Category: blog

I had the privilege of flying to New York with Skiwi and DDDG. This privilege included The Crown Room, preflight, and an upgrade to a “Comfy Seat.”

It also included a very set schedule. Although Skiwi has never been a drill sergeant, one wouldn’t know that if they traveled with him.

Pre-trip, he created a food spreadsheet, complete with Costco pricing, and sent it to me, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man, YummYummy and Good Eye Money Guy for review. “You realize they have stores in the Hamptons, right?”Good Eye Money Guy replied. Skiwi realizes this, but he loves Costco and listmaking. In order to test whether or not we actually reviewed the spreadsheet, he added a nonfood item: a Speedo. Two, actually. One for him and one for Ice Cream Man.

Two other pre-trip details of great importance to Skiwi were luggage size and departure time. “Remember to only pack a small, soft-sided suitcase,” he advised me. Anyone who has traveled with me knows this didn’t and wouldn’t happen.

The other, and probably most important detail to Skiwi, is time. “Let’s leave to the airport at 6:30,” he advised. Our flight departed at 8:30 AM, the airport is only 15 minutes away, and I don’t typically arrive any time sooner than the checked bags cutoff. Plus, at 6:30 AM, I’m only halfway through my slumber. “6:40?” I attempted to compromise. “No. 6:30,” he replied.

So, after finishing packing and finalizing household matters – such as dressing up like famous Hamptonite Little Edie, I went to bed. Three hours later, I woke up, showered and retrieved Skiwi and DDDG at 6:29 – one minute to spare. Or, as Skiwi would say, “T Minus One.”

First things first. Driver License? Really? Nobody refers to it as ‘Driver License.’ Everyone, except for people who speak English as a second language, refers to it as ‘Driver’s License.’ Possessive. Right and wrong. Possessive is exactly what people with a Driver License become when they are renewing their license – they hate giving up their old one. Especially, if it is a good picture.

The picture on one’s driving license, license with which they legally drive, or fake ID, is actually the most important part of the license. I once watched an Oprah show in which she gave three very important pointers: powder your face, stick your neck up and out, and something else that I cannot recall. Some people recommend dressing up, others recommend being sober. I would agree with the latter – the driver license division is the last place you want to drive to after drinking. As far as dressing up, I wouldn’t worry about it. One year, BeCuz wore a tube top. She looked naked in her picture and a lot of people liked checking her ID.

This year, as I prepared for my picture, I sent That’s Not Chinese a text. “Heading to Driver License Division for a new DL. Should I smile or smirk?” “Do both, it is what I did and I look like I’m high,” was her reply. I took her advice and I believe my picture looks a bit like a smugshot. “You don’t look high, that is a bonus,” That’s Not Chinese told me. True, I don’t look high, but the current picture is in black and white. Once in color, it could be a totally different story. I’m hoping by the time I get it in the mail they will have passed legislation so I may have a Driver’s License, not a Driver License – it just makes sense. In the meantime, I’m pleased to see my skin isn’t shiny in the picture.

We all have our limits. I found out about mine when I went to the library today. “We need to let you know you can only request five items for purchase each month. Based on the number of items you’ve requested, you can’t make any more suggestions until September.” “OK,” I replied. I figured my luck with them purchasing every item I recommended would eventually run out. “We really appreciate your suggestions,” the library staff continued. “Without them we wouldn’t have such a diverse selection.” Diverse. Right.

FatGirl is also a fan of diverse selections. After learning of my library limits, I met him at the park to work off that which I didn’t take care of at the gym. I don’t’ mind going to the gym, but I don’t want to take it for granted, so I set time limits – preferably no more than 30 minutes for me. FatGirl, on the other hand, doesn’t mind staying a while because he spends a majority of his minutes checking out other guys. This is not an activity he limits for the gym – he checks guys out everywhere. “I’m so horny right now,” he told me. “I know,” I replied. I didn’t really know for sure, but I assumed, based on how many times he did double takes. “I started flirting hard the other day,” he told me. “What does that mean?” I asked. “I just told people, ‘I’m going to start flirting’ and I did it. It’s hard flirting with gay guys.” “Not for me,” I replied. FatGirl likes to flirt with straight men and I tend to flirt with gay men. Why? Well, we all have our limits and, clearly, FatGirl and I are trying to limit our dating options.

