Category: blog

I love flowers. I especially love cutting them from my own garden and sharing them with others. In celebration of the arrival of 4-oh-9, Sleepless and I decided to cut some fresh tulips and take them to Oreggano (no more Opreggano, for a little while, anyway), Cream Of Tartar and 4-oh-9 at the hospital.

 

Like a woman who just had an epidural, our arrival was a bit delayed – work definitely has a way of cutting into our personal lives. Thus, by the time we gave them the flowers, the leaves of one of the pink tulips had curled a bit. “We were going to take that one out, but then realized it looked like labia, so we opted to leave it in for you,” I advised them. “Oh, we’ve seen a lot of labia today,” Cream Of Tartar advised us. “I bet you have,” Sleepless concurred.

 

As we cooed over 4-oh-9, Quite Contrary, mother of Oreggano, told us, “She (Oreggano) was an ugly baby. I remember looking at the neighbor’s baby and thinking, ‘I want a cute baby.'” “Sad,” Sleepless said while giving Oreggano a sympathetic look. “No, it’s true. I was ugly. I was a forceps baby – black and blue all over,” Oreggano confirmed. “The Coneheads of Saturday Night Live were pretty popular then. Her dad thought her only hope was to be a Conehead. She grew into it,” Quite Contrary told us while we all stared at Oreggano’s head. I guess she could be a Conehead. She does like consumables, has drunk an entire six pack of beers at once (about nine months previous, to be exact), and she is now a parental unit.

 

After taking loads of pictures with and of  4-oh-9 and her parental units, Sleepless took something else – a couple of ‘sex pads’ and a maternity diaper to enhance her sexy time with Ice Cream Man. No need to tell her to try and be sexy.

 

Before leaving, Sleepless went through all of the cabinets and drawers one last time and advised Oreggano and Cream Of Tartar, “Take everything. You’re paying for it. Six weeks.” Six weeks is the amount of time they must wait to play senso-rings, on their newly acquired sex pad. “I did the math, they know the exact date now,” Sleepless proudly stated. I’ve no doubt Cream Of Tartar took note and, like Beldar Conehead, will be summoning Oreggano six weeks from now.

 

 

After many years of living in our hood, That’s Not Chinese and I have decided to acclimate.

 

It is not uncommon, while sitting on the porch drinking wine, for us to observe our neighbors riding their bikes and going on walks. Thus, we decided to take up walking – it’s much easier to walk with a drink than it is to ride a bike (learned the latter from personal experience while riding a tandem with Opreggano and wearing Kanye shutter glasses).

 

Although I forgot to take my newly acquired pedometer, I know we walked quite a bit, because I dropped my jacket somewhere along the way and we had to retrace our footsteps to retrieve it. Luckily, we got to the jacket before the bikers rode over it, the other walkers thought they stumbled upon a treasure, and That’s Not Chinese had a panic attack over the whole incident.

 

“I can’t believe you were not anxious over that,” That’s Not Chinese told me. “It’s just a jacket. If somebody had taken it I would figure they needed it more than I did,” I replied. “Not me. I would totally get in their face,” she informed me and added, “By the way, I thought of a name for us, ‘City Walking Girls.'” “CWG? Like a gang?” I asked. “The ‘g’ can stand for girls or gang,” she said.

 

Seems like a good idea, every hood has a gang and initiation varies from rolling in, jumping in, sexing in, committing crimes and, just what we did, walking in. CWG in da house!

 

Being healthy and happy are two of my primary objectives in life. Thus, when I found out about Obama Condoms, I was ecstatic! I was even more ecstatic when I got a chance to try and win some of their condoms. When I found out I won, ecstatic. When I came home to find them sticking out of my (mail) box, I should have been wearing leakproof panties from Carol Wright – totally ecstatic!

