Category: blog

I have had the good fortune, the last two days in a row, of having one of my friends request an impromptu glass of wine on my stoop at or around five o’clock. Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffet were right when they sang ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere.’ That somewhere is on my stoop and the actual hour will now be appropriately coined, Jimmy Jack Time.

 

That’s Not Chinese was my first friend to stop by and did so with this introduction, “I’m in your backyard investigating a crime scene.” She makes this comment in regards to Fuckin’ Cat – the neighborhood cat who kills my gnomes, uses the hood of my car as a slide (and he has claws – D-Dog  and Sleepless might suggest I enforce a Claws Clause), poos on my lawn and in my plants, and makes his way into my home without permission. “He is a true cat burglar,” I advised her as we enjoyed our wine. “No he isn’t. Your daughter is a cat burglar. She comes over and steals your food,” That’s Not Chinese countered. She might want to keep watching Law & Order before ‘practicing’ any more law.

 

The next day, Oreggano sent me a text suggesting we share a  bottle of wine and I came home to find her and 4-oh-9 patiently waiting for me on the stoop. “Good timing. If I had to wait any longer I was going to pee in your front yard,” she told me. “Two people would love that,” I said and added, “That’s Not Chinese and the creeper across the street.” Although That’s Not Chinese wasn’t around to approve this activity, the creeper and his paternal creeper were across the way – ready, staring and waiting.

 

As we sat on the stoop, discussed all of the most important life events and drank wine, the passersby (a couple walking with a compressor, a guy dancing on a skateboard, a kid pantomiming with his right hand, and  a couple pulling a wagon full of clothes, to name a few) were providing good entertainment. “You pulled out all the stops tonight,” Oreggano told me. “I’m glad you appreciate the entertainment. I just sent out a tweet saying we would be stooping and they not only showed up, they shined,” I replied.

 

What wasn’t shining, as of late, were the sex lives of myself and several others.  Oreggano and I discussed the fact that, for women, sex drives/interest change with age, situation and hormones, but never really seem to change for men. “On My Terms told me she recently caught her 93-year-old grandpa jacking off,” I told Oreggano. He clearly misunderstood the term ‘Jimmy Jack Time.’ “I don’t think you need to have sex all of the time to maintain a good relationship,” Oreggano told me. “I agree. We’ve never had sex and we have a great relationship,” I said.

 

She agreed, we continued to enjoy our Jimmy Jack Time and, I’ve no doubt, my creeper neighbor – not as old as On My Terms’ grandpa, but getting up there (pun intended?) – sat across the way, in the dark, staring and enjoying his Jimmy Jack Time.

D-Dog has decided to study law or, as some call it, statute. I like to call it statue, but I’m different from most and I think it is funny to tell people, “That’s a major statue violation.”  D-Dog stopped by my house so we could enjoy a ‘going away’ dinner at a nearby restaurant, which involved a lot of tapas we didn’t order,  a bottle of wine and, luckily, no statue violations.

 

As we enjoyed our wine, the server brought us several dishes. The first was amazing for two reasons: it was tasty and we ordered it. The second and third were also amazing for one reason: they looked delicious, but we didn’t order them. “Papas y Aioli,” said the server while setting down a mouth watering potato dish. “Not ours,” said D-Dog. “Coles de Bruselas,” said the server when attempting to bring us another tapas, “Not ours,” D-Dog again advised. Her two two-word responses indicated to me that she will be an amazing attorney.

 

We finished our meal and, prior to walking home, D-Dog decided to use the loo. As she walked away, I realized she may need to stay the night at my house.  Luckily, my gate was close because her gait was quite off. “I think I’ll just rest, drink a little water, and then go,” she told me.

 

As she rested and drank water, I got cozy in my carbon monoxide chair and slowly started getting drowsy. We were discussing dreams and she grabbed my dream book and began analyzing – very attorney of her. As she analyzed, I went in out and of sleep, but tried to not get caught doing so because I didn’t want to seem like a rude host. I told her about a few dreams I had recently. In one, I was abducted by la migra. In another, I had an altercation with someone and threw my bar of hand soap at them. In my dream, I was both actor and director because after actor me threw the soap, director me said, “Why did  you throw that? It’s from Temecula.”