I have many strengths, being coordinated is not one of them.  Most of the time my lack of coordination is a simple result of me being me. Occasionally, there are other contributing factors.

Several years ago, I was watering my lawn – which I do manually – and had to move the sprinkler/hose. Instead of turning off the water, I opted to run through the sprinkler, move it, and run back to the house. Halfway through my mission, all was good; the rest of the way, not so much. As I sprinted toward the house, my flip flop blew out. Apparently, leaving my flip flops outside all day compromised the structure and, between my daring dash and weak rubber, my flips flopped. I ended up sliding across the sidewalk like a baseball player sliding into home. Unlike a baseball player, nobody was cheering and I didn’t score any points for this move. Instead, I ditched the flops and ran into the house to administer first aid to various parts of my body. Luckily, I had alcohol for the pain.

Fast forward to last week and I again experienced a situation with my flip flops. I decided to brave my workhood – a bit dodgy regardless of your footwear – and as I walked through the neighborhood I encountered sprinklers. Being that this neighborhood is on a very busy street, I opted to stay on the sidewalk and take my chances with the sprinklers. Although this prevented an auto/pedestrian incident, it did not prevent incidents in general. One flip flop hit a slick part of the sidewalk and, in order to avoid looking like the roadkill I had walked by, I attempted to stop my flop with my other flip. My attempt, though successful, still resulted in injury. As any good, wounded soldier would do in foreign territory, I marched on. Blood streaming. Pride beaming. My flips may have flopped, but my faceplant was stopped and, sometimes, that is all that matters.

It’s that time of  year again – when I pack up my bags and my friends and head to the Hamptons. As was the case last year, we’ll have a decent group: Me, YummYummy, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man, Skiwi, DDDG, Good Eye Money Guy, I’ll Drink It and a couple of people I’ve never met.

Luckily, the back barn isn’t rented out this year which means we’ll have a ‘quiet house’ and a ‘fun house.’ YummYummy, Sleepless, Ice Cream Man and I will not be in the quiet house. We’ll be having fun, not so quietly, across the way, in the barn. Although none of us were born in a barn, we are familiar with the phrase and are more than ready to put it into practice – the ill-mannered part, anyway.

As a result, others have stepped forward to be responsible. Specifically, Skiwi. While on a recent shopping trip at a big box store, he and DDDG took pictures of items and prices, then Skiwi created a food itinerary/shopping list and sent it to us for our review. A few  hours after receiving the email, I received a text message from YummYummy, “30 bottles of wine and 10 bottles of champy for 5 days?! – holy fuck your friends can drink!” Coming from her, that is a very cute text message. She and I have been known to eat and drink our way across New York on more than one occasion.

This year, instead of crawling from pub to pub, we’ll just cross (crawling, running, skipping) the yard to the main house for food and drinks. If we’re on top of our game, we’ll even try to remember to close the barn door.

Our local farmer’s market has a lot of big greens, but that is not what this is about.

Bobby’s Girl was in town for our town’s arts festival and, as we were walking around checking out the artists’ work, she said, “Remind me to tell you a story about my bikini wax.” Q asked, “You don’t want to tell it now?” “No, I think I’ll save it for dinner,” she replied. “Good idea,” I said and added, “Then we can pair it with wine.”

Our wine was poured and our appetizers were in front of us when Bobby’s Girl chose to share the story. “So I decided to get a bikini wax. I’d never been before and wasn’t sure if you wore underwear for it. I wore a nice pair, just in case. The lady looked at me and said, ‘Why you wear big lady panties?’ She paused, looked again and said, ‘And they’re green.'” “So what were you wearing?” Q asked. “I had these big green underpants on,” Bobby’s Girl replied. “No wonder you aren’t dating,” MyFace quipped. “Well, she told me I should wear thongs. ‘You wear thong, you get big ring on your finger.’ Once she started waxing, she said, ‘You really bushy. I have to charge more.'” “Did she charge you by the inch?” our other friend asked as tears from laughing were streaming down her face and the faces of Q and MyFace.