 

Later that day, I found another prize on my stoop – MC Static Cling and Mini Sparkle Donut. I invited them in and did as I do with most of my house guests, offered them food and drink. After MC Static Cling finished his tomato soup and crackers (my standard dish for him), I asked if he would like an apple. “No, thanks. I’ve got a hot doctor,” he wisely replied.

 

Around this same time, I was messaging with Sleepless and told her to wait for something. Staying in theme, and not evening knowing it, she replied, “I’m patient. At least that’s what my doctor tells me.”

 

Happy and healthy. Between my friends and my Obama Condoms, I’ve got that covered – literally.

 

With my new found gender knowledge, I decided to do as boys do and join a group of male coworkers for beers after work. They were already a few beers in by the time I arrived (in touch with my female side, I stopped to shop at a few stores along the way) and were to the point where they were sharing stories that only come out after the beer has gone in.

 

I’d had beers with a couple of them in the past and had mentioned my love for karaoke. “Are you going to sing tonight?” One of them asked and then, before getting an answer, another one interjected. “I remember when we were at that other bar and the DJ told the crowd to advise the waitress of song requests, you told the waitress, “I have a request, I’d like to hear your panties hit the floor.” Male laughter ensues. “That wasn’t me, that was (inaudible) and what he said was, ‘I have a request, I’d like to hear your drawers hit the floor.’ She told him that was a horrible thing to say and he told her, ‘I thought it was pretty good.'” More ML (this time the ‘m’ is squared and stands for maniacal and male) and, most important, a fist bump. Yes, I got in on that.

 

We then went from drawers hitting the floor and fist bumping to the discussion of the ‘DL.’ Apparently this group of men were all hanging out several years ago when someone walked by and asked, “You guys on the DL?”

 

Most people know ‘DL’ is the abbreviation for ‘down-low’ and when said, i.e., ‘Keep it on the DL,’ it implies the information should not be shared. Apparently, in some areas of the United States, ‘DL’ is also code for a secret sex life between ‘heterosexual’ black men. In most cases, these men are married, hence the ‘DL,’ which could also stand for double life. “I’ve never heard of any of this until Oprah,” said one of the men, who happened to be both heterosexual and black. “Me neither. As soon as I got home I immediately researched it. Everybody did,” said another one of the men and then added, between so much laughter his eyes were watering, “Do you know what Hispanic men call it? LR. Low riding.” He is Hispanic, so he can say this. I’m now one of the good ol’ boys, so I can laugh with them about it. In addition, I can fist bump and fist bump I did.

 

After about an hour, one of the men said he had to leave. “Keep it on the DL,” I told him – a DL comment that got a lot of ML. Ah, the life of a good ol’ boy who is really just a girl who once had a paraurethral cyst.

While dining with Mama and MiniMe, I noticed a very pregnant woman whose belly button protruded almost as much as her belly. This, of course, reminded me of the little girl who had a penis growing out of her belly button, so I shared the story.

 

“We thought you were a boy,” Mama announced. “What?” I asked. “We thought you were a boy. Totally looked like you had a penis when you were born,” she said. “What was it? Swollen clitoris?” I asked. “No, not that. They said it was a vaginal cyst,” she replied. “So did they have to cut it off like the belly button penis?” I inquired. “No, they said it would just go away. I’m assuming it did. Did it?” she asked rather nonchalantly. “I don’t know. I’ll have to check. Wow. I have always had crotch problems,” I said. “It’s true. You dropped the computer on your crotch,” MiniMe interjected. “Yes, yes I did. There was also the time I was riding that boy bike in grade school, didn’t clear a ‘jump,’ and landed right on the bar. Remember when we went on that family trip to Disneyland and I had to go to the doctor?” “Oh, yes. I think you had some sort of yeast infection,” Mama replied, again, nonchalantly. “I was like ten. How is that possible?”

 

As soon as I got home I decided to find out how any of this was possible. Apparently, a paraurethral cyst is a rare abnormality that occurs in 1 in 7000 births. In the few studies I read, there are only 30-50 cases reported in literature – this blog entry bumps those numbers up one notch. As far as the other matters, I’m guessing a lack of coordination and a little too much time in the bathing suit are to blame. I’m not too worried about any of it, but I’ll probably stop wearing my bikini to the office on casual Friday.

