GrigioGirl

Rated R and I were recently talking about celebrities. This was a pretty short conversation because neither of us recognize or remember the names of most. Fortunately, her friend and neighbor stopped by to join us and ‘celebrities’ are one of her strengths.

 

As we discussed the various stories in the media, she enlightened us on the facts that might not be detailed in the stories; of particular interest was their net worth.

 

Thanks to the World Wide Web, the net worth of many well-known individuals is readily available. After several celebrity queries, I decided to query the net worth of the three of us. It was then that I realized the World Wide Web needs to catch up with us up and comers.

 

The first search I conducted, for Rated R’s neighbor’s net worth, resulted in a few phone numbers.

 

The second search, for Rated R’s net worth, resulted in a reminder that she needs to shut down an old web site.

 

The third search, for my own net worth, showed that if I (or someone with my same name) had won the Powerball my wealth would have swelled. It also showed that I own a country.

 

Having won a door prize on The Price is Right in the early ’90s, I’m alright with not winning things; the related taxes result in you owing instead of owning and, as a country owner, I definitely need tax deductions to maintain my net worth.

Getting a pedicure is, in many ways, a right of passage.

 

It signifies the end of a work week, a much needed break, a change in season, or a big event. It is also a reminder that we should all take better care of our feet.

 

When Sleepless, Live Longer and I met for an end of the week pedicure we could not be more ready.

 

Sleepless had picked the polish off all but her big toes and, due to a recent walk in really cute shoes, was donning two massive blisters.

 

My toes were ‘naked’ because I had been ‘airing’ them out after several pedicures that involved a lot of dark polish and very little base coat.

 

Of the three of us, Live Longer’s toes looked best.

 

With our coffees in hand, we prepared to enjoy the soaking, sloughing, filing, massaging, and pampering.

 

“I have concerns,” Live Longer advised. “None of my people are here. I hope these white girls know what they’re doing.”

 

The hour went well and we all walked away, carefully, with our soft, polished and lubricated feet flipping in and out of our flops.

 

Unfortunately, of all people, Live Longer experienced a pedi fumble. Once home, she noticed the polish did not cover her entire big toe and immediately sent me a text.

 

“White girls can’t do pedis…Need to stick with my people.”

 

I, of course, informed her she was being pedi.

With the warm weather finally truly upon us, Live Longer and I have decided to take advantage of it and spend some time with our mother….nature while getting a little cardio in.

 

We started this effort by taking a hike and continued it by walking the track, running the stairs and doing lunges.

 

Sounds pretty impressive, right? Let’s get into the details.

 

The hike was both low-key and low-incline and our reward was brunch so we were able to completing it was pretty simple.

“I didn’t even break a sweat,” Live Longer told me.

 

The same was not entirely true on our next cardio adventure at the local high school football field. Although the track was simple, the stairs were work.

 

“How many times do we do these?” Live Longer asked.

 

“I usually do a set of ten, do the track for a bit, then do another set of ten,” I advised.

 

“Really? Aren’t you afraid you might miss a step?” she asked.

 

“Surprisingly, no,” I told her and added, “We’ll just do a set of five this time. Two more.”

 

“I’m already breaking a sweat,” she said.”

 

“Better a sweat than a bone,” I replied.

 

After our first and only set of five we walked around the track a few times and then decided to close out our training with lunges across the field. To ensure we completed this task we opted to start in the middle of the field and set a goal: a glass of wine.

 

“That was good. It’s like we’re training for an event,” Live Longer observed.

 

“Yes and, based on our end goals, it appears we’re training for drinking,” I quipped.

We all have codes for and traditions around poo time. For me, it is typically a Wilson Phillips moment.

 

Unlike many people, I am not poo shy. If I’ve got to go, I find the necessarium (a term used back in the day to describe the room necessary for doing one’s business) and put it to good use.

 

Others, however, aren’t so fortunate. Live Longer is one of the ‘others.’ She has what she refers to as a ‘poo time continuum.’ Each morning, she brews a pot of coffee, has a cup or two, then uses the loo.

 

As soon as she relieves herself she stops drinking coffee – for her, it serves only one purpose: to brew a poo. When the need strikes again, sans the assistance of coffee, it is usually later in the day and, if she is at work, she goes home. The poo time continuum constantly rules her world.

 

“I can’t poo just anywhere,” she told Opal, Sleepless and I. “Once, in France, I didn’t poo for two weeks.”

