Category: blog

I’ve been selling one of my cars for a couple of years now. Clearly, my marketing technique (leave it parked in the back ‘lot’ and don’t advertise it), is ineffective. I recently decided to change it up a bit by posting an online ad, as a result, have had a few interested buyers.

 

My most recent ‘serious buyer’ arrived with his three sons to test drive the car so I grabbed the car key and Baby Q and pulled the door to my house shut. It was at this exact moment that I realized I had just locked us out of the house. “I can help you try and break in if you want,” the serious buyer offered. “Go ahead and take the car and I’ll see if I can’t figure something out while you’re gone,” I replied.

 

While they were gone, Baby Q and I visited neighbors – using their phones, drinking their ‘juice,’ and eating their chocolate (thank you Alice). We even stumbled upon an abandoned shopping cart and, realizing we wouldn’t be getting back in the house any time soon, I placed Baby Q inside and told her, “Welcome home(less).”

 

The serious buyer returned and again offered to help me break into my home. “We can try opening the door with a credit card,” he said. “How do you know how to do that?” I asked. “I’m a realtor,” he replied. Opreggano has never shared these real estate skills with me. Unbelievable. Unfortunately, the credit card trick didn’t work. His son, all of eight or so years old, also made an offer, “I can kick it in.”

 

We opted against attempting to kick the door in and returned to the ‘lot’ to discuss the vehicle. It was at this time that the other children began playing with the padlock on my shed. Last year, I lost the key and had to cut off the padlock. In an attempt to prevent that this year, S-Unit gave me a padlock with a word combination. A word combination I have forgotten. As a result, the boys were trying to figure it out for me. The eight year old approached me and asked, “Do you have a sander?” “Are you thinking you might try to sand off the lock?” I asked him. “Yep,” he confidently replied. “I don’t know what he watches to learn this stuff,” his dad said in response to his comments. I thought to myself, “You?”

Dr. BJ and I had the privilege of attending a training together – a privilege that was only possible because Dr. BJ sent me a text the morning of the conference, reminding me of the conference, but that’s another story. I’ll have my secretary type it up and post it later, right after she updates my calendars.

 

I arrived just as the presenter was discussing the screening of alcohol abuse. “We need to get outta here and go find Zone III,” Dr. BJ leaned over and whispered to me. Although I had just arrived, I wasn’t opposed to the idea. “Zone III. Isn’t that harmful?” I asked him. “I drink to a harmful level every night,” he replied. I took a look at the zones and the accompanying math/graphics and realized all of this was way too much calculating for me, especially on an empty stomach.

 

“Are they providing lunch?” I asked Dr. BJ. “I don’t think so. Like I said earlier, Zone III. Let’s go,” he stated. Just then, the hotel staff rolled in a load of covered hot food plates. “I haven’t had lunch rolled in like that since prison,” I told Dr. BJ. Prison food will not take you to Zone III, but I have a feeling it may be harmful – a lot of starches and carbs.

 

The lunch turned out to be better than expected, however, Dr. BJ was longing for a dessert. “I want to eat some chocolate and I can’t eat myself,” he stated. “If you could, you’d never leave the chocolate factory,” I replied. “So true. Speaking of chocolate, I like to play this game called ‘Count the Black People,'” he advised me. We played and counted to the same number as the number we now know and love, three; Zone III, that is.

I love getting my picture taken, conversely, I love taking pictures. I prefer a mix of both candid and staged shots, unlike Drizzler, who prefers staged candid shots. There are times, when I am taking the pictures, that I will provide friendly advice to my subjects, such as, “Open your eyes this time,” or “Try and look sexy.” Sleepless loves the latter.

 

Recently, I had the privilege of participating in a very special photo shoot of sorts, where I was the subject of the photos, not the photographer. As I read through the ‘contract,’ I learned I would get this opportunity every one to two years for the rest of my life. Wanting to leave a good and lasting impression with the ‘photographer,’ I put my best breast forward and got ready to smile for the camera.