Several of my coworkers are on a health kick and, as a result, we have a variety of healthy snacks in the breakroom. As I met with one today, he was snacking on some soy based items. “Do you eat a lot of soy?” I asked. “Not a lot, but I do like it,” he replied. “Well, just be careful. I have a friend who is a doctor and he said men who consume a lot of soy often end up with breasts, because of the estrogen.”

 

This didn’t seem to concern him until a little while later, when he was still snacking on the soy-based treat, and he said, “I better slow down or I may have some boobs pop out soon.” “Good point. What’s worse is when you pop a button during a meeting,” I said and then looked down to ensure I wasn’t wearing something that buttoned. “Thanks for ruining my healthy snack,” he told me and asked, “Can I eat almonds or will they give me boobs too?” Luckily, my inside voice stayed in and I replied, “Not sure,” instead of, “You are what you eat.”

 

Later in the day I ran into another coworker who told me about a family member who had a “major outie.” Outies are the exception and not the rule, about 90% of people have an innie. Technically, the belly button (umbilicus if you speak Latin) is really just a scar from birth. Everybody digs scars, so to have a big scar or, in this case, “major outie,” should be a good thing.

 

Sometimes, as a female, I’ll say things like, “I bet if I had a penis I would get that” or “If I had a penis they wouldn’t question my decision.” However, if I had a penis growing out of my belly button, I doubt it would be fruitful. It would be especially difficult to find a decent shirt – I already struggle with buttoned shirts that burst at my high beams and pop open in meetings.

 

As usual, I digress. Back to the the coworker’s family member. Unfortunately, this family member’s major outie looked like a little penis growing out of her belly. Her parents had to decide whether to let it be, cut it off and she would have no belly button, or cut it off and create a cosmetic umbilicus. They opted for the latter. Now she can actually say, “If I had a penis, oh wait, I did….”

As much as I love working in the garden, I prefer to pay others for the really difficult manual labor, such as digging out my grass for xeriscaping.

 

TooStalky has been coming around my house a lot lately, looking for work. A few weeks ago he stopped by and said, “You my best customer, but you never give me job last year. How come?” “One, I have to have money to pay you. Two, you raked my leaves, promised to come back a few days later to finish, and then left your truck parked on my lot for at least five weeks.” “I do you good job. Tell me how much,” he advised me. This is where the hooker part comes in. It’s as if I’m soliciting a hoe.

 

I agreed to let him do some work and then he asked for money. “I need money so I can put gas in truck,” he told me. “Nope. Not happening. I am not giving you money prior to you giving me work,” I replied. Again, hooker. He then began to debate price with me. I offered $700; he suggested $1200; I offered $700; he suggested $800; I offered $700; he suggested $750; I offered $700; he left upset.

 

He hadn’t even turned the corner when my phone rang, “Hello, it is TooStalky. How are you? I will do it for $700. Start today. Can you give me some money today?” A few hours later, his crew was digging up my front yard and I gave him money. “This should cover today and then some,” I said and asked, “When will you be back?” “Tuesday. Or Wednesday,” he replied.

 

Tuesday came and Tuesday went. No TooStalky. Wednesday also came and almost went without TooStalky interaction. When I arrived home to find no sign of him, I gave him a call, “Hi, what happened to you today?” “I do it maybe Friday or Saturday,” he said. “No, we had a deal. I gave you cash for your work on Saturday and to get supplies so you could return yesterday or today. Why aren’t you here?” “You know what? Supplies expensive. Maybe you have someone else do it. I give you some money back,” he told me in a very frustrated tone. “You agreed to a price.  Why didn’t you do it yesterday or today and when you’ll be here next?” I asked him. He hung on me and I called on my inner pimp.

