Category: blog

A few people have told me they are afraid of me. More specifically, they say, “I would never want to piss you off.” I think that is so cute because, truly, I’m not a mean person. That said, when I got in Calling The Dog’s car a few weeks ago for our solar eclipse road trip she handed me a book and told me, “I thought you might like reading this.” The book was titled Getting in Touch with Your Inner Bitch and is about “that integral, powerful part of you that is going unrecognized.” Calling The Dog was right, I really liked the book. Maybe people should be scared of me.

 

I know I am. Every now and again I’ll get up in the middle of the night to do something – usually eat – and I’ll see a shadow, my own, that completely frightens me. This is usually because my pillow has fashioned my hair in such a way that my hair shadow looks like Frankenstein’s bride. There are other times I’ll dash by a mirror, only to dash right back, experience fright, and say, “Oh, hell no, you are not wearing that!”

 

Other than that, I’m not too afraid of me. I guess sometimes I am afraid of something I might say or do, but most of the time I’m afraid of the consequences if they go unsaid or undone. If you find me scary, well, as Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” As long as you fear fear, I can do what I do best, sit back, relax and scare you.

Live Longer got an online deal for roller skating and invited several of her friends to join her. I was pretty excited because it has been at least 10 years, maybe 20, since I’ve dressed in disco attire and donned this establishment.

 

Today was the big day and, after receiving several text messages from Live Longer about attire, I decided I was going to dress up regardless of whether or not anyone else did so. I went down to my costume room (yes, it used to be a box, but my box runneth over) and found a couple of my favorites. I tried them on and realized I either left them in the dryer too long or my body had slightly changed over the last decade. Luckily, I found a bright orange skort and silver shirt that fit like O.J. Simpson’s glove (just barely) and accessorized them with a large red wig, scarf and tube socks.

 

Live Longer arrived to retrieve me, in disco attire – yeah!, and we headed to the rink. We arrived to find a poster announcing ‘flashback night’ on Saturdays from 10 to midnight. “Oops. Looks like we came on the wrong night,” Live Longer told me. “What are you talking about? I always dress like this,” I replied. As we were skating around the rink to ‘family friendly requests,’ Live Longer began skating backwards. “How does she do that?” I asked Oper. “She’s Asian,” Oper replied. I then asked Live Longer, “How do you do that?” “I don’t know but I can’t turn back around or I’ll fall down, so I’ve got to keep skating like this,” she replied.

 

The skating rink has changed a bit since I was there last. There are no walls to run into or hang onto and they allow kids on razors on the rink. “What the hell is happening here?” Oper asked and then told a young child on a razor, who skated too close to her for her comfort, “Back off!” “I wonder if they’d let me roll around the rink in a Jazzy,” Oper pondered aloud and then said as she nearly biffed it, “They should definitely make me wear a helmet.”

 

We skated like there was no tomorrow and like there were no kids on razors on the rink. My scarf/headband was getting a little hot so I decided to adjust it a bit and wrapped it over my head instead of around my head. “You look like a mix between a frau and a prostitute. You’re a fraustitute!” Oper exclaimed and then rolled away. She was right, I was working a look and it was something. In fact, we all were. Plus, it had been some time since most of us had skated so there were a few near falls, however, we quickly regained composure by pretending the flailing of our arms and legs was an intended disco move. Unfortunately, there were also a few times our ‘disco moves’ landed us on our assess.  Although the rink had written warning signs, “Skate at your own risk,” for all of the patrons, they really needed an amended sign for us, “Be sexy at your own risk.”

Each morning I look out my bedroom window and think, “I really need to wash my windows.” Then, I go about my day never thinking twice about it.

 

This is slightly surprising to me, even though it is my own behavior, because I love windows – I especially love looking in other people’s windows when on vacation. It isn’t a voyeuristic thing, it’s a curiosity thing – totally different.

 

I think Sausage Sampler would agree with me on this. Although, for her, it may be more of a ‘stop, drop, cover and roll’ kind of thing. She was recently vacationing in sunny San Diego with her girlfriend, Backyardigan, enjoying a lovely view from the 17th floor of their hotel. Being that they were in a corner room, they had windows all around and, like most of us, took advantage of the beauty by opening all of the blinds. Then, they got comfortable, real comfortable. They started to hear music and, knowing that neither of them had left the bed to turn on music or rolled on the remote, thus inadvertently turning on music, weren’t quite sure where it was coming from.

 

Sausage Sampler opened her eyes and quickly found the source of the music. She also quickly stopped, dropped to the floor, covered herself with the blanket and rolled out of view of the window washers while Bakyardigan remained on the bed, uncovered, and in plain (and naked) view of the crew hanging outside their dirty, dirty windows.