 

Much like when I take pictures, she had an idea in mind as to what she wanted to capture. Thus, she staged the shot with great detail, “Left foot on the footprint, scoot your body in, breast on the shelf, turn your head slightly to the left while keeping your body straight, now relax your arm.” While I was following her directions, she was pushing, squishing and adjusting my  tissue in an attempt to get the best view. “This pose feels totally natural,” I told her. “Good. OK, don’t move. Stop breathing. Perfect,” she replied.

 

We did this again on my other side and, after less than ten minutes, I had completed my first mammogram. I’m not sure how everything will turn out, but I firmly believe I gave it my breast shot.

March has somehow become the month for moustaches. In my ‘research,’ I have found there are many reasons for this madness, with the primary reason being public awareness.

 

As is the case for most, though not all, females, I cannot grow a moustache. Thus, I have officially renamed March. February and January are the only -uary months and, because good things come in three, I have decided to call March Muffuary – a month dedicated to the muff. I consider it a pubic awareness campaign of sorts.

 

In support of this month, I stopped shaving. Doing so has definitely has increased my own pubic awareness. Like I told Sleepless and Standard Time while getting ready for a big night on the town, “Muffuary is a crazy time. My pants no longer fit. Look at me. I look like Miranda in a bikini. Crazy. I’m saving up for a Brazilian – in more way than one.”

 

Until I’ve got enough money and muff, I’ll just bide my time, wear skirts, and do my best to increase pubic awareness. I don’t plan to do anything crazy, like a handlebar muffstache, but I am considering taking a nude cooking class – hopefully they’ll have beard nets.

Texting is not one of my mother’s strengths. The other day, I spoke with her about going to dinner to celebrate one of my sibling’s birthdays. The tentative plan was to go out tonight.

 

Two days ago, I was in a meeting and noticed my mom was phoning me. I assumed the call was related to my sibling’s birthday dinner, not a Med Alert and, because I was in an interview panel, let it go to voice mail. After the panel, I checked my messages, “It’s your mom. I just tried to send you a text, but I’m not very good at it. So, what I meant to say in the text is we can’t go to dinner Thursday night. Maybe another night. I’ll keep working on learning how to text. Love you.”

 

I then looked at my text and, sure enough, my mother had sent me a text. It read “2;” nothing more, just “2.” Sleepless quite liked this and, to show how much she liked it, sent me a text this morning that read, “2.” I replied, “I was just going to say that.” Her reply, “Thinking of you and making sure you know there’s no dinner tonight…..Don’t forget to eat.”

 

“2” actually says a lot without saying much at all – which is great if you have a limited text plan. Two divides, is kindness, balance and a bunch of other spiritual stuff. Next time I need to tell you something really important, but don’t have time to include the details, “2” will take care of it. That said, “2.”

I love aerobics – especially when I can watch it on television. My favorite aerobic show, by far, is the one that played in the 1980s on PBS. As I watched the woman, with the amazing perm, in her leotard, tights,and legwarmers, using the chair to do low-impact aerobics, I would think, “Some day. Some day that may be me.” I’d then pop another cracker, topped with way too much strawberry cream cheese, in my mouth and be frustrated about the fact that I had to get up to change the channel.

 

Years later, fitness shows have expanded beyond PBS and can be found pretty much any time of day or night. Ice Cream Man figured that out one day and sent Dar Ling a romantic, low-impact text, “Jazzercise. My place. 5:30.” Ice Cream Man felt this would be a good, low-impact, gym replacement. He quickly learned why they have a chair on the PBS version and why I usually just watch.  Low-impact is key.

 

“It (Jazzercise) was harder than I thought,” Ice Cream Man told Sleepless and I. “Plus, I’d be more embarrassed if somebody saw me (through the front room windows) doing that than if someone saw us having sex,” he told Sleepless. “Why?” Sleepless asked. I was glad she did, because I also wanted clarification of thit statement. “Because I suck at Jazzercise!” Ice Cream Man replied. That comment quickly took our conversation, and heart rates, to a whole other level.

 

 

A while ago, at the library (of course), I was judging books and CDs by their covers and stumbled upon Donovan Frankenreiter. I liked what I heard and requested a few more of his albums. I listened to his CDs day and night  – I even had to place a hold on one of them because, as it turns out, I am not the only person in the city aware of him. When the time finally came to return him to the library, I didn’t want to do so.