 

I called him again, he answered and said, “I’m at bank. You call me again, I give you the money back and you find someone else.” He then hung up again. His offer sounded good and just as I was getting ready to phone him again, I got distracted. Two minutes later I noticed I had a missed call, a message, and an incoming call from TooStalky. “Hello. It is TooStalky. How are you?” Gotta love dissociative disorder. He went on to tell me he would be by tomorrow to work on my yard. I advised him I would prefer to get my money back and find somebody else. As far as I was concerned, that hoe needed to find a new corner.

 

“No, no, no. I sorry. I was at bank. I show up tomorrow, nine, maybe ten, to work so you forgive me,” he pleaded. I relented and agreed, because, as Three 6 Mafia knows, it’s hard out there for a pimp.

My facial fetus appears to be self-aborting, though slowly. Today, in an attempt to repair the damage I did to it yesterday, I decided to let it breathe. “Guess you’re not going to the doctor?” ROFL asked me. “No, I’ve got topical ointments,” I advised him while applying the ointment. “A shiny shiner. Perfect,” he said and left my office.

 

After I applied the ointment, I put some lotion on my hands – living in such a dry climate is horrible for my skin. I then started eating my breakfast burrito and, not surprisingly, each bite smelled like kiwi lime. I should have waited to repair my dry hands.

 

A couple of hours later I decided to clean my keyboard. I grabbed a can of compressed gas and started spraying. Luckily, we don’t have any huffers in my office, so it worked like a charm. Being that I didn’t eat all of my burrito, because it smelled like kiwi lime but tasted of rice, beans and eggs, I was starving.

 

I heated up my veggie balls and noodles and each bite smelled of compressed gas. “You really need to stop smelling before you eat,” Sleepless advised me at dinner, while I was smelling my the cucumber in my martini. She’s probably right.

 

One of our regular servers seemed a bit miffed with us and finally said, “You never came in to have coffee. You said we were going to have coffee,” he told me. “I did?” I asked. He then offered to bring Sleepless another drink and said to me, “I’m not getting you drunk. You can’t remember any of your promises. You’re staying sober.” Sleepless immediately began trying to repair this broken relationship.

 

Being that we had to dine and dash, quickly, our server offered to let us exit through the kitchen. “We’re going out back to have sex,” he told the staff as we hustled toward the kitchen exit. Between that comment and the bill, that relationship is most likely beyond repair. He’ll figure that out on his own though, no need for me to burst his bubble.

 

We arrived at the theater late, but just in time to see them repair the bubble. This is a move where they bend their knees, place a hand on their groin and a hand on their rump, then straighten their legs while extending their arms in the shape of a bubble. “We really need to start repairing our bubbles like this,” Sleepless told me.

 

If we do, we may end up the laughing stock of the neighborhood…again.

 

For the past few days I have noticed a red bump on my cheek. Being that I just saw my gynecologist, I’m going to have to wait a year before I find out what it might be – assuming, of course, it doesn’t go away.

 

While Opreggano and I were attending an outdoor concert, looking like the luckiest lesbian couple in the world – toddler in tow, one on the way, Infront/Outback in the parking lot, the only thing missing was Indigo, I asked her about my face bump. “You need to go to the doctor,” she advised me. “I don’t wanna be that guy. You know the guy, with the bandaid face,” I replied. Later, when I was home and in a place I could more properly assess it, I determined it was not melanoma, rather, a zit, calcium deposit or spider bite.

 

Like Tree, who once lanced his own boil, I decided to take matters into my own hands. This wasn’t my best idea, especially considering it was smack dab on the right cheek of my money maker. I did my best to make bad better, and only seemed to make bad worse.

 

By the time morning rolled around, I optimistically thought it looked a little better and slapped some concealer on it in hopes no one would notice. This is a lot like showing up drunk somewhere and thinking no one will notice – there is always someone who notices.

