Category: blog

Maybe it’s the French in me,  but there is nothing more fun than a double entendre. Get it? I did, twice. Anyway, this Thanksgiving, as everybody else was busy telling (via social media, not in person) all their besties how thankful they are to have them in their life, I decided to be a little more honest and sent out this message, “Today I plan to enjoy a little dark meat, maybe a breast or two and, of course, some stuffing.” Maybe it’s the Southern in me, but I just love dark meat. One friend, who knows me well, replied, “Sounds like a nice spread.” He gets me.

 

MyFace had invited me to her place for dinner and I graciously accepted the offer. “What can I bring?” I asked. “Just a bottle, not a box, of wine,” she replied. I don’t know why MyFace hates on the box so much. Sleepless loves the box, can’t get enough of it. Nontheless, I did as she suggested and, just to prove I am a woman of class, I also brought a bottle of  Dom Pérignon Vintage 1999.

 

“Is it a fake?” MyFace asked. “No, it’s not a fake,” I replied. “How is it spelled? With a ‘m’ or a ‘n’?” Handsome Cowboy asked as they were inspecting the bottle as if I had purchased it from someone in Times Square. “Just so you know,” I advised them, in retaliation, “I resealed that wine bottle and the wine in there is from a box. Ha!”

 

Handsome Cowboy went out to tend to the horses while MyFace, her son and I drank and watched football. “Cowboys on Thanksgiving is a must have,” MyFace advised me. As they watched the game, I made observations, “Unnecessary roughness? Is there such thing as necessary roughness? Good thing the stripes on the referees’ shirts are vertical, horizontal stripes aren’t flattering. Who doesn’t like a tight end?” I’ve no doubt my commentary was very much appreciated.

 

MyFace is very passionate about the Cowboys and has taught her son to be the same. As a result, while watching the game, MyFace had to remind him to watch his language, “Handsome Cowboy doesn’t like cussing.” “You should remind him it’s Thanksgiving – the one day when fowl language is acceptable,” I advised her.

 

After enjoying a nice spread, MyFace and I sat down to watch a little television. “What do you want to watch?” she asked. “I don’t care. I really don’t watch much television,” I told her. “Oh, look at this, I love this! What a great way to end Thanksgiving day,” she said as she selected Rocky Horror Picture Show. She was right. From touchdowns to touch-a-touch-a- touch-a touch me, we had really scored!

 

If you were a female in the fifties the expectations were simple: wear a cone bra corset, own a pair of cateyes glasses, have a good supply of hairspray, and drink and smoke less if you’re pregnant. If you were pregnant (and smoking and drinking), you wouldn’t be judged so long as you were married (which you would have done at a young age) and living the American dream – which includes dreaming of having amazing kitchen appliances like a dishwasher or, as Alice refers to it, “a magic cabinet.”

 

The second world war changed some of these expectations a bit, but ‘modern’ movies, such as 9 to 5, and everyday occurrences show societal gender roles are still alive and well. I have a coworker who regularly comes in my office and expects me to stop whatever I am doing – which is usually sitting in my chair and working on the computer – to give him a hug (which I have no interest in giving him). If I don’t do so, he’ll say (with his arms reaching out), “Come on, come on, come on. Get up and give me a hug. Come on, come on. Get up, get up. Give me a hug.” This week, when he did this, I replied, “Not doing it. I watched 9 to 5 this weekend.” Unfortunately, this information fell on deaf and demeaning ears. He replied, “Fine. I’ll just come over there, bend down, and give you a hug.” I really need to invest in a garage door opener.

 

All of this seemed fitting, however, later in the evening when Sleepless, White Woman, One And Done, Ice Cream Man, Left Eared, Tile and I all attended OldiesOke. Although we didn’t have cone bra corsets, we did have the hair, hairspray, red lipstick, dresses, jackets, cigarette pants, heels, nylons, and cateyes glasses. We looked good. If nothing else, 50s fashion was very sexy. While eating dinner, and after Sleepless had shown off her thigh highs and I my garter straps, White Woman made an announcement, “I’m wearing my mom’s old cone bra.” She then asked Passed The Sniff Test, “Wanna feel?” Two days in a row that one of my friends has offered one of my other friends an opportunity to feel their breasts. Two days in a row that my friends have respectfully declined.

