GrigioGirl

Once off the plane and in JFK I took my runway ready self over to my next departing gate, found a chair near an outlet and sat down.

 

A few minutes later a young guy in a hoodie sat one chair away from me. Then, a guy with a guitar sat across from me. Slowly, all of the seats around me began to be taken by what appeared to be band members. As I listened to them chat, their occupations were confirmed. I quickly learned the guy in the hoodie was the main artist and the rest of the group were his band members and managers.

 

Once they mentioned the name of the artist I googled it and discovered this guy was quickly gaining international popularity. He and his mates were heading to Toronto for a concert and would be on a BBC music show later in the week. I felt it was the least I could do to let them all sit by a legend like myself.

 

We sat there for some time because, like my previous flight, there was a major delay. Due to the weather, no planes were boarding or departing. This gave me plenty of time to read up on this up and comer. He was tweeting like a boss and when he tweeted about wanting to sing a Christina Aguilera song to motivate people (I’m assuming fans) to get up and walk away, I had to look up from my phone to see if I had missed something; specifically, fans.

 

Nope. The ‘scene’ was the same as it had been since they first gathered around me. The majority of his band and managers were pre-occupied with electronics or sleeping and nobody was around him or talking with him. I patiently waited for the Aguilera song, but he never sang it. This didn’t prevent his followers from favoriting and retweeting.

 

This situation confirmed for me that this is how one becomes famous: tweeting about things that aren’t happening; especially when doing so makes one sound very, very popular and cool. A phenomenon I shall doing ‘tweeting one’s way to the top.’

 

I’d love to go on, but I’m about to be (self) promoted. Like the young hoodie, I don’t do it for me, I do it for my fans. You’re welcome.

Once on board the red-eye flight I requested a glass of red wine. The flight attendant kindly and swiftly delivered my red wine…in a plastic cup. Apparently, even in first, people drink like they’re in coach.

 

I was in the very front row with no one in front of me and, being that the plane was an older model, there were no monitors.

 

It was late, and I’m not an avid watcher of television, so I wasn’t bothered. Instead, I enjoyed my wine and stared off into space, literally.

 

At some point, I fell asleep. At some point later, I jolted awake, causing my red wine to spill all over my pants and jacket.

 

I didn’t let this get to me because 1) I was tired, 2) I didn’t care, 3) nobody saw it happen (red-eye perk), and, 4) like our captain, I’m all about the red zone.

 

In addition to riding my bike and drinking coffee these last two weeks, I have also been filling out job applications.

 

To my good fortune, I have an interview scheduled next week. Due to the fact I’ll be busy on the day of the interview (I’m very busy not being employed), I plan to participate via Skype.

 

“Being that the interview will be online, do you think I need to wear pants?” I asked Tree, Awkward and Live Longer.

 

None of them felt that pants or other attire from the waist down would be necessary.

 

“Good. I’ll be like a news anchor. Nice shirt. Great hair and makeup. No pants, skirt, shorts or pajama bottoms.”

 

“Then, when the interview is over, stand up and, when they see you’re bottomless, you can say, ‘I’m sorry. I thought this interview was for a forestry position,'” Live Longer said, barely able to complete her sentence she was giggling so much.

 

Now that I’ve got my outfit figured out I just need to make sure to have an incredible backdrop (I’m thinking YumYummy drinking a glass of wine while seated at a bistro table will be perfect), good posture, a well-lit room and, most importantly, to not get caught up in staring at myself instead of the interviewers.

I was texting with a friend about the prostitute I recently saw near a ‘Do Not Enter‘ sign and she informed she was currently in that very hood.

 

“No pros today,” she told me.

 

Being that it was Hump Wednesday I was surprised she wasn’t working. Using speech text, I sent her a response.

 

“Prose before hos.”

 

Prose? Being that prostitution is illegal in our state, some might consider this poetic ‘justice.’

 

I just consider it my new catch phrase.

One year ago yesterday I had an appointment for my annual mammogram. I was hoping to have that same privilege this year at 10:40 so I could, from this point forward, refer to it as the 1040-DD. Sadly, no appointments were available on ‘tax’ day.

 

Despite this sad news I still scheduled an appointment for the mammogram and, first thing this morning, I stood in a sterile room with an imaging technician and my boobs smashed between plastic and an x-ray plate. Booby-trapped.

 

We didn’t talk much.

 

She made a few simple requests such as, “Bend with your stomach,” and “Will you please hold your right breast to the side? It’s blocking the left,” but that was really the extent of it.

 

Fifteen minutes later my boobs were out of the trap and I was ready for more adventures.

 

After coffee, shopping and a few minor errands Live Longer, Tree and Awkward stopped by my house for wine.

 

We discussed the previous evening’s activities and I informed them I spilled a glass of red wine on my carpet while cleaning. Fortunately, with the help of club soda and baking soda, it did not stain my carpet. Also fortunate was the fact that we pulled Rated R’s son away just as he tried to eat the soda.

 

“Luckily your house is pretty kid friendly,” Live Longer said and added. “Mine isn’t. It’s kid booby-trapped.”