 

I had only been at work for about twenty minutes, and was chatting with ROFL in my office, when a coworker walked in and asked, “Did you get hit in the face?” “Oh, really? Is it that obvious? Does it look like I got hit or does it look like a zit? I’m not sure what it is, but was hoping it wasn’t obvious,” I replied. ROFL immediately provided feedback, “It is the first thing the eye is drawn to and it is difficult to not look at it while talking to you.” “Great. I may need to fake diarrhea today. I can’t chance anyone seeing my moneymaker in this state,” I told them.

 

I ended up sticking ‘it’ – facial fetus and time –  out all day. When I finally left work, I sent a text to Opreggano advising her of the fetus’ status; letting her know I was in the process of naming it – maybe Lucky Joe; and I may need a c-section, assuming the ‘c’ stands for cheek. For now, like Opreggano, I’ll just bide my time until this facial fetus is ready to exit. I just hope my mucus plug doesn’t expel in a public place.

I have a favorite aunt. I haven’t seen her for a while which, as she might say, “is shitty.” She would be right. When I was a kid, I loved sleeping at her house. She wasn’t like the rest of my family. She was a single mom of two kids and worked her way up in a trucking company. I have learned more from her than I have from many other adults in my life – one of the many reasons she is my favorite aunt and why I loved our sleepovers.

 

In the mornings, I would wake to the delicious smell of coffee. I’d walk into her kitchen to find a freshly lit cigarette, poised just so, in an ashtray next to the coffee pot. My aunt would walk by, take a drag off the cigarette, and then ask me to rub oil on her back so she could work on her tan. These weren’t the only reasons she was my favorite aunt. She also had a sunken bedroom with red shag carpet and swords encased in red velvet matted frames and, most importantly, she had a mouth like a sailor. Or, more apropos, like a trucker.

 

Sadly, the smoking, and perhaps genetics, wreaked havoc on her health. After surviving a mastectomy – she never had cosmetic surgery and would tell my uncle, “I’m going to the city and I’m not taking my titty (prosthetic)” – she was diagnosed with throat cancer.

 

This was a real blow to all of us – especially her. Being that she wouldn’t be able to verbalize her feelings for some time, she asked my mama to stay by her side in the hospital to help her communicate with the nurses. On one occasion, a nurse was really upsetting my aunt. So, she grabbed a pad of paper, quickly scribbled on it, and handed it to my mama to read. “I’m not reading that,” my mama told her. Not losing one ounce of attitude, my aunt gestured with her head as if to say, “You will.” “She wants me to tell you to fuck off,” my mama told the nurse. Ah, I love my aunt so much!

 

That’s Not Chinese is definitely going to be this aunt. I can already hear the conversation with her nephew, “Can you please pour me another glass of wine? Thanks sweetie. Fuck these corns on my feet.” For the most part, she already does this now. When Little Sleep, or any other wee one, is around, That’s Not Chinese maintains her language skills. This typically causes Sleepless a bit of anxiety. Ice Cream Man also gets a little anxious about this, but in a different way, “Why do I get in trouble for swearing and they don’t?” he’ll ask Sleepless. “They” usually means That’s Not Chinese and I.

 

I was discussing these language matters with That’s Not Chinese and she said, “I’ll just tell my nephew, ‘It’s OK when you’re here, but don’t say this shit in front of your mom.'” She forgot to add, “Can you please pour me another glass of wine? Thanks sweetie. Fuck these corns on my feet.”

 

Apparently, Sleepless is not alone in her feelings about swearing in front of the young ones. Cream Of Tartar recently advised Opreggano that she’ll need to watch her language once the baby is born and,”maybe you should start now.” “Are you?” I asked her. “Hell no. I’d much rather my kid say ‘fuck’ than…(insert whispered words).” She has a good point. Besides, being bilingual is good for the brain and, since many of our lawmakers want English only in school, it is up to us to teach them a second language. In this case, Latinum vulgare, both at home and in utero (those last two words are Latin, mother fucker).