 

As we were attempting to select songs to sing we quickly discovered that, outside of musicals, there weren’t a lot of female artists in the 50s and there were even fewer in the karaoke songbank. I would have settled for singing ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”, unfortunately, it wasn’t an option. Just as we were getting ready to sing Wilson Phillips, we noticed Jazz Hands. We had recently been told that he died in a car accident, but here he was, living, breathing and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at the bar. “Not dead. I’m alive. Maybe I came back to life, like Jesus. Maybe, I’m Jazz Hands Jesus,” he told us. Maybe. One thing was certain, Jazz Hands was alive and well, like the 50s. Like women in the 50s, we cheered for the boys as they sang and did what we should and do best, smiled and looked pretty.  I’m sure change will come if we just hold on for one more day.

Daylight Saving Time ended a few weeks ago for most people; the exception being Arizonians and me. My decision to not change my clocks has been most advantageous for my work-related activities, in that I tend to be early for most of them. I also leave early, but like Benjamin Franklin said, “Early to bed, early to rise….” I rise out of the meetings and head home much earlier than others.

 

Although this theory works for me, it does not work for everyone and was definitely throwing Alice off because, while visiting with That’s Not Chinese, Tree and I,  she kept looking at the clock and thinking it was later than it actually was. I continually had to remind her, “the front room is a different time zone.” Luckily, this kept her from rising and leaving too soon. Instead, she stayed and enhanced the conversations.

 

That’s Not Chinese recently visited Peru. The purpose of the journey was to be both educational and spiritual. In order to achieve ‘maximum spirituality,’ participants of the journey were advised to abstain from sexual activity. Apparently, that was a memo That’s Not Chinese missed. She had shared her experience with Tree and I, however, Alice had not yet heard the story. As Alice was asking That’s Not Chinese about her trip, Tree and I (still on a high from the whore game, no doubt) were giggling and making comments “She whore did have a good time.” “You guys, what are you talking about? Let’s not talk in circles,” Alice told us, then asked That’s Not Chinese, “(Did) you get your eyeballs fucked out?” A large smile quickly appeared on That’s Not Chinese’s face. “Humping the Holy Man,” Tree quipped. “Shagging the Shaman,” I said and added, “Please don’t squeeze the Shaman.”

 

That’s Not Chinese blushed a bit and then shared the details of her sexual encounter with Alice. The main detail being that her love connection was with their tour guide/Shaman who happens to be one of the top archeologists at one of the famous sites in Peru. “You boned the main archeologist? Don’t they dig up bones?” Alice asked. “He threw her a bone,” Tree said. “Several times,” That’s Not Chinese advised.

 

Somehow, this discussion led to one about mean girls. “I was never a mean girl until now,” Alice told us. That would explain her earlier comment about a coworker, “If she didn’t look like herself, she’d be very pretty.” Alice went on to share her high school experience with us, “I was the popular girl. I mean, I was so popular. I wreaked popularity. I was the homecoming queen.” “I was on the drill team,” That’s Not Chinese interjected. “You were? What happened to do your dance moves?” Tree asked.

 

That’s Not Chinese shot Tree a look and said, “I thought you were going to make a comment about my weight.” “I wouldn’t worry too much about your weight,” I told her. “Pretty soon we’ll be old, you’ll weigh 90 pounds, and everything will be on your belly, including your boobs.” “My boobs are firm and I don’t even have a bra on,” Alice told us, then looked at Tree and said, “If you want, you can fill them.” “No thanks,” he kindly replied then looked at the clock. Even with the front room being in a different time zone, it was still late. Thus, Alice, the popular turned mean girl with firm boobs, decided to call it a night.

