GrigioGirl

Always wanting to look my best, I recently decided to do some facial waxing.

 

To save money, I opted to do it myself.

 

I heated the wax, grabbed the stick and started applying. All was going well until I attempted to apply the wax below my eyebrow. In the process, it dripped off the stick and landed on a section of my eyelashes.

 

I knew this could end badly and quickly tried to wipe off the wax. Unfortunately it had already embraced my lashes.

 

I thought about reheating the wax, but the only way to do that would be to put warm wax on top of the current wax and that could result in even more wax covered lashes.

 

My next thought was to rinse the wax off of my lashes with warm water.

 

This didn’t work either.

 

So, I did what anyone with wax on their eyelashes would do, I pulled it and that section of my eyelashes off and informed Rated R I will not be able to add ‘aesthetics’ to my resume.

 

Live Longer has been working less lately and we both believe this will really aid in her ability to live up to her namesake. She seems happier, healthier and recently had a revelation which she shared with me one night while the two of us were at her house, enjoying wine.

 

“It’s the end of the world,” she softly told me after looking around the room to be sure no one heard.

 

“You know how I know it’s the end of the world?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t want to work.”

 

“Is that one of the signs? I really don’t know, I’m not well-versed, pun intended, in the Bible,” I replied and asked, “Why did you whisper that to me? Is someone here who shouldn’t know about this?”

 

“I’m like a Roman elitist. Lazy. I wouldn’t mind a white male slave,” she informed me, still whispering.

 

She may be on to something. We both love wearing mumus and, accessorized with the right gold rope, they could easily take on the appearance of a toga. Plus, she’s got a really cute narrow-striped tunic, probably from Old Navy or Banana Republic, that she could wear under the mumu to alert others of her position of aristocracy.

 

In addition, we’re really good at drinking wine, spending money, relying on others for the hard labor, and we have both witnessed corruption.

 

Based on all of these signs it seems it may be either the end of the world or the beginning of an empire. My vote’s on the latter.

A while back I read a book titled “Canned: How I Lost Ten Jobs in Ten Years and Learned to Love Unemployment.”

The title and the reviews, “easy to read,” “acerbic and tragicomic,” “overall emotional impact is profound,” sparked my interest; the familiar experiences shared kept me reading.

 

“That Franklin Schneider (the author) is on to something,” I thought to myself.

 

Now that I’ve been canned and have the privilege of spending my afternoons getting pickled I have an ever greater appreciation of Schneider’s writing and wisdom.

 

I also have a greater appreciation and understanding for the word canned.

 

The definitions for the word vary and I found that all applied to my situation.

 

Canned: preserved in a sealed can. I definitely feel as though I’ve been preserving my freedom and thoroughly enjoy the daily opportunities to exert it.

 

Canned: Prepared or recorded earlier; ready to be released. I was definitely ready and have been preparing for ‘retirement’ for some time.

 

Canned: dismissed from employment. This miss was dissed and, trust me, the dissing will not be missed.

 

Like Schneider, I plan to make the most of being canned. So far, so good. Between coffee, lunch, hiking, and leisurely living I barely have time to focus on the fact that, just last week, I spent my days, and many nights, working. Now I’m canned and pickled tink or was it tickled pink? Regardless, I’m canned…and pickled.

My not being employed has been a real perk for Live Longer who has been home for the last six weeks or so and has truly appreciated having company during the day.

 

“You know what happens, is you get bored,” she told me and added, “Just like Liz Lemon when she was on admin leave for sexual harassment. You can only take so many lunches with the rich neighbor ladies.”

 

She continued to provide details about Liz Lemon’s predicament and then suggested I consider a fight club.

 

“It could be fun,” she told me.

 

“Who would participate? You?” I asked.

 

“Maybe,” she replied.

 

“Well, I do have COBRA,” I said, seriously considering the idea and then asked, “What are the rules? Will it involve pillows?”

 

“Throw pillows,” she quipped. “Get it? Throw…”

 

“Yes, I get it,” I replied.

 

Although I appreciate the idea, I’m still thoroughly enjoying the coffee, walks and lunches. Plus, I know my strengths and weaknesses and if we hold a fight club there will only be two hits: us hitting the bottle and a smooth top 10 ballad, perhaps ‘That’s What Friends Are For,’ playing in the background.

Lately it seems everyone is allergic to or intolerant of at least one food or liquid. For many, this is a legit situation. For many more, it seems to merely be a trend.

 

Prior to being severed I was telling a friend that I may, in fact be severed soon. As a result, an alternate form of income would be needed. Panhandling was an option I considered.

 

I figured a simple cardboard sign that read, “Anything Helps,” would go a long way. To go even further, I thought it would be fun to add a few stipulations as to what might actually ‘help.’

 

Once I was severed, I grabbed my Mr. Sketch markers, taped a PBR case and wine box together, and put this plan into action. As one might guess, ‘free’ was a common theme on the sign: gluten free, MSG free, free-range, dairy free, and so on. In addition, ‘no’ was a common theme: GMO is a no go and, most importantly, no hugs. The fact that a hug was requested of me by my boss after the besevering resulted in this incredibly important stipulation.

