Category: blog

With Chinese New Year upon us, I Was A Stripper and I began discussing resolutions and new year changes. “You know it’s the year of the dragon,” I advised her and added, “Almost time to put your rabbit away.” “I don’t have a rabbit. I’ve got something with a trunk. I think it’s a hummingbird,” she told me while searching online for a new year new job. Last I checked, hummingbirds have beaks, not trunks.

 

Speaking of hummingbirds, poor Bobby’s Girl was advised by her doctor to get a B.O.B. (battery operated boyfriend) and, one year later – as the year of the rabbit is coming (pun intended) to an end, she still doesn’t own one. “Really? You don’t have one?” I asked her. “No. I know, I know, I should get one,” she humbly replied. “Like your doctor said, ‘Use it or lose it,'” MyFace told her. “Well, this may sound weird, but ever since MyFace told me that story, whenever I use mine I think of you,” I told Bobby’s Girl. I’ve no doubt she took note of that comment.

 

As I Was A Stripper and I continued to peruse job openings, we found the ideal position, ‘Note Taker.’ The description was just as good as the job title, ‘This individual will be expected to take notes.’ “Better make note of that job,” I advised her. She hadn’t wasted any time and was already applying for the position. “Speaking of taking note, S-Unit advised me against washing my hair on Chinese New Year. Apparently it is considered bad luck,” I advised her. Per several online sites, washing, cutting your hair and showering are all believed to be bad luck – doing so washes/cuts away one’s prosperity.

 

With this year being the year of the dragon, I’ve no doubt it will be packed with good luck and fortune. For starters, my coworkers will have the good fortune of working with my unshowered, perhaps stinky, ass. I Was A Stripper is in luck because she has the elephant trunk hummingbird – hummingphant? – and doesn’t have to worry about the fact that the year of the rabbit is over. In addition, she is eating well.

 

She decided to start the year with a can of tuna and, because this Chinese New Year is a prosperous one, offered some to me, “You want some of my tuna?” I respectfully declined and, several minutes after she ate the tuna, I caught her sniffing the air around her. When she couldn’t pin down the scent or cause, she bent over, sniffed her crotch, and then sniffed her fingers. It was at this point that she had both ‘found the source’ and noticed me watching. “Smell my fingers. They smell like tuna. I can’t take notes with tuna smelling fingers,” she told me. I Was A Stripper may want to take her chances with luck and shower today.

I go to classy places. For Bruiser’s birthday, On My Terms, So Hip and I took her to one of the best garlic burger joints, with carpeted walls, in the city. If you’re drinking in a bar with non-carpeted walls, you’re not really drinking. Sure, the maintenance is awkward, but who doesn’t love carpeted walls?

 

A few hours after drinking and gossiping (the latter is very good for your health according to a University of California, Berkeley, study) with these fine ladies, I joined I Was A Stripper and The Leaver for dinner and strip club festivities.

 

The first strip club we stopped by was in the middle of calendar autographs. Yawn. Been there, done that. So, we headed to a different strip club – a strip club where the songs were from the 80s and played on a jukebox.

 

Being the classy person I am, I asked the server/bouncer, “What are your house wines?” He replied, “Red box and white box.” “I’ll take the red box,” I Was A Stripper told him then leaned my way and said, “Like a period.”

 

I also opted for the red. Like my thinking, I occasionally prefer do my drinking out of the box.

 

While tooling around town with The Leaver and I Was A Stripper, I noticed a sign by the park that read, “MISSING KITTEN,” and then provided details about the kitten. “Why doesn’t anyone put up signs that read ‘MISSING PUSSY’ or ‘LOST BITCH’? I might be more inclined to help find them if they were worded differently. I might start putting up signs like that,” I said.

 

“When I was a kid my cat was named Pussy,” The Leaver advised us. “That explains a lot,” I Was A Stripper quipped. “Did you ever go outside and start calling for it? ‘Pussy, Pussy, Pussy. Come here Pussy, Pussy, Pussy,'” I called out and added, “I’m totally pretending I have a cat called Pussy. Gives the phrase ‘cat calling’ a whole new meaning. First thing tomorrow I am going to open the door and start calling for her. I may even call out for her tonight.”