 

D-Dog enjoyed this dream, however, wasn’t able to find an analysis of it in the book. She continued looking at other analyses and I continued going in and out of sleep/dreamland. At one point, when I woke and wanted to appear as though I hadn’t been sleeping, I said, completely out of context, “You could throw a tooth at them.” “What? Throw a tooth? Why would I do that?” she asked – great debating skills, good for law. Trying to save face, I replied, “So dream me doesn’t get upset with you for throwing the soap from Temecula.”

 

While in a meeting today, I couldn’t help but think about what it might be like to make out with someone with a moustache. Yes, I was meeting with someone who had a moustache. No, I did not want to make out with him. I was just wondering.

 

His moustache was slightly longer than his upper lip. As I observed it, and watched it get wet from his drink, I pondered the make out. Several hours later, Sleepless and I were heading to our art class and the concept was still consuming my mind. “Have you ever kissed a guy with a moustache?” I asked her. “No,” she replied. “Me either, but I assume it is like going down on a girl,” I said. “I like goatees,” she told me.

 

We arrived at our art class and, instead of painting, we practiced the fine art of dining and wining. Ice Cream Man’s Mom was quite enjoying the conversation which, as usual, was diverse. I decided to ask her the same question I had asked Sleepless. Unlike Sleepless, she had kissed a guy with a moustache. Unlike me, she did not liken it to going down on a girl. In fact, she was pretty sure of that, “No. It is not like going down on a girl.”

 

Several hours later, I drove Sleepless home. As she exited the car, she glanced my way, smiled, and said, “I moustache you a question.” “I like goatees,” I replied.

In an attempt to provide a creative and profound visual at a meeting, I decided to purchase fortune cookies for distribution. People love fortune cookies. Specifically, American people. Yes, That’s Not Chinese, the fortune cookie may not, in fact, be Chinese, or Japanese, for that matter. The fortune cookie may actually be Californianese. Regardless of origin, the cookies are best known for their messages of fortune.

 

Knowing this, and knowing that most people expect this, I thought removing the fortune, and either leaving the cookie empty or replacing it with a misfortune, would create a great learning experience. I stopped at the Oriental Market to pick up a bag of cookies – kind of ironic considering the cookies are made in America – and asked the cashier, an Asian woman, if they ever sell empty fortune cookies. “Why you want bad fortune?” she asked me. She then shared what I believe may be an ancient Chinese secret, “Put in microwave for a few seconds, make fortune easy to come out.”

 

I typed up some misfortunes, giggled when I thought about people’s responses and how much more unfortunate they would be if they added ‘in bed’ at the end, then popped a cookie in the microwave. Unfortunately, pun intended, although this did soften the cookie a bit, the cookie wasn’t soft enough to easily remove the good fortune, replace with a bad fortune, and close. This task ended up being way too much work for me, one might surmise that is my bad fortune. So, instead of using the cookies for my presentation, I decided to place them on my desk for passersby to ‘enjoy.’ For the person who selects, “There will soon be a lien on your house,” it could be worse. I know, I wrote the ‘fortunes.’

BioMom and I grabbed our coffee cups and went for a long walk. This type of activity is exciting to me because not all of my friends (yes, I’m referring to you, That’s Not Chinese), enjoy walking long distances, even if they are in a walking gang. WCG (Walking City Girls) should not be in da house, they should be out on da streets – which is exactly where BioMom and I went.

 

As we walked through the city, I introduced BioMom to one of the hidden and completely bizarre treasures – the sculpture gardens. Growing up, it wasn’t a public garden, rather, it was someone’s private backyard.  My friends and I would regularly sneak in at night and scare each other (which didn’t require much effort). “Why is there a man’s head, an oversized grasshopper and a watering can at the base of that rock with the scripture engraved on it?” she asked me. There is no ‘Why?’ at this garden. Well, there are a lot of whys, but there aren’t a lot of answers as to why and, luckily, there are no longer any trespassing violations when visiting.