 

 

 

After dumpster diving, Tree and I returned to my house for lunch and relaxing prior to a little get together with That’s Not Chinese and Alice. Just as we finished eating, we received a text from That’s Not Chinese asking if we thought a local fast food restaurant would deliver. We attempted to text her back, but my phone hasn’t been working well lately, so the text did not exactly make sense. “Seems like you aRE drinking too LOL,” she replied. We weren’t and this wasn’t the first time my phone made it appear as though I had imbibed. Instead of texting back, we phoned her.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked her. “Just watching the (football) game and wishing I had a corndog,” she replied. “Are you a drunken whore?” Tree asked. “What?” she replied. Tree giggled and then, like in Super Troopers when they threw ‘meow’ in as often as they could, we both begin sneaking the word ‘whore’ into our sentences whenever possible. “This is exactly why I need my own show,” Tree told me and continued, “This would be a great episode.” Then he asked That’s Not Chinese, “When are you going to get here, whore or five?” “What?” she asked. “He wants to know if you will be here before whore,” I advised her. “I can’t understand you two,” she said and asked, “Do you have food and, if I come over, can I watch football?” Neither Tree or I are football watchers, but we enjoyed That’s Not Chinese’s company. “Yes, come on owhore,” I replied. “This is going to be fun,” Tree giggled again.

 

That’s Not Chinese arrived in her Chicago Bears Jersey atop her sweatsuit and ready to watch football. “It’s like I’m eight again,” Tree told her. “Which parent am I?” That’s Not Chinese asked him. “My stepdad,” Tree replied. “I guess I’ll be your mom,” I told him and added, “Seems right since the guy at the store asked if I was your mom.” As I was making That’s Not Chinese a BLT, I yelled to her from the kitchen, “How many pieces of bacon? Three or whore?” “Doesn’t matter to me,” she replied while Tree giggled.

 

That’s Not Chinese decided wearing the jersey and a sweatshirt was a bit warm, so she attempted to take off the sweatshirt – in front of Tree and I – without taking off the jersey. She discovered this might result in her exposing herself to Tree so, instead of leaving the room, she turned her back to him, lifted the hoodie – which got stuck on her head, and, because she had turned to face the mirror, left her back and front exposed to Tree. “OK, you no longer remind me of my stepdad,” Tree quipped. “I think he could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that,” I told her. “Are you saying that because I’m fat?” she asked. “No. I’m saying that because he is gay,” I replied. “Oh, well, like I told you the other day, we could start a show called ‘Two and a Half Women.’ I can be the two and you can be the half,” she quipped as I helped her remove the hoodie from her head. “Great idea,” I replied. That’s Not Chinese then screamed (in response to the game). Tree and I looked at each other, wide-eyed, and he asked, “What are you screaming whore?” “What?” she asked.

 

Just as we didn’t understand her game, she didn’t understand our game. (Half) Time for the whore d’oeuvres!

I fancy myself a creative person and decided since nobody is tapping my ass I should tap into my creativity. Please, please, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about crafts.

 

I once took up scrapbooking and spent a lot of money on it. Then, one day, the city sewer line broke and backed up in my basement. As a result, sheet protectors turned into shit protectors, I learned a lot of my neighbors are vegetarians, and all of the money I invested in scrapbooking ended up going down the drain, literally. Thus, I haven’t engaged in this activity for years. The other day I decided it might be time to engage in crafts again and looked around the house for something I could do with my existing goods.

 

I lucked out, in that I decided to do a craft that involved carafes of sorts – something of which I have plenty. Unfortunately, not all of them were empty and, although I enjoy drinking, I’m not a binge drinker. I needed a plan B. As I pondered this, I came up with plan DD: dumpster diving.

 

Tree stopped by to hang out, so I invited him to join me, “Want to dumpster dive with me?” He replied, without hesitation, “Of course! I haven’t done that since I used to get really high.”

 

This first glass recycling dumpster we dove into didn’t have much to offer, so we drove to a bigger, and what turned out to be better, dumpster – I guess size does matter. We found a few bottles that were really great and really deep into the pile. Tree put his experience to work and hoisted himself into the dumpster for retrieval. Just when we were about to leave, a couple drove up with boxes of bottles. “Do you mind if I rummage through your box?” I asked and then, seeing their amazing wares, asked another question, “How often do you guys come here?” “Just when these are full,” the man replied. “How often are they full?” Tree asked under his breath.