 

Such a shame. The French actually coined the phrase “gardez l’eau,” which means “watch out for water.” Prior to throwing the water and other matter out of their chamber pots (hence the phrases, “piss poor” and “he doesn’t have a pot to piss in”) out the window, people would yell, “gardez l’eau.” This phrase alerted others that a shit storm was a brewing (big thanks to Jim Lahey of Trailer Park Boys for coining that phrase). It is believed that this French phrase resulted in the use of the common British word “loo,” which rhymes with what we all do: poo.

 

Opal shares Live Longer’s struggles.

 

“It took me two weeks to prepare to poo at Burning Man,” Opal advised us and shared the psychological and physical training that ensued.

 

Sleepless and I found this mesmerizing. We’ll pluck a rose pretty much anywhere. “Plucking a rose” was a polite term used by British women in the late 1700s, early 1800s, who were heading to the garden to have a poo (note: “I’m having a poo,” is the phrase YumYummy coined when wanting to be left alone in the loo). That’s Not Chinese would have loved to live in this rosy era – she is a big fan of taking time to both pluck and smell the roses.

 

One who loves to travel, I have to be able to go anywhere and anytime. Beaner understands this need and recently gave both Live Longer and I a modern day bourdalue, aka, travel urinal. Wealthy British women used to take these devices with them everywhere to avoid having to remove themselves from any current activity in which they were engaged. At a meeting you don’t want to leave? Grab your bourdalue. Having too good of a time dancing to leave the floor? Grab your bourdalue. Too cold and tired to get up? Grab your bourdalue. The main difference between our bourdalue and their bourdalue is that ours is a flexible silicone device which we must empty on our own while theirs was a narrow china bowl that the servants emptied. Being a British socialite in Jane Austen’s time definitely had its perks.

 

That said, regardless of the material or the era, if one doesn’t want to miss out, one must have something to piss in. And, if one lacks a pot, hopefully one has the courage to pluck a rose.

There are a lot of buzz words floating about society. Words such as transparency, empowered, covert, and epidemic. I often read these words in documents or stories and hear them in speeches and interviews.

 

Personally, I don’t care much for any of these words. Unless, of course, you combine a few of them – covert transparency (sounds legit) or empowered epidemic (we all know empowerment is supposed to garner positive results, so this should work out really well).

 

When I hear the words spoken I often think, “Hear we go again with the wished I was buzzed words.”

 

That was until I heard a story about voices and what they – not the words we say – reveal about us.

 

I found it interesting and decided to participate in the experiment. I grabbed my phone and quickly made a voice memo, following the script, as instructed.

 

Thus, without further ado and with complete covert transparency, I reveal to you my real, full name:

 
REAL, FULL NAME

While enjoying Sunday brunch Beaner began admiring a combination salt and pepper shaker.

 

“I wish Sleepless was here,” she said and added, “She would totally take this for me.”

 

“What do you like about it?” I asked, not noticing the two-part feature.

 

“It’s both a salt and a pepper shaker,” Beaner informed me.

 

“Sprinkle on the top and screw on the bottom. Just like me,” Tejas said while giggling.

 

A few minutes later, I ordered a beverage.

 

“May I please have a Sloe Screw?” I asked the server then ‘whispered’ to Tejas, Beaner and Live Longer, “Just like me.”

Every year, on the third Saturday in March, respect is given to three of America’s greatest and dirtiest pleasures: corndogs, tater tots and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

 

This tradition started more than twenty years ago when a few college basketball fans decided to pair their spectating with these three gems. As traditions go, they continued to do this each year after and coined it “National Corndog Day.” Five years ago, I stumbled upon their tradition and decided to make it a tradition of my own. I can’t say how I learned of this fine day but I can say it is not because of my interest, or lack of interest, in sports. It was not until this year that I discovered there was a significant difference between March Madness and the Pac-12. Details.

 

I’ve celebrated this special day alone, with one who doesn’t eat ‘swine’ (Alice’s words, not mine, and she may eat her words one day), with many friends and I almost celebrated in a strip club last year. This year, I had the privilege of celebrating with some deep-fry die-hard; which, if we keep doing this we will probably die with hardened arteries. Again, details.

 

We all met at my house for a few pre-drinks: boxed wine and PBR, of course. Once we had a few drinks we grabbed our score sheet and convoyed over to the local fast-food joint – known for corndogs and tots – for a little consumption.

 

Due to state liquor laws and the fact that this is a ‘family-friendly’ fast food restaurant, we had to pair our deep-fried foods with juice or soda. When I say ‘we,’ I mean everyone but That’s Not Chinese. She packed her coffee cup for proper pairing.