 

Thus, when I saw he was stopping by as part of his tour, I was elated. Being that the concert was on a ‘school night,’ I knew my options for accompaniment might be limited. I took a chance and asked Sleepless her plans for the night, “We’re going to a concert. Some guy whose last name is Frankenfurter.” “Perfect! I’ll join you,” I replied, knowing she meant Frankenreiter.

 

After cocktails at Ice Cream Man’s place, we walked to the venue. Within minutes of being there, we spotted Donovan and approached him for a picture. After the picture, we noticed he was selling moustaches for $1, so we bought several, posed for more pictures with him, and asked his friend if he would like to go on a moustache ride.

 

As we were walking back to our group, we saw Frat Boy at the bar and he asked if we’d like a drink. We graciously accepted, very much appreciative of his generosity. The bartender made the drinks and then asked, “Do you want to pay out or start a tab?” “Put it on Ice Cream Man’s tab,” Frat Boy replied. Forever frat he will be.

 

Donovan started playing and, as we promised him, we made our way to the front and danced. While there, I provided a few shout outs, “I’ve been checking you out for some time, literally, at the library. I’m your three of 37 holds and I’ve got fines because of you.” Once he realized most of the banter was coming from Sleepless and I, he gave a shout out to the library. It was at this time that Frat Boy told Ice Cream Man, “Those are the girls you brought.” Ice Cream Man proudly nodded and took a sip of his drink, courtesy of himself.

 

A few people standing next to Sleepless and I asked what I meant about three of 37 – they thought I was, perhaps, “being dirty.” I explained the library hold process to them and then Sleepless took over and expounded on library benefits. While Sleepless was providing an overview, a woman – who clearly thought she was at the library and not a concert – shooshed her. “Did you hear that?” Sleepless asked me and added, “She shooshed me. I’ve never been shooshed.” “Welcome to my world,” I replied.

 

I’ve been shooshed at a concert before. Surprisingly, I’ve never been shooshed at the library. Good thing, because that might turn me off and being turned off from the library might mean I would miss out on being turned on to/by great artists – something I would dread. Thankfully, Dewey (Decimal) did Donovan.

It has been about 39 days since I’ve had sex, in the sink. Being that I recently became aware of a few new products, I couldn’t wait to bag a few more babes.

 

So, as everyone starting getting their hair colored and cut at Sunday’s SL,UT Cuts, I prepped the sink.

 

For those who were virgins, I warned them about the fact that they may get what I refer to as a ‘facial douche.’ This is something that is almost impossible to avoid when you’re face down in a sink with a spray nozzle. As I finished rinsing Bitchin’ Camaro’s hair, I patted her face with the towel and told her, “If you want me to hold you for a minute, I will. Or, I can offer you a cigarette.” I like being held and I’ve never been this wet. Look at my face,” she replied. “I love clean dirty girls,” I said while adjusting the grocery bag on her head so she could experience a little deep conditioning.

 

Opreggano was anxious to get to the sink – those third-trimester pregnant girls love sex. While I had her there, I asked if she’d be interest in a little extra shine. She agreed and I poured on the beer rinse. “Want a little more extra shine?” I asked. “Sure, why not!” she replied. I pulled the coffee pot out and poured about two cups of cold coffee on her hair. I have a feeling she would have had a cigarette if it weren’t for the pregnancy.

 

BioMom was next, however, she only wanted the ‘missionary’ wash, “Before I let you do me, I want to make sure there aren’t any odd products within your reach. No beer, coffee, or anything else.” With the exception of some Pellegrino water, nothing was within reach. Although I toyed with surprising her with a sparkling finish, I didn’t want to waste the water because Fine Girl was using it to make our skinny margaritas. Even a girl like me has standards.

 

Once everyone left, I started cleaning up. I found LaLaLovely left a bag of items, BioMom forgot her hair clip, Opreggano’s checkbook was on the couch and Sleepless was still wearing my underwear (had to loan them to her the other day – long, short story). Just like a regular one-nighter, they left things behind so they would have reason to return. I can’t blame them – with all of the new products, this was truly the best sink sex. Ever.