 

As we were getting in the car, they began throwing their bottles in the container. The first shot, by the boy, didn’t go in the hole, rather, broke, then repelled off the bin in several directions. “This is rather entertaining. In fact, seeing what people drink and watching them take out their frustrations in the bin may be better than people watching at the airport,” I told Tree. He agreed and we watched them continue to launch their bottles in the bin. The boy occasionally made the shot, the girl never made the shot and the beer bottles continually boomeranged off the bin.

 

We decided it might be best to get out of there, so as to avoid being hit with their broken bottles. As we drove away, I rolled down the window and yelled, “Thanks for the bottles. See you next week.” The boy ducked to avoid the bottom of a beer bottle, looked our way, waved and said, “See you next week!”

It isn’t very often that I have an entire weekend, at home, alone. Thus, this weekend, I planned just that. Being that my cell phone is once again acting up and my cable package only includes Comedy Central and local stations, I decided to disregard ‘modern technology,’ and went back to that which I know and love, the two Vs: vinyls and VHS.

 

My first movie pick of the day was Tune In Tomorrow. This is one of my favorite flicks and, in my opinion, one of Keanu Reeves’ best movies. I realize Johnny Utah (not the one in Point Break) may dispute this, but I really liked Keanu as Martin Loader. As Martin Loader, he falls in love with his aunt (sister of his dad’s brother’s wife), who is several years older than him. At one point, he tells her about Paris, “All American writers go to Paris and stay in a little hotel on the left banks.” Later in the movie, he brings Paris up, yet again, “In Paris, all the women are older than the men.” I may have to go to Paris, again.

 

Once this movie ended and while it was rewinding, I went downstairs to select another great flick. While doing so, I listened to some vinyl that I recently acquired at a secondhand store. I selected KCPX 24 superstar hits, Record 2, however, when I pulled the vinyl out of the sleeve I found Elvis’ Christmas Album. Slightly different choice when you were hoping to hear How Do You Do? by Mouth & McNeal. So, not that I don’t like Elvis – its just a little early  for Christmas music, I opted instead for Chicago and one of their most popular albums, Chicago IX.

 

While listening to 25 to 6 to 4, I found my next VHS hit, Two Moon Junction. If you haven’t seen Two Moon Junction, then you haven’t seen Sherilyn Fenn naked or, maybe, you have. In this fine flick, which I would describe as extra soft porn, Richard Tyson plays Perry, a sexy, shirtless, semi-driving drifter. I think one of the reasons I like this movie is because Perry rarely, if ever, wears his shirt. In fact, in one scene he is washing dishes in a kitchen restaurant and is wearing jeans and an apron. Once his shift ended, he walked out to his semi, with his shirt on. He would have been an easy character for wardrobe because he wore (or didn’t wear) this shirt and jeans the entire movie. At one point, he told April (Sherilyn), “The lady’s got a secret, don’t you? I ain’t got no secrets. I ain’t got nothing. Except a bike, a truck, and a post office box in Clearwater, Florida.” He forgot to mention his jeans and occasionally worn shirt.

 

After this film, I moved right on to Final Analysis. Not exactly sure why I own this film, however, as I watched I realized it might have been because of the great defense tactic that Heather’s (Kim Basinger) attorney used when she was charged with killing her husband. Pathological Intoxication or, in Latin, ‘mania a potu,’ is an exaggerated response to alcohol that often results in excessive sexual activity and violent behavior. I know a few people with this diagnosis. Heather’s husband had a horrible temper (one reason she killed him) and a good sense of fashion. In one scene, he saw his wife’s lover (unbeknownst to him) and made a reference to him being in the Justice Department. Later, the lover (Richard Gere) recounts the exchange with Heather, “He thought I was in the Justice Department. Do I dress that bad?” Funny and true.

 

My vinyling and VHSing didn’t stop with these fine flashbacks. I continued on with Raising Arizona, The Best of Roger Whitaker, 9 to 5, Vicki Carr and, when I felt I’d laid around long enough, a little Chicken Fat followed by Aerobic Celebration: Aerobic Exercise to Contemporary Christian Music. While arm stretching toward the sky to the beat of Until He Comes, I thought to myself, “If this doesn’t make him come, I don’t know what will.” Then, I stretched out my legs in an upside down V, as outlined in the ‘Instruction Manual Complete With Photographs,’ and soaked in the beauty of all my Vs. With this many Vs, I don’t need modern technology or cable TV.

