’t a Build-A-Bear workshop. This is a human being,” Tree informed him.

 

After several hours of other patrons most likely wishing we would take our conversations elsewhere, we got the bill. “Divide it in half by five and add 20%,” BioMom told the server who, already confused with all of our requests, was now completely baffled. “We really should have just paid before we started drinking,” Tree advised. “True. Although, the service wasn’t too great,” Oreggano observed. Maybe next time we can make a different kind of request – for a server,  12 years of age or older, long hair, Hispanic.

We’ve all received them – those gifts given to us that were intended for someone else. Sometimes, they were originally received as a gift by the individual gifting them to us, thus, making it a regift. Regifting, for some, is a privilege – a day of celebration. In fact, there is actually a National Regifting Day – the third Thursday of December. Statistically, according to the National Regifting Day website, coworkers are the recipients of regifting in four out of ten regifts. It’s nice to be a statistic.

 

When I arrived at work the other day I found a gift and card waiting for me. The gift was small, tied with twine and had a hang tag detailing the manufacturer of the gift. As I read the hang tag I flipped it over and noticed a handwritten message, “Thank you, Gabrielle.” “Gabrielle?” I thought to myself. “I don’t know anyone named Gabrielle. I also don’t know what I might have done that would result in gift thank you.”

 

The suspense was killing me, so I tore open the card. Keep in mind, I still hadn’t unwrapped the gift. The card was for someone turning 40, however, had been tweaked to reflect the fact that I turned 41. The handwritten message read, “Okay, so the card wasn’t picked just for you, but the gift was!” The card was signed by a very good friend and coworker whose name is not Gabrielle. Four in ten, that’s me. Being one of proper etiquette, I wrote two thank you notes – one for my friend and one for Gabrielle. “Thank you, Gabrielle, truly, thank you.”

For the record, I did not graduate in 1986. I wish I did, however, for one reason: so I could 86 people on a regular basis.

 

During a costume change at EAR – Part Deux, one of our alumni opted to don one of my favorite accessories – a furry, black ‘Zoolander’ jacket. As always, the jacket was the perfect accessory. While the rest of us made several costume changes, she stayed in the Zoolander. The evening soon turned into morning and I noticed my Zoolander was missing, as was the alumnus wearing it. I soon found both laying atop my bed. Not wanting anyone to drive home intoxicated, and realizing she had no intention of sleeping anywhere else for the time being, I offered her something to sleep in. She declined and I returned to the stoop.

 

A few minutes later, I realized I left my camera in my bedroom and returned to find it. Just as I approached my room, she was walking out, in the Zoolander, holding a pillow. She said nothing to me, went into the bathroom and shut the door. It was then that it hit me. Literally. Smack-bang in the face. The smell of bile. And as I walked across my floor, I felt it. It was like Nickelodeon was hosting the reunion and my room had been slimed. Or, in this case, biled. My bedding was ruined, as was my Zoolander. On My Terms was disgusted and repeated a phrase she had been saying all night, “Elite Alumni Reunion. Elite!”

 

While the alumnus in my Zoolander attempted to clean up in the bathroom, I cleaned up my bedroom. The latter included 86ing my sheets, pillows and, saddest of all, my Zoolander – which she finally returned to me, covered in mozzarella, clam dip and the like. “Nobody likes a party pooper puker,” On My Terms later said to me. “Party pooper puker is definitely not synonymous with elite,” I replied. In addition to actually throwing up on my stuff, she had been throwing up verbally on all of us all night. “With that much poison inside, it’s no wonder she puked,” On My Terms wisely stated. I concurred, thought about my Zoolander and then smiled knowing what Derek Zoolander would say, “I’m sorry that good-looking people like us made you throw up and feel bad about yourself.” Yes, so sorry. I’m not sorry to say, however, that you’re 86ed.

 

Being part of an elite group is easy for me. This is primarily because, with this specific group, I didn’t join it, I created it. This year, at our second Elite Alumni Reunion, a few extra people were invited. On My Terms and I, self-appointed chairs, agreed to the invitations even though neither of us had seen or spent much time with the alumni since high school.

 

Prior to the event, On My Terms suggested we do a group photo wearing denim overalls. Unfortunately, unlike me, not everyone had held onto their overalls since high school and the secondhand stores didn’t seem to have any in stock (hot commodity). Still wanting to do a group photo, we opted for the next best thing to denim overalls – moo moos. “I love moo moos! I’ll bring mine,” So Hip told me. In addition to bringing her own moo moo, she brought several fine costumes for us to wear throughout the evening. She is truly so hip.

 

By two or so in the morning we had posed for group photos in our moo moos, moved from the backyard to the stoop, karaoked, experienced several costume changes and decided to walk someone home. “Grab the toilet paper, just in case,” On My Terms advised me. I did so and a few houses down from my house, near the neighborhood park, we found a shopping cart. I immediately hopped in the cart and On My Terms started pushing. We hadn’t traveled more than four or five sidewalk slats when she said, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” The next thing I knew, the cart was on it’s side and I had been dumped. Luckily, I looked good because I was donning the outfit So Hip was wearing when she arrived (a dress several others had worn in the past several hours) and I was still holding my wine glass – which, surprisingly, still had drink in it. Oh, and I was fine – injury free. When a passerby in a car, who noticed our debauchery at the park, stopped mid-street,  we all started shouting, “We’re fine, we’re fine. Please disperse.” We quickly found out they couldn’t care less about our activity, they were lost and hoping we could point them in the right direction. Not tonight.