Bobby’s Girl didn’t pause to answer this question and continued with her story. “I was telling someone at work about it and she said, ‘I’ve heard the 20-year-olds shave everything.’ I told her, ‘I’m going to ask my kids.’ Then she said, ‘Maybe it’s a white thing.’ Then I started thinking about when my tubs would clog up and I thought, ‘huh.’ Anyway, I wear thongs now.”

“I’m really glad you rectified it,” MyFace told Bobby’s Girl then looked at me and advised, “You have to change her blog name to Bushy.” I took it under advisement, but I really like Bobby’s Girl – that story is equally as funny. Maybe her name could be Bobby’s Bushy Girl.

I was invited to join a friend and her husband for dinner. As other guests arrived, it become obvious that most were part of a pair. The only exceptions being me and a British guy. “Are you his wife?” one of the guests asked me as introductions were being made. “No,” I replied. A few introductions later, someone else asked if the Brit was my husband. I stuck with my previous answer.

Once at the restaurant, everyone took a seat around the table; Brit and I ended up sitting across from each other. Several of the guests asked for separate checks and were advising the server who would be included on their separate check. “Are you two together?” she asked Brit and I. “No, but that is the third time someone has asked tonight. Maybe we should be,” Brit replied.

When he told the server he was only drinking, not eating, she advised him he couldn’t – state law. “Just put our checks together,” I told the server. “I think I’ll call my wife and let her know I’m taking a second wife,” Brit said. “Will I like her?” I asked. “Yes,” Brit replied. “Well if we’re going to be married, I need to know a little more about you. Where in England are you from?” I asked. “A town known for three things: broken glass, infertility and incest,” he replied.

Maybe I should have given being a second wife a second thought.

I’ve got a little book of beards. No, not my little black address book. An actual book about beards….and a couple of moustaches.

My book actually details descriptions and photos of various beard types, to include, but not limited to, Garibaldi, A La Souvarov, French Fork, Chin Strap, Designer Stubble, and Ho Chi Minh.

Sometimes I wish it featured other beards, even those recently shaved. Who doesn’t want details about and photos of Katie Holmes, Kelly Preston, and that really kind, dapper married guy from the office?

I’m not opposed to beards – shaving is a lot of work. That said, if one only quasi-shaves, or uses dull blades to do so, there is a good chance they’ll end up itchy, rashy and may stand out (more) in a crowd. Shedding the beard – be it shaving, waxing, laser treatment or coming out – can be freeing for everyone, the beard included.

I know a lot of people, who normally don’t have a beard, don one in the months of October and November to increase cancer awareness. I propose a month wear we all shave our ‘beards,’ to increase awareness and social acceptance about sexual orientation. Since October and November are taken by cancer awareness and March (aka Muffuary) is taken by Southern beard awareness, I’m thinking the month should be May. Gay May. It’s simple, it rhymes, it makes sense. Next May, get ready to get your beard off.

While dining with MiniMe and I Noticed, we discussed clever uses of recycled glass. As we admired our wine bottle turned drinking glass, MiniMe got thinking. “If they serve the water in old wine bottles, I wonder what they serve the wine in.” Although old water bottles might have been more apropos, they actually served the wine in good, old-fashioned wine glasses.

As MiniMe continued to rave about the water glasses, I began to wonder why wine bottles are concave on the bottom. I Noticed was not sure, however, MiniMe thought it might be so one could put a finger there while pouring the wine. I wasn’t sold on this theory and MiniMe suggested I ask the server. I did and he didn’t know, although, he did suggest MiniMe’s theory, then suggested we ‘google’ it. “What did we do before google?” I Noticed asked. “I referred to encyclopedias. I would go home, look in the encyclopedia and most likely not find an answer. Which explains a lot – I had a lot of unanswered questions as a child,” I replied.

We googled it and quickly learned nobody really knows why. There are a variety of theories surrounding why and many seem plausible (captures sediment, stability, large punt = good wine, keeps the bottom from scratching surfaces,  etc.), however, most are without merit. Also without merit, but with a great name, was MiniMe’s pouring theory, commonly known as the Proctologists Grip – best used when drinking assidic wines.