The Responsible One and I clearly didn’t spend enough time together the other day on the road trip, so we decided to attend a training together today. I invited MissInformation, but she never returned my call. There’s a good chance she is avoiding me and/or in therapy trying to cope with seeing my naked body the other day.

 

Not wanting to revisit that scenario, I told The Responsible One I would meet her at the training. She arrived before me and sent me a text saying she would save me a seat. A few minutes later, she sent me another text, “Just kidding. Wrong hotel. I’ll save you a seat when I get there.” Apparently The Responsible One pulled a me. Luckily, like me, she didn’t go to the wrong room, just the wrong hotel.

 

By the time I arrived the training had been going for at least 30 minutes and The Responsible One had stepped out to take a phone call. Our seats were front row and the only way to enter the training was from the front of the class room. We debated waiting to return to the room at break, but one of the training staff informed us break wouldn’t be for some time, so we ended up walking into the front of the training room and taking our seats. Five minutes later, the instructor announced a break.

 

The Responsible One pulled out a laminated picture of her boss’ head, which was on top of Charlie Brown’s body. “I need to take pictures of him in random places. You should probably take him home with you.” “Let’s go do that now!” I said and added, “I love doing stuff like this.” We were sticking him everywhere – in the microwave, the tourist information display, with the beverages, in the grass, on the flat screen during a media conference – he was really getting around. Unfortunately, he was having difficulty staying erect (that’s what he said) and we determined it might be helpful to tape something to the back of him. “Maybe we could use tongue depressors,” The Responsible One suggested. “How about creamsicle sticks? We can eat them and then use the sticks,” I suggested. We were just about to do another photo opp when, like recess, the break ended.

 

As we made our way back to our front row seats, The Responsible One was trying to hide her boss from the rest of the trainees, so she stuck him in her jacket. “Do you really think that is an appropriate place for your boss? I’m not taking a picture of that,” I said. During the rest of the training, I couldn’t stop thinking of places where we could take his picture – so exciting!

 

After the training, I received a picture message from The Responsible One. It was of her boss, having an appertif. We decided to take more pictures of the gnome next week, “You, me and a photo-shopped guy on a popsicle stick. It’s like a dream come true,” she said in a text. “Dreamsicle come true,” I replied.

If you’ve followed my blog at all, you know that my box gets hit a lot. Tuesday evenings and the holidays, Halloween in particular, tend to be the busiest times for me. As a result, I spend a lot of time washing, putting everything back in it’s place and reminiscing.

 

To make the post-hit process a little less painful and a lot more enjoyable, I like to drink a glass of wine and listen to my records while doing it. Tonight’s first pick: Barabajagal by Donovan. I think Donovan would be honored to know he is with me while I’m hittin’ my box hard. I love my box. And, like Donovan, I love my shirt, my shoes, my jeans and all of my wardrobe!

 

As I was putting various items in their proper place, I was thinking of all of the amazing people who have been in my box. Sleepless, Opreggano, Callin’ The Dog, Fine Girl, Tree, D-Dog, Addly, La La Lovely, Ice Cream Man (via Sleepless), Can’t Be Bothered, MiniMe and Striker. There is so much goodness in my box, that I am sure there are oodles more who have been in it when I wasn’t paying attention.

 

After listening to both sides of the Donovan LP, I decided to listen to Donny Osmond, “My Best To You.” By this time, even though I was supposed to be cleaning up my box, I had gotten distracted and was trying on one of my favorite dresses. As I admired myself in the mirror, Donny sang (to me, of course). As he sang the first song, Sweet and Innocent, it was as if he was singing to me. “Cause you’re too sweet and innocent, buy you’re just oh too young for me.” If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. He is so right, I am too young for him. As far as sweet, like Basement Jaxx says, “forget about sugar, have a spoonful of me.” And, innocent? Duh, yes, look at me! I’m home alone, on a Thursday night, innocently organizing my costume box.

