Category: blog

After having my allergic reaction at That’s Not Chinese’s house, I came home and attempted to reduce the swelling around my eye with both allergy medicine and rhoid cream. By morning, I had applied a second coat of cream and decided to take two Diphenhydramine. The latter seemed to be more effective than the cream as far as treating the swelling, however, it left me quite incapable of doing anything. Several hours after taking the medication, and being completely unproductive at work, I  met up with Sleepless and Progressive.

As we dined, we discussed perception, specifically, what people might think if they saw Progressive with just one female as opposed to two. “Always best to take two,” Sleepless advised. “Speaking of which, John was wrong, the truth does not set you free,” I advised. “I told someone the truth the other day and it did not end well. I’d like a take two.” “The truth isn’t always freeing if it hurts others,” Progressive wisely said while sipping his wine. “Amen,” I agreed and added, “If I could go back in time I would not have done what I did – both what I did and telling about what I did. I also, probably, wouldn’t have had seconds that one time.”

We soon realized it was time to head to our movie (because we were now late),  thanked Progressive for his generosity and wisdom, and walked next door to the theater. The theater employee advised us the movie had been playing for some time, thus, suggested we wait another thirty minutes, when the movie would be playing again in a different theater. We agreed, purchased our tickets, and opted to return to the restaurant for more drinks. We sent Progressive a text, hoping to catch him before he was too far away. Luckily, he was not, returned, drove us to a different bar for a quick cocktail and our philosophy session began again – take two.

That’s Not Chinese and I had plans to drink wine. This is usually a rather simple plan – pick up wine, drink it – but That’s Not Chinese had other agenda items and called to advise me of them. “We’ve got a lot to talk about tonight. I’m thinking we should make a list,” she advised. “Like an agenda of sorts?” I asked. “Exactly,” she replied.

“OK, what would you like to discuss?” I inquired with my pen and notebook out, ready to set an agenda. “Mumford & Sons,” she replied. “Alright. What else?” I asked. “That’s it,” she responded. “Glad you suggested we make a list,” I told her. “Listen, it is really important and I don’t want to forget it between now and then,” she said. “Fair enough, there are eight hours between now and then, a lot could happen,” I replied.

I got home from work, transferred the sangria from the glass pitcher to the secondhand store Tupperware pitcher, considered changing my pants – didn’t, pumped up my bike tires, put the pitcher in my basket, and started pedaling to her house. As I made my way, I noticed a little of the sangria made it’s way out of the pitcher; the amount was minimal, so I kept on pedaling. Then, it happened. I made a fast left, caught a little air, landed, and the little bit of Sangria that made it’s way out of the pitcher splashed up and all over my white pants. Damn.

By the time I arrived at That’s Not Chinese’s place I was a hot mess, literally. Not one to let little things get in the way of my day, I went to the sink, splashed cold water all over my pants, grabbed us some glasses, and poured some sangria. As we sat out on the patio, eating, drinking, discussing our one agenda item, and dodging bird shit, “Who puts their patio table under a wire?,” I contemplated my day. “I’ve got a couple of regrets today,” I told her and continued, “Opening the club soda after watching it roll around my car, not changing my pants, sitting under this wire, and touching your cat.” “I feel like I should drive you home,” she said while making a facial expression that screamed, “Looking at your eye is creeping me out.” “No need, I’m fine. Any chance you’ve got an eye patch?” I asked her while covering my infected eye with a paper towel.

It’s funny how we do things we know we shouldn’t. For me, it’s because I’m hopelessly optimistic that they’ll work out or have different outcomes than they did previously. So, when That’s Not Chinese’s cat snuggled up next to me, I petted him and, a few minutes later, rubbed my eye. Now, I’m home, with several agenda items. First: Apply second coat of rhoid cream in an attempt to reduce swelling. Second: Soak white pants in club soda. On the bright side, I won’t have to use too much club soda because, when I was making the sangria, half of the bottle of club soda sprayed all over my white pants. Like Monty Python, I plan to “face the curtain with a bow, forget about your sin – give the audience a grin. Enjoy it – it’s your last chance anyhow.” And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just make more sangria, wearing different pants, of course.

Skiwi has a big job interview and, as such, was in dire need of a haircut. “I really need a SL,UT night,” he told me. I put the word out and, two days later, Kitchen Beautician was on my porch cutting his hair. “Who else is coming?” asked MiniMe. “This is it tonight, just the four of us. Diggler may come later,” I replied. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within about 45 minutes we had about ten people the porch – some wanted their hair done, others just wanted in on the SL,UT action.