 

After taking our new friend home, So Hip decided to give toilet papering a go and threw a roll upward. The roll immediately came right back down – the trees were still toilet paper free, but the streets were not. “I’ve lost my touch,” she said. We all had. In addition, the ‘quick’ walk home had taken so long we had lost touch with the other elitists back at the house. By the time we arrived home, one was passed out in my bed and another was soon to be asked to leave. “Elite Alumni Reunion. Elite. Really?!?!” On My Terms said under her breath. She was right. Our Elite Alumni Reunion, like the shopping cart, was just about to take a turn for the worse.

Like many, since I graduated from high school I haven’t seen most of my alumni. I attempted to attend one high school reunion, only to find out I had the date wrong (silly subconscious); five years later, Mini Sprinkle Donut and I gave it another go. Just as in high school, the ‘cool kids’ sat together and we sat with the rockers/stoners. As was the case then, the rockers/stoners were the kindest and most accepting of the alumni. Surprisingly, they were also some of the most successful and happy alumni – which is exactly why being ‘cool’ has never really mattered to me. The reunion was boring and poorly attended, so we decided to do what we did in school and crash a party. In this case, it was the Catholic high school reunion taking place in the ballroom and it was a good time.

 

It was about this time that I decided reunions weren’t for me. So, when I received the announcement for our twenty year reunion, I was thankful to be living in a city that recycled – the invite went straight to my blue bin. I had reconnected with a few friends/alumni and we decided we would hold our own reunion at my house, only inviting a few alumni. Alas, the Elite Alumni Reunion (EAR) was born.

 

Unlike my first high school reunion, the first EAR was a smashing success. For starters, we got smashed and stayed smashed all night – just as we did when we hung out in high school. We made human pyramids, longed for fast food (nobody was driving anywhere), karaoked (to On My Terms and I, it is a verb), toilet papered somebody’s house, and ended up sleeping in the backyard until, 1) it started raining and 2) So Hip whacked us upside the head to inform us it was raining and we should go inside.

 

Due to the smashing success, our elite group decided we would reconvene, at a time to be determined at a later date, and that date has come.

I was sharing stories with Oreggano about my recent adventures in New York and told her about an idea I had. The idea came to me while perusing the hundreds of pictures I took. The majority of the pictures were good. The rest, well, if I was famous, the media would have a heyday. I can see the headlines now:

 

“Is that a baby bump?”

 

“Tight dress (that was originally purchased as a moomoo) sparks pregnancy rumors.”

 

“She says burrito, we say baby.”

 

“Is that a baby in your belly or are you just happy to see me?”

 

My response, to seeing the baby bump pictures and the headlines, is simple, “Oh hell no!” Most of the time, I take a pretty good picture. In fact, one doesn’t even have to instruct me to say “Cheese” – an old photography trick that, when said, typically causes us to pull our lips back and bare our teeth. Unfortunately, on my recent pool and beach side adventure, all I was saying was, “Cottage Cheese” and “Muffin top.” Both food items, like cheese, so I guess that’s good. I’d just rather see them at the grocery store than on my body.

 

Anyway, my idea is to make my friends and I famous by posting horrible pictures of us, complete with horrible headlines, on an online rag – a localized Enquirer resulting in self-made notoriety. “I’ve got loads of bad pictures already, so we should be good to go for some time. Plus, it would be easy to come up with some rumors about each other,” I told Oreggano. “No problem on making up shit – we’re good at that. If we need more pictures, we can just hire a photographer to follow us around. Maybe Dr. BJ. He’s notorious for taking and posting some of the most unflattering pictures of people,” she replied.

 

She’s right. Dr. BJ seems to have purchased a camera and computer without a delete or edit feature. As a result, there are oodles of pictures of us out there on the world wide web where not only are our faces saying “Cheese,” they are also saying, “Duh,” “I’m drunk as a skunk,” “I’m going to close my eyes for this pic” and, last but not least, “Oh hell no!”

Oreggano and I decided to grab 4-0h-9 and head to their local farmers’ market. We arrived in time for the band and found a nice spot on the lawn to set up our chairs and enjoy the evening.

 

Within minutes of the band playing, an old, skinny man in jeans, a t-shirt and a cowboy hat, started dancing around the park. “Oh look, your dad is here,” Oreggano told me. “I’m pretty sure that’s your dad, Bow Tie Killer, and I can see why your mom got pregnant – he ain’t got no rhythm. In fact, it kind of looks like he is having a seizure,” I replied. A few minutes later, a woman from the People of Walmart website walked by. “Is that your sister?” Oreggano asked. “I had no idea we were having a family reunion here. We usually hold them at the prison,” I replied.