 

“Meow, meow, meow. Stop looking, I’m right here. Meow,” I Was A Stripper purred from the backseat.

Going to Sundance Film Festival with MyFace and Q has become a bit of a tradition. We usually start at MyFace’s place with a nice drink of wine or a fancy mimosa, and then we head to Park City for movies and dining. MyFace is a bit more organized and responsible than I, so she usually selects the film, buys the tickets, and makes dinner reservations. She also takes my keys and, occasionally, my ID. She said she takes the latter so I don’t lose it. I think she takes it so I can use a fake name should I end up chatting with law enforcement.

 

Prior to arriving at MyFace’s, Q had told me she was in need of some floss and figured I would have some in my purse. I did, however, forgot to find it right when she asked. So, a few minutes into my driving, she said, “Alright, let’s get to it. Where’s your flask?” I looked at her in shock. Was she accusing me of having a flask? Better yet, what a great idea – we should have packed a flask. Turns out, she said ‘floss,’ not ‘flask,’ and so I dug through my flask-free purse to find her the floss.

 

As we shared this story with MyFace and her friends, they agreed that SFF is definitely a BYOF event and that, with all of the paparazzi about, it is best to also have floss so as not to find pictures of us, on TMZ and the like, with food in our teeth.

 

About 45 minutes into the film, MyFace whispered to me, “This is a true Sundance film. I’m really going to need a drink of wine when this is over.” “I could use one right now,” I replied.  A few seconds later, NYF From NYC leaned my way and said, “Next year: flask.”

I don’t place a lot of rules on myself when in public. I do, however, have a philosophy about spaghetti: it is best not eaten in public. Thus, no matter where I’m publicly dining, I rarely, if ever, order the long, thin pasta.

 

Q and I were eating lunch and I had ordered a baked potato soup. For whatever reason, I wasn’t provided any napkins, but figured I could eat soup without needing one. Not so. This soup was packed with cheese and, as a result, it was stringy, sticky and worse than a public spaghetti scenario. “You’re from Wisconsin. Have you ever seen so much cheese in a soup? And so problematic?” I asked Q as the cheese was positioning itself on my chin, in the neck of my cowl neck dress and on my sleeves. “You’ve done a better job eating spaghetti,” she replied. She was right and, as soon as I got the server’s attention, I requested some napkins. As I attempted to clean up my act, I continued to find cheese in places one would never guess. “Looks like I’m going to have to retire this dress,” I sadly whined.

 

A few hours later, my dress was off and I was cheese free in my pajamas, listening to The Cat’s Pyjamas, when So Hip invited me to come over for a glass of wine. Since I find her company to be bee’s knees, I quickly stepped into my wellies and out the door. I arrived to find her a couple of glasses into a bottle and eager to hand me a glass, which I graciously accepted.

 

As we began chatting she advised me her daughter was sleeping. To respect her rest, we kept the stereo and our voices low. Soon, her husband arrived home from work. Nothing worse than coming home from a long day of work to find your wife and her high-school friend two bottles in and behaving as if no time has passed and having no true sense of our decibels. “Enjoy your little play date,” he told us before scooting off to bed.

 

Being so hip, So Hip had the fire going, candles lit and incense nearby. I had enjoyed both the candles and the fire, however, had not yet had the privilege of enjoying the incense until So Hip ripped an incredibly stinky fart – girl was both ripped and ripping ’em. “Phew, sorry about that,” she said while lighting the incense and then added, “Smells like my cheese drawer.” “Do you fart in your sleep?” I asked her. “Yes, everyone does,” she replied. “Are they that stinky?” I asked. “Probably. I farted so bad the other night that I woke myself up,” she told me, passed more gas, relit the incense and said, “Cheese drawer.”

 

We continued to whine, wine, sing, and dance as though we were the only people in the house. It would probably be fair to say that we were being quite ‘incensitive.’ As a result, I have a feeling that, just like in high school, So Hip may be grounded from me for a while.