 

We continued on our walk and made it to our planned destination, the pub. The sky had been overcast all morning and, while sitting on the outdoor patio, the clouds started to take the look of the garden – eery and odd. I stepped inside to inspect the loo and returned to find BioMom and our server carrying our iced tea and sidecars into the restaurant. “We got a bit of a wet treat,” BioMom advised gesturing to the buckets of rain and our slightly watered down drinks. Fortunately, like the sculptures at the garden, the iced tea and sidecars were plentiful. Not only were we able to wet our pallets with sweet spirits, we were also able to wet our tops with ran and our minds, well, after the treat that BioMom saw at the sculpture gardens, our minds will never be the same.

Nothing quite compares to starting my weekend with TooStalky. After spending several hours in Grigio Gardens, I decided it was time to pay someone to pull the weeds. I called TooStalky, bantered about price, and the next thing I knew he was in my backyard. Well, he wasn’t, but the guys he pays to do the work were back there. He, of course, was knocking on all of my doors. I finally met him on the stoop and, after giving him money, he took a seat on one of the chairs for a little Saturday morning conversation with me.

 

As we sat, he spoke with me about other jobs, my car, and various other matters. Then, he got a call. As he spoke to the caller in Tongan, I noticed my neighbor (the one with whom I am ‘in the civil relationship’), heading out for the day. I wished her well and she apologized, “Sorry I haven’t stopped by to check in our relationship.” “That’s quite fine. It’s how I prefer it. No stopping by,” I replied then pointed to TooStalky and said, “Don’t be jealous.” “Oh, I won’t. I don’t get jealous,” she replied. “This is a perfect civil union. See you next time I see you,” I waved her away.

 

TooStalky had decided to leave – not to work, to run errands while his ‘boys’ worked. Prior to leaving he asked about working in my yard the following Monday. “I’m not sure I’ve got the money to do what you want me to do,” I told him. “You know what?!? You hurt my feelings,” he stated. “I hurt your feelings? How?” I asked. “I give you best deal because you’re my best customer but you don’t want me to work,” he said, trying to maintain upset. “I’ll call you later. Maybe,” I told him.

 

Too bad all of my relationships can’t be like the relationship with my neighbor. Those of you with whom I regularly spend time, don’t be jealous, I’m just sayin’……

While lying in bed one morning, The Responsible One noticed something most of us only want to find in the form of sugar and in our tea. She went to the doctor and it was confirmed – she had breast cancer. Four lumps in her right breast.

 

As she and I discussed her situation, we decided to find ways to look on the (b)right side of things. She was definitely going to need surgery; however, in the meantime, which seemed like forever, she had to continue to go to work. In a sense, she really had the upper hand. If anyone thought about giving her a new assignment or decided to question her on a current assignment, she could play the ‘cancer girl’ card. In meetings (or any interactions, really), when people were bothering her, she could preface her comments with, “I’ve got to get something off my chest.”

 

Like most daughters who speak with their mother, she told her mother about the lumps and how she discovered them. “Can I feel them?” her mother asked.  The Responsible One maintained the upper hand and respectfully declined her mother’s request to touch her upper with her hand. I’m guessing the respectful declination went a little like this, “Look, I’ve got to get something off my chest, as quickly as possible – your hand and these lumps.”

Beaner managed to get a couple of VIP passes for an outdoor concert so MiniMe, Tree, D-Dog, Finance and I decided we best take advantage of them. We arrived to find the food in the VIP tent was gone, which meant our diet would, again, be liquid. Tree, hungry, wasn’t filling/feeling it. His beer didn’t fill him up and the crowd wasn’t giving him the good tinglies, so he left. Later, after he had walked to a restaurant several blocks away, he realized he had left his car at my house. There’s nothing worse than forgetting you drove somewhere – especially if you don’t realize it until much later, like after you’ve walked home or reported it stolen.

 

The rest of us drank and danced for several more hours, then decided to dine. Beaner really wanted to drive us to the restaurant in her Jeep because we could go topless. Finance was pretty excited about this concept, until he realized she was talking about the actual top of the vehicle – he was still excited, just in a different way.