 

As we continued to make snarky comments and sip from our ‘coffee cups,’ a little girl, maybe two years old, approached us. She was mesmerized by 4-oh-9, so we let her hold her for a minute. As she did so, Oreggano spoke with the girl’s grandfather and I spoke with her grandmother. “OK, let’s give her back to her grandma now,” the grandmother told the little girl. “Oh, I’m not her grandma,” I said. Apparently we weren’t the only ones making snarky remarks. Regardless of whether or not the grandmother really thought I was 4-oh-9’s grandma, my ‘daughter,’ Oreggano, found it to be quite amusing. To change the subject, I reverted back to comments about her dad, “Is that a pack of cigarettes in your dad’s sleeve?” “Yep,” she replied and added, “I think it’s time we leave this family reunion.” And so we – me, my daughter and granddaughter – grabbed our chairs, empty coffee cups and bid farewell to our loved ones. Until next beer, I mean year.

That’s Not Chinese loves Mumford & Sons. Loves them. A while back we decided to take a train trip to see their concert in a neighboring state, however, it turns out she is not the only person who loves them. The concert sold out within five minutes. “Guess we’ll have to go see it here. At the stinky lake,” she said, as though surrendering.

 

The concert venue in our town was originally built in the late 1800s and was intended to be a resort-like, ‘safe and wholesome’ place for families. It was also believed it would be the West coast Coney Island. None of those things are true today. Fires, receding water, loads of brine shrimp dying and rotting, and runoff from nearby sewage facilities have, sadly, reduced the public’s draw to the lake/resort. These days, the venue is most commonly used for raves. Some might say that is because one would have to be high in order to tolerate the stank. Most would agree, especially on a windy day.

 

We arrived around sunset and the view was spectacular. Sailboats were on the water, the sky was painted with fluffy orange, white and periwinkle hues and the temperature was perfect. The band started and, within minutes, the wind blew through causing it to smell like someone farted. “This is such a beautiful venue,” Country Winston Marshall said and added, “we’ve been pinching ourselves all day.” “Pinching their noses closed to block the stank,” I quipped. “No shit,” That’s Not Chinese agreed. “No. Shit,” Unfazed stated. “Actually, I think you’re right. That may be sewage we’re smelling,” That’s Not Chinese said. The breeze soon stopped, we stopped pinching our noses and, fortunately, the talent was unstoppable.

 

“These guys are so good,” That’s Not Chinese exclaimed. “He is one talented mother fucker,” I stated, referring to Mumford. “I just love this,” That’s Not Chinese said, happy as a live brine shrimp. “You should pinch yourself,” I advised. “To prove this is real?” That’s Not Chinese asked. “No, another wind is about to blow through,” I said and we all pinched our noses.

It’s been a while since my last art class and when I arrived today the only thing I remembered how to do, right away, was pour a glass of wine and snack on appetizers. Luckily, I wasn’t alone – Standard Time was experiencing the same memory lapse.

 

We eventually made our way to the table and began our paintings for the evening. As we started doing so, One And Done had grabbed the black paint. “Be very careful,” Ice Cream Man’s Mom advised. “Once you go black….” I felt it would be best to interrupt, “You never go back?” “Exactly. It is very hard to go back to other colors after black. “We know,” Standard Time quipped.

 

We continued painting and, although One And Done was using the black paint, she had muted it a little. “Do you see what I mean about black? It just goes so deep,” Ice Cream Man’s Mom pointed out. “Oh, we know,” Standard Time quipped, again, and we all laughed hysterically.

 

This art class has been really great for all of us. We’ve learned so much and, thanks to our dirty minds, so much more than Ice Cream Man’s Mom ever intended to teach us. Where else can you drink, eat, and learn about going black, keeping it wet, and stroking for the low price of $12? Nowhere, that’s where. You know what they say, once you go black….

While at lunch with The Responsible One, Q and some of Q’s coworkers, we discussed dating. They’re all in relationships, so they were providing dating suggestions to me. “Dating is a part-time job – that’s what my friend says anyway,” her coworker said and then suggested, “You should go on one of those sugar daddy websites.” “She can’t date anyone 50 or older. That’s my rule. Although that would be funny to hear the stories. Maybe one date,” Q advised. “Maybe you should date someone in their twenties,” her coworker suggested. “I’m not doing that again,” I replied.

 

“Speaking of bad dates,” I said and then told them about a creeper from work who appears to be trying to ask me out. The Responsible One has the privilege of working with him and when I told her about my interactions with him she did not hesitate to provide feedback. “He is the creep of the week. Thought for sure he was a pedophile when I met him,” she said and added, “You should be flattered.” “Flattered?!?!” I asked. “Why? And why do you no longer think he is a pedophile?” “I think he is. That’s why I thought you should be flattered. He must think you are very young,” The Responsible One quipped. “I love that!” Q’s coworker told The Responsible One. “I totally plan to use that line on people from now on.”

 

By the end of lunch, the subject had been changed and I managed to escape their dating plans for me. Which is fine for now because, according to The Responsible One’s theory, I’m very young, thus, have a lot of life and dating ahead of me.