It’s been some time since Sleepless, Standard Time and I have hit the town. We decided to start the night off right with a trip to T.J.Maxx; because there is nothing crazier than three fashionistas and their coffee cups on a Saturday night.

 

While Standard Time was selecting a new brassiere, Sleepless and I were checking out the clearance items. Sleepless was immediately drawn to a pink item and, initially, neither of us could figure out what it was. A male customer watched us for a minute and then asked, “What’s really in your cups?” “Coffee,” I replied with irritation – the nerve of that guy. “Can you believe he called us out?” I asked Sleepless. “No, we’ve never been called out,” she said and took a sip of her one-shot, skinny, white zin. That was our first humdinger of the evening.

 

Famished from the shopping and accusatory customer comments, we decided to go to dinner. As we dined, we discussed life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Standard Time shared a once in a lifetime opportunity that was liberating and brought her much happiness – a sexual partner who hummed. “Hummed?” Sleepless and I both asked in unison. “Yes, and it was amazing,” Standard Time advised us. “Where did he learn to do this and does he teach classes?” Sleepless inquired. “What songs did he hum? Roger Whitaker? Wilson Phillips?” I asked. “I have no idea,” Standard Time said with a look on her face that indicated song selection did not matter – take that Simon Cowell. This guy is definitely a real humdinger.

 

We decided to close out the night at one of the city’s trashiest bars. Wanting to fit in, we saw a line-up of mixed drinks at the bar and said, “We’ll take three of those.” “What are those?” Sleepless asked. “Sex on a Beach,” I informed her. “Mmmm, can’t wait. I’ve never had that,” Sleepless replied. Halfway through our beach sex, two young Turkish men approached us. As they began talking with us they informed us they attend college in a town approximately 40 miles North of the bar. “Why do you come to this bar?” Sleepless asked. “We like (slightly inaudible) women,” one of them replied in a strong Turkish accent. I thought he said ‘old,” however, Sleepless was sure he said ‘all.’ To be sure, we asked. “Did you say ‘all women?'” “No, I said old women. O-L-D, like you.” Making this the third and last humdinger of the evening.

 

 

Diggler and his friends retrieved me the other night to participate in birthday festivities at a local piano bar. Being that it was a school night, the bar was pretty empty. I was appreciative of this fact because that meant I could pay less for the songs that only I want to hear and, bonus, nobody would pay to stop them.

 

As I purchased songs, the birthday boy did shots – one after the other. The more he drank, the more notes he wrote to us, “Tomorrow is going to be hard for me,” “Straws are dangerous for drunk people,” and “I’m not handicap I’m drunk,” to name a few. None of us are really sure why he opted to write us notes instead of speaking with us, but we saved them because we figured they’d be good documentation of the evening.

 

About an hour before last call, a few more friends (a married couple) arrived – bringing the patron total to at least twenty. Luckily, they didn’t pay to stop any of my songs. I did, however, stop one of their songs. I couldn’t help it. It was horrible and, at these prices, I could afford to do so.

 

They (married couple) had only been there about 30 minutes when Diggler told me, “They’re swingers. I should have told you that about 30 minutes ago.” “Is that a warning?” I asked. “A warning and an advisory. You could probably get some pretty good material from them.” At about this time the pianists were singing to the birthday boy and toasting that he would ‘get some tonight.’ “I’ll stick it,” the husband told the birthday boy while making an oddly sexual facial expression. “Let’s go get sushi. Join us!” his wife told me. Before I could respond, Diggler looked my way as if to say, “Don’t do it.”

 

Not wanting to chance getting a roofie roll and having someone stick me, I respectfully declined and resumed singing “Hold On.” Besides the piano player, I was the only one in the bar singing the song. The birthday boy smiled my way and said, “This song. Everybody knows and loves it but nobody wants to sing it in front of others. Go you.” And go I did. Two weeks in a row ending the night singing Hold On – instead of getting ‘sushi’ with swingers, I plan to hold out of for someone who knows the words to The Dream is Still Alive and is willing to sing it in front of others.

 

And go I did. For the second week in a row I’ve ended the evening singing Wilson Phillips.