 

 

The other day, while having a telephone conversation with That’s Not Chinese, I realized we’ve got a lot of Spotted Elephants, Bird Fishes, “A Dolly for Sues,” and Charlie-In-The Boxes in our lives. “I really think we should check with city zoning and see if we can rezone these blocks as an island – specifically, Misfit Island,” I told her. “Seems like a good idea. I would visit. Wait, I live here,” she replied. She’s perfect for the island. If King Moonracer weren’t already the Island ruler, I would recommend her for the job.

 

As we continued to chat about current life events, she told me a story that caused me to ask her what she was wearing (even though she had already informed me she was in her pajamas). “My comfies,” she replied. “What’s under them?” I asked her. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Have you got real legs, prosthetic legs, no legs. What’s under them?” I clarified. “Real legs,” she answered. “Are they broken?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Well, then, run! Run, Forrest, run. Leave Wilson behind,” I advised her.

 

I realize I combined two of Tom Hanks’ greatest movies, Forrest Gump and Cast Away, but I think the characters from these fine films would be perfect on our island. Even if they aren’t perfect, it’s Misfit Island, nobody is supposed to fit in. Speaking of no, am I the only person who (just) picked up on the fact that Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away is called Chuck Noland? No land. Clever.

 

Last week The Leaver disclosed the fact that I Was A Stripper speaks French in her sleep. I Was A Stripper had no knowledge of such thing. This tends to be the case for most people and most activities that occur when they’re sleeping. This could be advantageous for I Was A Stripper because she has been thinking of working as a flight attendant. As someone with bilingual somniloquy (fancy way to say ‘sleeptalking’) skills, she will be a great asset to the French airlines.

 

The few times I have slept at Bruiser’s I’ve wondered what might really be going on with me while my body is supposed to be going through a restorative and adaptive process. “You snore a little. It’s cute. Just a little snore,” Bruiser has advised me. To my knowledge, the only time I snore is when I’m congested and, now, when with Bruiser. Sleep apnea, aka, snoring, is not necessarily cute, rather, it can be a very slow and loud death.

 

This most recent overnighter at Bruiser’s, I went to bed with an upset stomach. When I finally fell asleep, I apparently went to a place that most adults only go to 20% of the time that they are sleeping. I went to rapid-eye-movement (REM)/dream sleep. The portion of my dream that I remember was about flatulence and the fact that my farts were so quiet and stench free that nobody ever knew when I released them. When I woke from this dream I couldn’t help but wonder, “Have I been farting in my sleep?” I checked with On My Terms, my roommate, and she advised me I had not. Luckily, our muscles our inactive when we sleep, preventing us from acting out our dreams. Phew – for me and for her.

 

Relieved (yet, not relieved) by this news, I put my head under the covers and joined millions of Adult Americans who are doing the same thing – sleeping 1/3 of their lives away. As a wise man once said, “If people were meant to pop out of bed, we’d all sleep in toasters.”

 

 

A while back Sleepless shared a story with me about a time at Ice Cream Man’s cabin. The cabin is equipped with many modern amenities, such as flat screen TVs, heated floors, cable and, my favorite, a Video Cassette Recorder – more commonly known as a VCR.

 

One evening at the cabin, Little Sleep decided to enjoy a video home system (VHS). Afterwards, she asked Ice Cream Man to ‘fast rewind,’ the tape. Even with a 2-way VHS cassette rewinder, one cannot really fast rewind a VHS. Turns out, the same/reverse is true for DVD.

 

While watching a movie with Bruiser and her family, there were a few scenes that weren’t appropriate for kids. Thus, Bruiser’s husband would fast forward through the DVD. The first time he did this, we all quickly watched what would have been better for their son to hear and not see.

 

Being that I had already seen the film and the ineffectiveness of the DVD fast forward, when another inappropriate scene was about to start I made a suggestion, “You may want to ‘stop and play’ on this one; instead of just quickly showing all of us what we didn’t want him to see. One more reason I love the VHS. If I don’t want someone to see something I just fast forward or fast rewind and all they get to see is black lines across the screens. Beautiful black lines. Oh well, just keep fast forwarding and, later, when he’s asleep, we can fast rewind.”