 

The restaurant was pretty busy and had a live DJ which D-Dog was loving. “Where’s the dance floor?” she asked. “Right here,” Beaner said while pushing the tables forward so we could dance near our booth seats. We eventually made it out to the actual floor and threw down some rather sick moves. “I love drinking and dancing,” Beaner told me and added, “I drink, I dance, and I puff.” She then headed back to the booth where she took a couple of hits off her inhaler.

 

After eating, dancing and inhaling, we hopped back into the Jeep. When the top is off, it doesn’t matter if the windows are rolled down or not – people can still hear your conversations. Noticing several females on one corner wearing heels and very short shorts (and shirts), Finance asked, “How much?” D-Dog shot him a look. “What? Was that not appropriate?” he asked her. “Not at a red light. If it was a green light, it would have been fine,” she advised.

 

We never learned ‘how much,’ but we’re pretty sure an evening with them, though it may start with drinking and dancing, will most likely end with more than a puff.

That’s Not Chinese, Unfazed and I met Passed The Sniffed Test for half-off sushi and, as is often the case at the ‘Asian fusion’ restaurants we frequent, cheap wine. That’s Not Chinese was interested in a Cabernet Sauvignon, however, at $4 a glass, no vineyard was listed on the menu. “You realize it is from a box,” I told her. “Look, whatever,” she replied. The waitress advised her it was, in fact from a box. “Which one?” I asked. “A white box,” the waitress replied. “You’re getting Franzia,” I told That’s Not Chinese. A few minutes later, the waitress returned and confirmed, it was Franzia. “Franzia, that’s not French or Italian,” I said. “That’s not Chinese either,” Passed The Sniff Test quipped.

 

Pretty soon, That’s Not Chinese had finished her glass of boxed wine and requested another, “Can you pour me a little more from your box?” she asked the waitress and then added, “Ah, shit. That sounded pretty bad.” She then went on to tell us how ‘bad’ she was, “I was into hip hop for like a year or 63 weeks.” “Hip hop? Really? Like what?” I asked. “Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Will Smith,” she smugly replied while flashing peace signs (very gangster). “Will Smith?” Unfazed asked, clearly fazed by this comment.

 

A little later, That’s Not Chinese reminded Unfazed and I that she was, “very hip hop.” “I knew all of the songs,” she told us. “Which songs?” I asked. “All of them,” she replied. “What are some of the lyrics?” I asked. “It don’t matter,” she replied and raised her glass, but didn’t pour one for her homies. This Ol’ G would never intentionally pour her wine – whether it came from a box or a bottle – anywhere other than her mouth. She’s way too hip hop, much like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, for that business.

If you search the internet for the best crying scenes in film, you won’t find anything about me. Not yet, anyway. In preparation for my big screen debut, I did a lot of research. I watched movies portraying women in similar roles (and decided I really liked Farrah Fawcett’s hair, circa 80s), checked the world wide web for tips on crying and memorizing lines, and reviewed multiple outfits.

 

After several hours of research, I decided I best practice my lines, in character. This meant I needed to finalize my wardrobe. Being that my character left work abruptly, but the employer wasn’t detailed in the script, I took artistic liberty and decided the employer would be Bluth’s Frozen Bananas and, since my character did not have a name (other than ‘mom’), my name would be Maeby. I quickly whipped up a name tag, complete with bananas, put it on my shirt, and tried to cry.

 

This wasn’t working out so well. I considered trying some tricks of the trade, such as onions, glycerin tears, thinking of other people’s tragedies, and throwing a cat on my face pre-scene, but knew they wouldn’t work for me. Alas, I decided to stay up all night in hopes of causing eye fatigue – a look that may or may not look sad.

 

As I stayed up, perusing the world wide web, I continued with my research – this time focusing on Academy Awards for similar roles. I have a feeling Peter O’Toole and I will soon have a lot in common – multiple (at least eight, anyway) Academy Award nominations (no wins) and a dry-eyed retirement announcement. As he said at the 75th Academy Awards, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, my foot!” So sad and full of passion – it makes me want to cry. I, Maeby, an Academy Award winner after all!