Oper, who lives just down the street, made a surprise visit with her wee dog and coffee mug. “May I get you a drink?” I asked her. “I’ve got to finish my wine,” she said tipping the ceramic mug to reveal Jesus water. “I’ll refill it for you, we just brewed a pot of Sangria,” I advised. She wasted no time doing a wine shot and handing me her empty mug.

As everyone got to know each other – there were a few stoop virgins who I didn’t even know – we discussed the upcoming peel party at Oper’s. One of the virgins appeared to be a little concerned about attending. Seeing the concern, I advised her it was spelled p-e-e-l, not p-i-l-l. Peel party, pill party – they sound similar, but the outcomes are rather different. “You should all come to the party,” Oper said and added, “We need more SL,Uts please.” “We need a name, like SL,UT Cuts,” BioMom stated. “How about SL,UT on Your Face?” I suggested. “Perfect!” Oper exclaimed, raised her mug for a toast, and, like Skiwi, got exactly what she wanted – more SL,UTs.

Unbeknownst to me, another ecosystem has commandeered a piece of my property. When the birds did it a few years back, I was actually quite ecstatic to see what their young ones would look like, how soon they would fly the coop and, more importantly, to know that they found my birdhouse/tealight holder to be the best on the block.

When they returned the next year, my assumptions were confirmed – they love their little glass penthouse. A month or so after shacking up, they produced several lovely wee ones and I felt as though I had helped save the ecosystem in my role as the landlord/foster finch.

This year, in the early part of spring, I saw them reassessing the birdhouse and assumed they would soon move back in. A week passed by, no birds. Another week, no birds. Week after week and they never returned. Is it possible they found a better birdhouse? Unlikely, or so I thought. They never returned.

Just when I thought the creatures of nature didn’t appreciate my living arrangements, I was pulling weeds and was suddenly swarmed by bees. The fact that I was wearing a skirt was not favorable for me. After being stung several times, I found my wasp and hornet spray and sprayed the hell out of my fence. A few days later, I exited my car, once again in a skirt, and those buzzing bastards came after me again.

Similar to the first encounter, I was stung, a lot. I discussed this matter with So Hip and we decided I should just let them bee, literally, for two reasons: 1) the ecosystem and 2) it is the most action I’ve had in a long time.

Sleepless and I haven’t hung, just the two of us, for some time. So, with Ice Cream Man out of town (some sort of Nut Sundae convention), we met for drinks and dining. I prepared in advance and made us Sangria using, of course, Sleepless’ box of white zinfandel – something I keep in my fridge for her year round.

We enjoyed a few glasses and then decided to walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner where we had the privilege of continuing to enjoy Sangria. When we first arrived, they seated us inside, however, we preferred to sit on the front patio, where there was an unoccupied table for two – placed right next to an occupied table of two. “Any chance we can sit outside, just not right next to that couple?” Sleepless asked our server. “We don’t mind, but it may get awkward,” I added. Our server swiftly obliged and we were soon on the patio enjoying a lovely dinner for two.

Each time our server returned, we were discussing matters that, as an outsider who is only getting the tail end of our chasing tail stories, might be both offensive and intriguing. “I can only imagine what she might think of us,” Sleepless stated. Once she brought us our dessert, we no longer had to imagine. “I pulled some strings to get them bigger,” she told us, with a Cheshire grin on her face, as she placed our extra girthy churro sticks on the table. “Do you think it is bad if I double dip?” Sleepless asked. “Not something that size, you have no choice but to double dip,” I replied.

A few minutes later, our server brought us the bill. “Fitting. Look at the price,” Sleepless advised. $69. “That’s what happens when you ‘pull strings’,” I replied.

MyFace, Q and I arrived at Denver International Airport (DIA) an hour or so before our flight. Q, once again, got upgraded and was allowed to board early. While she sat on the plane, MyFace and I assessed the chaos at the gate. For some reason, there was only one gate agent and, at some point, a very retired Delta employee who was flying standby offered to assist with check-ins. After letting several through without questioning non-working barcodes and the like, she scanned our boarding passes, asked MyFace if she had a ticket for the little girl who went in ahead of us, then let us board.

As we passed Q in First, we both informed her the flight was going to be problematic. We found our seats and, a few minutes later, the woman who had just ‘checked us in’ boarded the plane, sat behind us and fell asleep. “I’m telling you, this flight is jacked,” I told MyFace. About twenty minutes later, the flight attendant announced there was a mechanical problem and everyone needed to deplane. “We called it,” MyFace proudly stated.