 

“She was jackin’ it in San Diego,” Drunk Whisperer informed me. “What does that mean?” I asked. “It’s from South Park and she was doing it. She was jackin’ it in San Diego,” The Responsible One confirmed then said, “Vinegar stroke.” “She is cut off,” Sausage Sampler said referring to The Responsible One and asked, “Who is the responsible one here?” “Actually, by title, she is. What is vinegar stroke?” I asked. Drunk Whisperer, who wasn’t drunk, thus didn’t need to loudly whisper, looked around the restaurant and quietly told me, “Its the face you make when you are coming and when you look into their eyes you can see into their soul.” “Yep, vinegar stroke,” Responsible One repeated and giggled.

 

Sausage Sampler, now regretting she shared this story with us, began chatting with The Responsible One about other matters. “This better be in the blog tonight,” Drunk Whisperer advised me. “Do you read it?” I asked. “I do, but its been about six months. I’m going to need about two minutes alone tonight to read it – maybe three.” “What are you doing alone tonight for three minutes?” The Responsible One asked and, without waiting for a response continued on, “Oh, I know what you’ll be doing. It’s been a while.” She then gave him a look, not a vinegar stroke look, but a look still. “I may need four minutes,” he stated. “Will four minutes be long enough to clean your dirty windows?” I asked. “Oh, yeah,” The Responsible One affirmed.

In 1938, Watty Piper edited a book titled ‘Stories That Never Grow Old.’ Sixty years later, I still remember the story about the teeny-tiny voice, which came from the teeny-tiny closet, and demanded, “Give me my clothes.” Not that I was around in 1938; I just remember the story because it was one we shared at sleepovers, with the flashlight under our chin, trying to scare each other.

 

Years later, my friends and I are still telling stories, however, we don’t have flashlights under our chins. Instead, we may have another chin under our chin and we definitely have a glass of wine near our chin(s).

 

MyFace, Q, That’s Not Chinese and I got together for drinks and, since we are a relatively harmless bunch, That’s Not Chinese invited Unfazed. As Unfazed got to know MyFace and Q, MyFace shared stories with her. One of the stories MyFace shared is a story that will never grow old: The Wine Train and the Plastic Policeman. This is a story about four girls on a wine train in Napa Valley and one of the girls (could be me) quite enjoyed the wine, spirits and company of other wine train patrons. The story ends with what we referred to as the ‘Plastic Policeman’ asking if he needed to administer breathalyzers on us. Seems like a silly question to ask patrons of a wine train.

 

MyFace continued to tell stories about our adventures abroad, specifically, the time we were trying on dresses in Colorado. The dressing room did not have a door, rather, it had a cloth curtain that hung about one foot above the ground. Thus, if you were sitting outside the dressing room – as one man was – you could see the feet of the individual(s) trying on clothing. While sharing a dressing room with MyFace (this alone was entertainment enough for the man outside), I tried on a dress that was quite sheer and, being ‘commando,’ decided I best see how it looked with underwear. MyFace kindly obliged and loaned me her underwear (I didn’t even have to grab flashlight, use a teeny-tiny voice and demand, “Give me your clothes.”). From the ‘outside,’ the scene was this: a pair of underwear slipping off the legs of one girl in the dressing room; you see a hand retrieve them; and next thing you know they are slipping onto the legs/body of the other girl in the dressing room. “We’re not just good friends, we’re a good time,” I told Unfazed and added, “Plus, MyFace is the kind of friend who would not only give you the shirt off  her back, she’d give you the underwear off her crack.”

 

“Are you sure you want to be part of this group?” MyFace asked her. “Oh yeah. This doesn’t bother me,” Unfazed replied, unfazed. “That’s good, because these stories are told time and time again,” I advised her. Although the details of the stories, like most memories, may change over time, they, like us (this includes you, Dimple Sister), never get old.

 

 

 

 

Cut As A Button turned 21 today. MiniMe (who also recently turned 21) and I headed to her birthday party at a local bar where they serve classic cocktails.

 

When I say ‘they,’ I am using the term loosely because this bar offers no table service and only has one mixologist on shift. Thus, if you want a classic cocktail – such as a Pimm’s Cup, Old Fashioned or  a Moscow Mule – you’ve got to get in line, exercise patience, and be prepared to pay a copper mug deposit if you’re ordering the latter.

 

LaLaLovely arrived shortly after us and then disappeared for about ten minutes. “Where did you go?” I asked. “I’ve been at the bar waiting for a drink. Unbelievable,” she replied, then joined me, Bruiser and the other older adults on the ‘non-kid’ end of the table.

 

As we were finishing our drinks and wanting another, we knew we would need to order everything at once based on previous wait times. Thus, LaLaLovely and I boldly approached the bar and took our place in line. “With waits like this I can’t believe people keep coming here,” she stated. I turned to see those to whom she was referring and noticed a fresh batch of young hipsters anxious to  consume a classic cocktail. “They don’t mind because they’re sipsters – they just sip their cocktails so one drink lasts forever for them. Seasoned drinkers like us, we don’t sip,” I advised. “And we’re not hip,” LaLaLovely replied. “Exactly. We’re just a couple of old drunks,” I said. “I’ll cheers to that in about ten minutes, when I have a drink again,” she quipped.