 

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

 

“It’s kid booby-trapped,” was her only response.

 

I’m still not sure what she means but if it is anything like my mammogram they’ll only have to experience it annually.

With all of my time off lately I’ve decided to do more walking. Being that I live in a relatively central part of the city, this has proven to be rather entertaining.

 

The one place I almost always visit on my walks is the public library. In addition to checking out materials I am able to check out a lot of really interesting people which often provides me with, yet again, material.

 

I’m not the only one with a soft spot in my heart for a hardbound. Plenty of other friends have fond relationships with the library.

 

Just the other day Passed The Sniff Test informed me he only needs two things when he retires: a library card and a chair. He didn’t specify where the chair would be but I have a feeling it will be at the library.

 

Sleepless also loves the library. So much so, she recently finagled securing both a city and a county card. Some may call that cheating. I call it good for business.

 

What isn’t good for business is what I saw after leaving the library. On one of our main streets, where a lot of illegal activity occurs, I observed a woman in hot pants, a tank top with the straps below instead of over her shoulders, and pets and house slippers walking the streets, literally.

 

After a few minutes she got tired so she stood against a post and attempted to stand in a manner that screamed, “Outsource your insource.” Unfortunately, her location choice was less than choice. The sign attached to the post, that was positioned directly above her head, read, “DO NOT ENTER.”

 

Location, location, vocation. I dewey believe this woman’s location, vocation and circulation may, like an overdue library item, result in a few fines.

I’m only one week into my early retirement and I’ve already received a comeback career suggestion from a former coworker.

 

“You should really consider some type of Super Dave character. Let’s start making the videos. You’ll soon be viral,” he told me.

 

“A stuntwoman who gets hurt on a regular basis yet maintains a positive attitude? I could do that. I’ll submit a records request to Chicago to get the footage of my poor footage a few years ago. That can be our first official video,” I replied.

 

“Which reminds me,” I added, “The other day somebody told me, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll land on your feet.’ I informed them I lacked balance so there is a good chance I won’t actually land on my feet.”

 

“True. It’s more likely that you’ll land on your shoulder, again,” he said.

 

“Regardless of how I land, I’ll need a few good stunts ready to go and, of course, I’ll need to find me an assistant. Are you interested?” I asked him.

 

“Sure. You can call me Kodak,” he replied and asked, “What shall we call you?”

 

“Furlough Femme?” I suggested.

 

“Appeals to all audiences,” he responded.

 

“We best get cracking,” I said. “I’ve only got six months of insurance and I can guarantee that these daredevil tricks are sure to not land me on my feet.”

Rated R plans to leave town soon and has asked a family member to stay at her house. Although this puts some of her concerns to rest, it has raised one major concern for her.

 

“I really hope they don’t have sex in my bed,” she told Tree and I.

 

“Where would you prefer they have it?” I asked.

 

“I’m looking around trying to find a spot I haven’t had sex in your house,” Tree told me.

 

This admission nearly caused Rated R to spit out her wine.

 

“Next time warn me so I can swallow,” she said.

 

“Swallowing happened over there,” Tree gestured to a nearby window.

 

“I only have one stipulation: anal in the back…..room,” I advised.

 

“Or over there,” Tree quipped.

 

After our conversation I researched proper etiquette for housesitting and, to Rated R’s dismay, found nothing about whether or not one should have sex in the bed of the homeowner. In fact, the only related etiquette I found was that the sheets be washed.

 

So, the next time you’re housesitting, feel free to use Tree as your example and, as a common courtesy, wash the sheets.

When Live Longer and I learned about B-Y-O-Cup day at 7Eleven we immediately grabbed our wine glasses designed to hold 750 ml (that’s one bottle for those of you who aren’t familiar with the metric system), a flask of vodka, and headed over.

 

Wanting to make a delightful mix we opted for the pina colada slurpee and, once out of the store, we poured in the vodka and let the drinking begin.

 

Within minutes we both experienced brain freeze.

 

“Ew, this brain freeze is painful,” Live Longer said while grabbing her chest and then stating,”It’s too bad we didn’t bring some little umbrellas.”

 

I had also experienced brain freeze, but felt it closer to my brain, and was surprised Live Longer was feeling it in her chest.

 

“Wouldn’t that be chest freeze?” I asked.

 

She was too involved in this chilling experience to respond.

 

Later, after my pina covodka was gone, I did as I often do, I researched brain freeze, also known as sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia, and learned it can, in fact, cause chest pain.

 

“Sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia?” I thought to myself. “No wonder they just call it brain freeze.”

 

Sadly, my pina covodka, combined with the mimosas made by BioMom, resulted in a massive sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia that lasted for several hours – luckily, I slept through most of those hours.

 

Live Longer was feeling the same pain and informed me, “We can’t do sugars.”

 

“We would never make it on a cruise ship,” I replied.

 

“We could, we would just have to drink wine,” she said.

 

Always thinking! Looks like we’ll have another reason to hold on to the 750 ml glasses. Sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia you cannot keep a good girl down!