We called it alright. Four hours later we were still sitting at the gate waiting on a part for the plane. Around this time, the red jacket had advised people to consider rebooking. As Q and I were standing in line to do so, MyFace was tending to our carry-ons. Another passenger bypassed everyone in line and advised the red jacket that he needed his medications out of his suitcase due to a medical condition he “can’t remember exactly.” He was a little too young to have a memory disorder, so we figured it might be some sort of head injury or mood imbalance. After our assessment, Q looked over to MyFace and asked, “Did you take your meds?” I didn’t see that one coming and wasn’t sure Q was going to be ready for MyFace’s response. “Yes I took my meds. Are you afraid I was going to go nuts on people?” MyFace responded. There really wasn’t anyway Q was going to get out of that one.

Instead of just scheduling a later flight, we decided to extend our stay – courtesy of Delta, and fly out the next morning. So, after checking into our hotel, we hopped in a cab and headed downtown. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, eight hours after we attempted to leave Denver, we were ready for a glass of wine, or nine. They had an option for three flights of wine, a tasting if you will. So, we each opted for the tasting and quickly went from missing one flight to gaining at least nine. Although others may have seen this as an inconvenient flight delay, we saw it as a much needed extended stay.

After spending the day being pampered, we decided to treat ourselves to some fine dining in Vail. As soon as we were seated, MyFace announced, “I think I’m going to have a grown-up beverage.” I decided to join her and Q opted to stick to red wine.

The entree selection and decision was not as easy as the beverage. After much reviewing of the menu, we each decided to get a different entree. I opted for the rainbow trout. “Just so you know, that is a full fish and you will have to fillet it to eat it,” our server advised me. “Fillet it?” I asked, “Yes. Cut it through the belly with a knife. You still want it?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, sllightly scared of what might soon be before me.

My plate arrived and, as stated, it was a full fish. “Stop looking. I found Nemo,” I told Q and MyFace. I then grabbed my butter knife (the only knife given to me) and made an incision across the belly of the fish. “I have never filleted at the table. I could not do that,” MyFace said and added, “At least they removed the head and beady eyes.” “Head is still there,” Q advised. “You know what we used to say in high school? ‘Fuck ’em and feed ’em fish heads.’ That saying never really made any sense until now. Oh, look, you get tail too,” MyFace said. “I love getting breaded tail,” I replied. MyFace finished her margarita and said, “I’m cut off.” “You’re both cut off,” Q informed us. “Fuck ’em,” I thought, took another sip of my Basil Berry and then, ate the fish head. Not really, but I came extremely close.

With two bedrooms and four beds, MyFace picked the downstairs room and Q picked the upstairs room. Thus, I had to choose with whom I would room. Not wanting to make either feel left out – because it is such an honor to share a room with me – I opted to share a room with MyFace the first night and Q the second night. The third night, undecided. Perhaps, the couch.

We went to bed around 1 and, within a few minutes of laying there, MyFace spoke up, “I can’t fall asleep. It’s too quiet.” “It is definitely quiet,” I agreed. “You’re not a deep breather,” she told me. “No, no I’m not. A lot of people think I’m dead when I’m sleeping.” We spoke a while longer and finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning we went to get massages and Q went ahead of me. As the masseuse started to strip the sheets so I could have clean sheets, Q told her, “Oh, you don’t need to change them. She likes them dirty.” Later, as I was waiting for my facial, Q and I were discussing our masseuse. “I really liked her. She told me she could tell I was tight,” Q told me. “She didn’t tell me anything like that,” I said. “That’s because she knows you’re loose,” Q quipped. Looks like I may be sharing the room and more pillow talk with MyFace on the second and the third night.

Several hours before departing on an adventure with Q and MyFace, I received a text from Q asking if I had been upgraded. I checked to find I hadn’t been and called to find out why. “You don’t travel often enough,” was the reason given to me by the representative. Most people I know would dispute this comment. I take it as advice, a challenge, if you will.

When we got to the airport, we decided to grab some snacks. “I’m in First, so I don’t need much,” Q told MyFace and I as we stocked up on drinks, snack mix and chocolates.

Once on the plane, MyFace and I ordered wine to pair with our processed foods. We then gave a package of Rolos to the flight attendant and asked her to roll it up to Q in First. The remainder of the flight, we watched and waited for a rolo to come rolling down the aisle – never happened. Q did not roll a Rolo to her friends.

An hour after departing, we reached our destination and reconnected with Q. “How was First?” MyFace asked. “Good,” Q replied. “You didn’t drink, did you?” I asked. “No,” Q replied. “Well, we did!” MyFace informed her. “So sad. In a way, you were a wasted upgrade,” I told Q and added, “I would have been a truly wasted upgrade if I traveled more often.” “Me too,” MyFace said and then we hit the road like we always do – with them as the drivers and me in the backseat, coach class, if you will, free of any responsibility.