Two years ago I decided to sell my car. Two years later, I still own it. This isn’t because it isn’t a good car or I’m not a good salesman. It is merely because, with the exception of TooStalky, I don’t get a lot of ‘traffic’ in my driveway. As a result, most don’t know it is for sale.

 

I decided to post it on an online classifieds/car site and, within a few days, received several inquiries. “What kind of car is it?” was one of the first. Really? You took the time to look at the post long enough to get my number yet you don’t know the car type? My second favorite, “Clean title? Ever smoked in? Any issues?” My reply, “Clean title. Non-smoker. No issues.” After I hit ‘send,’ I momentarily thought of joining an online dating service using those three lines, and only those three lines, as my profile information. A few text messages later, this potential buyer, not having requested a time to look at the vehicle and already asking for $1,000 off the price, asked for my address. I respectfully declined.

 

Several hours later I received a text from the man who inquired about my car a couple of months ago and, with his children, attempted to help me break into my house. “Have you sold your car? Has the price come down any? I’m still flaky but I’m still in the market.” Confirmation, yet again, that selling cars online is almost exactly like dating online.

 

We exchanged a few more texts and he made an offer for the vehicle. Being that the car had been sitting in my driveway for a couple of months, I decided to take it to the carwash. I quickly grabbed the key, shut the back door of my house, and realized I had, yet again, locked myself out of my house. Every time this guy expresses sincere interest (in my car) I lock myself out of my house. I may have to change my personal information: Clean Title. Non-smoker. Some issues.

Continuing with my walking agenda, and after a long day in the yard, I advised MiniMe we were walking to That’s Not Chinese’s house for a barbecue. “It’s like 90 degrees out there,” she told me. “Best bring some water to drink along the way,” I replied, grabbed the bags packed with steak, salmon, rum, club soda, mint, raspberries, corn, sugar, a pitcher and a muddler and we headed out the door.

 

By the time we arrived at That’s Not Chinese’s house, all MiniMe wanted to do was feel the cool air. All I wanted to do was fill my glass, so I immediately started muddling my mint. Unfazed, like me, was unfazed by the heat and enjoying a beer. “Would you like one of these?” I asked her. “They’re good. Real good,” That’s Not Chinese told her. “We drank these on the stoop, didn’t we?” I asked That’s Not Chinese. “What haven’t we drank on the stoop?” she quipped. Good question.

 

Unfazed decided to enjoy a small glass of my infamous mojitos and, while she did so, That’s Not Chinese prepared the grill. “How do you like your steak?” she asked me. “In my mouth,” I replied. “Did you drink on the way over?” she asked. Indeed, I had – water. She returned from outside and asked which mojito glass was hers and which was mine. I quickly assessed which glass had the most in it and told her the less full glass belonged to her. This became a fun and tasty little game I played for some time. I, however, wasn’t the only one drinking That’s Not Chinese’s drink, Unfazed was taking a sip or two herself every now and again. “These are really good,” she told me and added, “You’re right, you can’t taste the alcohol. It’s like drinking lemonade.”

 

Being that MiniMe had school in the morning and had grown tired of our antics, we decided it was time to return home. I grabbed the pitcher – with just a little bit of mojito left, thanked That’s Not Chinese and Unfazed for a fabulous evening, and we began our walk. Walking perk 3,752: you can consume your pitcher of mojito along the way – it’s like drinking lemonade, thus, coffee cup not needed.

At the last minute, MiniMe and I attended a fundraiser for a local non-profit. Like many fundraisers, they held both a silent and live auction. Whether silent or live, I fall prey.

 

I bid on multiple items in the silent auction – constantly checking my bid sheet to see if others had outbid me and constantly learning I had, in fact, been outbid on several.

 

Once the live auction started, I figured I had probably only won one silent auction item, so I had money to spend on the live auction. CounterCat has been with me at events like this and she usually ends up with major anxiety after begging me to stop bidding on any and everything – she would have lost her mind tonight, while I lost my wallet.

 

The first few items sold quickly and for high prices. At one point, they were auctioning a 1970s Vespa. In between prices, the auctioneer asked if anyone had a child in college. I’m not sure if my response was delayed or I was played, but I apparently placed a bid. “You just bid $2500 for the scooter,” MiniMe advised me. “Oops. I thought he was still taking about college,” I replied. “I’ll represent you,” one of the attorneys at the table advised me. After seeing Bidder 70, having legal representation at the auction might not be a bad idea. Luckily, like in most of the silent auctions, I was outbid.