 

 

 

MissInformation, The Responsible One and I were traveling South for work and, to avoid having to drive into the office, MissInformation agreed to pick me up from my home. The plan was to head out at ten so, knowing they are both notorious for being on time, I planned to be ready by 9:50.

 

I began getting ready around 9 and, by 9:30, I was doing great, right on schedule. As I was blowdrying my hair, I thought it might be a good idea to plug in the camera battery so we could take pictures and do a few dash cam videos while out and about. With my round hair brush in my hair, attempting to manage my cowlick, I exited the bathroom and headed to the kitchen. It was at this time that the doorbell rang.

 

Being that I live in a small house, my kitchen is right next to my bathroom. In order to access the kitchen, one has to pass by a doorway that is visible from the front door, which has a window. Standing at my door, twenty minutes early, was MissInformation (she lived up to her name today). Standing in the kitchen doorway, was me, buck naked. I, of course, gasped and quickly tried to cover my tits and wobbly bits. With, however, only two hands, this wasn’t easy. Thus, I dashed to the corner of the kitchen and assessed my surroundings. As I suspected, there were no items in the kitchen that I could use to cover me bits. So, I did what any naked person in my position would do, I acted ‘natural,’ casually walked by the doorway, gave her the ‘one minute’ sign, and grabbed my robe.

 

“Sorry about that,” I told MissInformation as I opened the door. “That has only happened one other time, with a salesman.” “No worries, I really couldn’t see anything,” she replied. “Really? Nothing?” I asked. “I saw a silhouette, and I could tell you were naked,” said MissInformation. “Hmmm, hope I looked good. Again, sorry, but you weren’t supposed to be here until ten.” “I’m early and you should get a curtain. No wonder your neighbor watches from across the way,” she told me. “I’ve got a curtain, but I don’t like to use it. You may be on to something. I should nude better.”

While watching Baby Q, I had the privilege of working at a conference. So, I packed up the stroller and we headed to our station. Babies are a great draw to your table, especially when you only have pamphlets. People do not go to conferences to get pamphlets. They want free t-shirts, pens, letter openers, note pads, frisbees, tissue boxes, lanyards, candy, karaoke, and, most importantly, to oogle over a baby.

 

I let Baby Q do her thing (giggle, throw things, scream) and people were eating it up. One gentleman stopped by and began chatting with her, “I have two daughters and they are beautiful just like you.” He was saying this with an accent – a real one, not like my Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins accent. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Colombia,” he replied. “Are you fluent in English and Spanish?” “Yes, and French,” he advised me. “Impressive. I’m trying to teach her French,” I told him. “Ah, you speak French,” he said excitedly. “Non (French for ‘no’), I thought we’d learn together,” I replied. He then rattled off the numbers, one through ten, in French and said, “Répète.” I did what I always do when people are doing something I can’t do or don’t understand  (like speaking French, winking or watching football), I smiled, nodded my head and, because I was at a conference, handed him a pamphlet and said, “Merci. Bon voyage.”

 

All of this language learning and working was exhausting for Baby Q. As she was walking (a practice she is just learning, so it is more like a stagger) around the lobby, she would just give up, flop on the ground, lay on her back, and sigh. Everyone thought this was so cute. I did too, but wondered why it is not perceived as cute when adults do it. I was reminded me of the time that Fru Fru Pants and I were at a conference in Kansas City and, after a few drinks, we did, pretty much, the exact same thing. The only difference being we were just about to get kicked out of a bar. I didn’t realize this was about to happen, but Fru Fru Pants was wise to the ways of the world and, as I was giving one of my best dance floor performances in my free conference tee, she drunk whispered in my ear, “We’re about to get kicked out. Let’s go!” “How do you know?” I asked. “I’ve been in, and kicked out of, more than one bar in my life,” she advised me as we quickly staggered out the door with the bouncer close behind us. We made our way as far away from the entrance as we possibly could – I’m guessing twenty feet – flopped on the grass, laid on our backs, sighed, and then laughed so hard we nearly peed our pants.

 

I’ve been to several conferences since Kansas and haven’t done that nor have I been kicked out of a bar. “Why not?” one might ask. No real reason other than the simple phrase, made famous by Dorothy, which we had silkscreened on our paid for, not free, custom-made souvenir tee, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”