I’ve been doing karaoke for so long and so often that I often wonder if, in fact, I may be Asian. I will definitely have to check with That’s Not Chinese. It isn’t that she is into genealogy, she really only cares about ‘blood’ when she is at a family reunion and sees a hot, new attendee, who may or may not be related. Being that she isn’t from Kentucky, she likes to steer clear of kissing her cousins or any other relatives for that matter. She is, however, a self-claimed expert on all things Chinese. In addition, she is a cat expert and activist, so having her present when Bruiser’s husband commented to On My Terms about my singing may have been helpful, “Somebody needs to shoot that cat.” Me-ouch.

 

As we discussed Bruiser’s husband’s comment over coffee, On My Terms tried to play it down and convince me he was referring to La La Lovely. “No, I meant her,” he said with confirmation while nodding my way. His friend started talking and we all stopped what we were doing to hear what he had to say. He had a great voice. I’m sure he had heard it before, but I had to say something, “You’ve got a great radio voice. Have you ever thought about doing radio or just calling in with questions?” Turns out he hadn’t, but he does like cats.

 

 

 

The cabin in which we celebrated Bruiser’s husband’s birthday was more like a 4-story mansion and was very posh. Due to the rather remote location (our vehicle couldn’t make it up the hill, so we required a ‘pick-up’….maybe that is why they call them ‘pick-up trucks’), we were invited to spend the night. Assuming it would be a small log unit with wooden floors and, based on our experiential learning, we thought we would be ‘roughing it,’ so we each brought a sleeping bag and On My Terms brought a blow-up mattress.

 

Once we finally made it inside, Bruiser asked if we minded sleeping in the theater room, in the basement. We didn’t mind and took our belongings downstairs to find we had a ‘private’ bathroom and the best seats/floor in the house should we choose to watch the very fitting movie On My Terms brought, The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Very cozy and comfort, indeed.

 

We decided it might be best to set up the air mattress prior to imbibing and we were quite surprised to see how much the mattress was like my aunt, very easy. “You know, I’ve blown one of these up before…..with my mouth,” On My Terms proudly told me. “Impressive skill set. I can’t do that or wink. Luckily this one has a pump.” “A pump with an easy to use comfort button for inflation,” On My Terms replied while pressing the comfort button. “Just like Bruiser’s panties,” I told her.

 

With our beds made we joined the festivities and did what we did best – entertain. At one point in the evening, when I was belting out a karaoke tune, one of the male guests approached me, “Where are you sleeping tonight?” “Here,” I replied and continued singing, “Mucho mistrust love’s gone behind….it’s from the Phillipines, the words are different.” He wanted to get back to our discussion and asked, “With me and my wife?” “No, with On My Terms. Our bed is made and we’re going to lie in it.”

 

Mid-party, Bruiser advised us she had checked on our accommodations and the mattress, “wasn’t looking too good.” On My Terms and I assessed the situation and discovered we hadn’t closed one of the valves. With that discovered, we remedied the situation and returned to the main floor, where the same male guest requested that On My Terms become better friends with he and his wife. Like me, she respectfully declined.

 

As one can imagine, singing, dancing, drinking and turning down swingers can be exhausting, so On My Terms and I decided to go to bed/air mattress. Once again, we found it like the swinging guest, deflated. On My Terms pressed the comfort button, we got in our sleeping bags, turned on The 40-Year-Old Virgin (not to be confused with us ‘turning on the in-his-twenties swinger’), and fell asleep. Not soon after that On My Terms opted to move to a couch because the mattress air was again decreasing.

 

I pressed the comfort button and moved to the center of the mattress in hopes that this would help eliminate or reduce deflation. I’m not sure how much time passed, but I was soon awoken by On My Terms telling me, “Push the comfort button, push the comfort button! You’re going to suffocate if you don’t do it. Quick! It’s surrounding you!” Sure enough, the air in the mattress was quickly deflating beneath me and the sides of the mattress we’re rapidly closing in around me – like an air taco.

 

Even in a very posh cabin, on an air mattress with a comfort button, it is easy to miss the creature comforts of urban living.