 

Once all of my stipulations were on the board I donned Live Longer’s t-shirt that reads ‘Anything Helps’ and, with the wine bladder in one hand and my sign in the other, headed to a nearby retailer where I gave panhandling my best shot.

 

My first thirty seconds proved fruitful – my friend’s mom gave me fifty cents. That’s more than a penny a minute. With pay like that, earned so quickly, I decided to take a break….a break that lasted the rest of the day. The sign read ‘Anything Helps’ and the fifty cents helped me get one-third of the way closer to a really delicious gluten full, non-kosher polish dog on an artisanal bun.

 

Day one of riding my bike and drinking coffee got off to a great start. For starters, I drank coffee while at breakfast with a former coworker (she worked with me up until yesterday).

 

I then headed to Pilates where I enjoyed a lovely series of controlled movements.

 

After that, I went on a dog walk. I don’t even own a dog. So far, so good.

 

Then, I met some former coworkers (they also worked with me up until yesterday) for dim sum.

 

By the time we finished the bite-size treasures and full-size conversation it was nearly time for dinner.

 

If every day of being severed is like this I’ll never have time for work again. As it was, I didn’t even have time to look at my bike, let alone ride it.

 

Unemployment? I think not! Funemployment is more like it.

I recently learned about toe readings. I realize I’m a late learner, but based on what I read about my toes that’s the least of my concerns.

 

One of the first things I learned is my first toe, Ether, on my left foot represents my relationship with my spiritual side and emotion. The fact that I broke it a few years ago seems pretty telling. In comparing my left Ether to my right Ether it appears I’ve both settled and been forced ‘off path.’ I can guarantee I was off path when I broke my toe.

 

My second/air toe – the communicator – doesn’t really talk much to me. Typical poor communicator. It is, however, quite long, which indicates I talk a lot. In addition, based on its length compared to Ether’s length, there is a good chance I’m Greek; even though I’m not. Regardless, I’ve got prime real estate at the local cemetery.

 

My fire, action, passion, poor me toe – more commonly known as the middle toe – is supposed to be representative of what kind of lover I am, if I feel sorry for myself and whether or not I procrastinate. I’ll get to that later.

 

My fourth toe – the water toe – is all about relationships. My relationship with myself and with others. Interestingly enough, this toe regularly covers up my earth toe. What this means, I have no idea.

 

My wee earth toe – known to close friends as money toe – though tucked slightly underneath my water toe, is ready for prosperity in the form of finances but, much like my middle toe, may not yet be ready to address sexuality issues.

 

With all of this newfound knowledge, and before you get one foot out the door, I would like to make a toe’st:

 

Here’s to not toeing the line but instead putting one’s best foot forward and being toe-tally true to oneself.

 

Now, some wisdom:

 

Should you ever get in a jam, call a toe truck.

The other day I couldn’t find my keys. I’ve only got two keys – one to my house and one to my car – and I’ve already lost the spare for each.

 

Not one to panic, I looked around the house, retracing my activity from the night before. It was then I realized I might have left them in the door. I checked the door and, when they weren’t there, I immediately checked to see if my car had been stolen. Still not panicked, just checking.

 

My car was still there so I continued to search throughout the house. I eventually found them under a piece of paper and made a mental note: “Recycle your paper more often.”

 

A few days later it happened again. Once again I retraced the activity of the previous day. It had been a day of a few ‘costume changes’ so I had a lot of pockets to search and bags to rummage, all to no avail.

 

I decided to check the door and, sure enough, they were in the lock; they’d been there all night. Just waiting for someone to enter.

 

“That is so dangerous,” Live Longer told me.

 

“I couldn’t agree more. I love my car and I could totally see someone stealing it,” I replied.

 

“I’m more worried about someone coming into your house and doing something to you,” she stated.

 

I wasn’t too worried about that. I’m a lot like Jack, Chrissy and Janet (although, in my mumu I’m more like Ms. Roper) on Three’s Company – I’m always ready for someone to come and knock on my door or, in this case, just walk in.

A while ago Live Longer stayed at my house for about a week. During this time she had the privilege of enjoying my modern day chamber pot: a good ol’ Toto toilet.

 

She also enjoyed my toilet paper and was shocked when I informed her of the brand.

 

A few months later I learned that Live Longer’s time in my loo had left quite the impression.

 

“Live Longer enjoys your brand of toilet paper. What do you buy?” Opal asked me in a late night text.

 

“Charmin Ultra Soft,” I replied.

 

“Wow! Usually Charmin is so dusty. I would like to come over and try it. Where’s your spare key?” was Opal’s reply.

 

Not being at home, and having misplaced my spare key, I could not oblige her request to stop by and try it. Instead, I responded to the dust comment.

 

“Sometimes there is dust but I don’t know if that is the t.p. or my dry boat to ‘gina. When I’m feeling spunky I just use $100 bills.”

 

This comment – shared while with Rated R and her neighbor – sparked interest of the neighbor who preferred I give the $100 bills to her instead of using them as a wiping device.

 

I could see where she was going with this. Luckily, I’m stuck on the feeling Charmin Basic Ultra provides me and, instead of wiping with a Franklin, I definitely plan to use my next $100 bill toward the purchase of a new package of toilet paper.

 

The way I see it, as long as I’m squeezing the Charmin I don’t have to explain the dust.