 

When they announced a Thai dinner for twelve with nine signature dishes paired with wine flights, I was sold. I love flying and, flying with wine (especially while wearing silk), even better! So I bid. One thousand dollars. I was quickly outbid by one hundred dollars. “Damn,” I told MiniMe, held up my bidding number, and bid twelve hundred. The price stayed steady and I was the proud owner of a Thai dinner for twelve. Sounds a lot like the Last Supper, except I don’t have apostles and I’m pretty sure they weren’t eating Thai food.

 

MiniMe got the bidding bug and decided to bid on a trip for two to the Virgin Islands. She originally wanted to bid on a dog, but we (me and the attorney) talked her out of it. She started lower than me, at $700. Others would bid, and she would outbid them, looking to me, the bidding connoisseur, for guidance. I’d provide the ‘go on’ nod and ‘go on’ she would. Sadly, she was outbid about $800 dollars later. Looks like we’ll only be having nine flights, not eleven.

 

 

The last time I saw Papa J, we saw Juno together, in a movie theater. Juno was released in December 2007. It’s been a while.

 

We met up where we always do, and where we spent most of our time as teenagers, the mall. This time, Papa J had five teenage girls in tow – two of her own and three of their friends. Although they set off to do their own thing, we occasionally met up with them to make sure no mayhem was ensuing. “I like to point out cute boys to them. I always find myself looking at young boys, you know in their twenties,” Papa J told me and added, “It’s not because I’m into young boys, it’s because I keep forgetting I’m old.” “They call that a cougar,” I advised her.

 

On one occasion, when the kids met up with us, Papa J told them what she and I used to do when trolling for boys at the mall, “She would always call dibs on the cute ones.” “Yep. That’s why she ended up with your dad. Just kidding, he’s handsome,” I told her kids. Her husband  reminds me of Ice Cream Man – they both end up putting up with a lot of my antics.

 

As we left the mall, Papa J advised we had to do this again soon, “And we have to dress up. I’m thinking different themes.” “Something I am very used to doing,” I told her, then showed her the picture of Sleepless and I retrieving Ice Cream Man from the airport. “Yes, this is exactly what I”m thinking and then some,” she replied then got distracted by some cubs. “Dibs,” I exclaimed.

 

 

Continuing with my new walking as many places as possible tradition, I invited That’s Not Chinese to walk with me to the drug store and library – a three-mile walk (to and from) that would take about an hour. Her reply, “There is no walk in my future tonight. I’m tired and prefer wine.” We bantered back and forth for several texts/minutes, with me attempting to convince her, “We can stop for chips….I’ll bring a coffee cup. See you soon.”

 

With that last text, I filled my free city water bottle (a perk for participating in their walking/biking initiative) with water, grabbed an empty coffee cup for That’s Not Chinese and drove to her house. Yes, drove. I figured I could sway her once I arrived. “Let’s go,” I told her when I found her lounging on the couch, watching TV and drinking a glass of wine. “I just got lasered. I’m not doing it,” she replied. “Get up,” I advised her while filling the coffee cup with wine. “I like the look of that,” she stated. “Why don’t you pretend I’m a girl you want to date and try to impress me by complying?” I asked her. “If I wanted to impress you, I’d sleep with you,” she replied with great confidence and added, finally succombing to my pleading, “I’ll ride with you in the car, but I’m not walking anywhere.”

 

We drove to the drug store where I figured I would execute my walking plan. “We can just leave the car here and walk across the street to get you some chips,” I advised her. “I don’t want to walk to that store but we can walk to the library from here,” she finally surrendered. We walked toward the library and, as we did so, stumbled upon an active crime scene. “Look at that, live Law & Order. Much better than sitting on your couch watching TV,” I advised her. She agreed, we avoided having to complete witness statements, and continued on with our walk.

 

“I think we should buy dinner to go, stop at the liquor store, and go back to my house,” she suggested. “Are we walking to the liquor store?” I asked. “Hell no,” she firmly replied. So much for that gang (CWG – City Walking Girls) she created a few weeks ago. We got in the car, ran our additional errands and I noticed the gas gauge. “Not sure we’ll make it home if I don’t stop for gas,” I told her.  Luckily, we made it to the gas station and home in enough time that our food and wine were both room temperature – perfect.

 

“You know, we’re like a couple of old people, arguing about doing things. Luckily, we were each willing to go halfway,” That’s Not Chinese told me while we were each relaxed in our chairs, top button of our pants unbuttoned so our bodies could ‘breathe,’ and sipping on our wine. “Yes, that is good. We may have only gone halfway if I hadn’t stopped for gas,” I reminded her. “Halfway, nonetheless,” she replied, took a sip of her wine and ripped one. “With or without gas, we always have gas,” she said while raising her glass for a toast. I raised my glass, met her halfway, and all was good in the hood.