 

With the score sheet taped to the window the competition began: corndogs, tots and beers were being tallied. Tree was in charge of the tick marks and, wisely, opted for corndog bites over the traditional corndog on the stick.

 

“I’ve had two corndogs so far,” he smuggly informed us.

 

“Excuse me, I think you mean corndog bites. Those bites barely make one full corndog,” That’s Not Chinese argued.

 

“Well somebody should have made the rules before I ordered,” Tree replied, popped another bite in his mouth and gave himself another point.

 

“Well in that case mark me down for six beers because I’m pretty sure one glass of wine is the equivalent of three beers and I’ve got at least two glasses in this cup,” That’s Not Chinese advised then took a swig.

 

Not one who likes to lose, Beaner’s daughter was putting the deep-fried potatoes away for the win, “I’m still eating with a tummy ache. That’s like a world record.”

 

The competition was fierce and, just as they had hoped, Tree, That’s Not Chinese and Beaner’s daughter won the competition.

 

As she distributed the “Winner Winner Corndog Dinner” prize packs – which consisted of a coupon for a free family pack of corndogs and bottles of ketchup and mustard – Beaner’s daughter congratulated the winners.

 

When she gave That’s Not Chinese the prize pack she also gave her the compliment of a lifetime, “Thank you for drinking the most.”

 

Like many competitors, Tree and That’s Not Chinese departed after the award ceremony. The rest of us, however, pressed on and decided to end the day with a plan we had made at the beginning of the day: with a Deep Fried Pride Parade. We grabbed corndogs out of the bag (we brought home extras for this purpose) and began marching down the street – corndog in one hand, PBR in the other – shouting, “Deep Fried Pride.”

 

Several photo opps later we retreated to the porch where we enjoyed a few more beverages. While we did so, Beaner’s daughter decided to give away the rest of the corndogs. She grabbed the bag, planted herself on the retaining wall and shouted out, “Free corndogs! It’s National Corndog Day! Deep Fried Pride!”

 

Wanting to assist with her efforts, we turned an empty PBR box inside out and made her a cardboard sign that read ‘Free Corndogs.’

 

She did this for at least 40 minutes and, at one point, I thought she might have competition but quickly realized the ‘competition’ was Beaner replaying a video she had made of her.

 

“Well played,” I told Beaner while she barreled over with laughter.

 

The persistence of Beaner’s daughter paid off and, after telling herself, “Don’t give up, don’t give up;” telling us, “If there was a homeless person nearby I’d walk over and give him one of these;” and yelling to passersby, “Free corndogs for sale;” she successfully sold, for free, all of the extra corndogs. She could not have been more proud.

 

A while back I saw a job posting for a mail sorter at the United States Post Office. Although only part-time, the position pays more hourly than my current on-call/part-time job at the furniture store. Thus, it seemed like a viable option.

 

I’ve been thinking about this option quite a bit lately and shared the idea with Live Longer. She thought it might be an option for her as well.

 

“I know ZIP codes pretty well,” she told me.

 

“Really?” I asked.

 

“I know the difference between yours and mine,” she went on.

 

“I do too,” I informed her and added, “the last digit is different.”

 

“No, what I mean is that I know it’s just like one street down the street from here where the ZIP code changes from mine to yours. I don’t know what happens to a few of the ZIP codes in between yours and mine but I know where ours change,” she advised me and then made a proposition, “I’ll show you.”

 

We set our wine down, grabbed our shoes and headed to the street.

 

After walking only briefly down the sidewalk, Live Longer stated we had reached our destination: the section of the sidewalk where the ZIP code changes.

 

“This is it, right here. I’ve got one foot in my ZIP code and the other in your ZIP code,” she proudly stated.

 

Perhaps knowing Zone Improvement Plan (ZIP) codes inside and out is just what we both need to improve our current plan.

After enjoying a few hefeweizens and a french dip sandwich in honor of St. Patrick’s day, I retreated home and fully intended to consider going to bed. It was, after all, nearly 11 PM.

 

It was at this time that I received a text message from So Hip.

 

“It’s St. Patrick’s Day, wondering what you might be up to?”

 

I informed her I had just arrived home and she quickly replied with her location and an invitation.

 

“Here at the studio. Having a great time. Maybe you could come down for a glass of wine?”

 

I accepted the invitation, asked if she had wine or if I should bring some, and she replied ‘yes’ to both. She then sent me a picture of her feet resting on a stool. Immediately after that she sent me a picture of some red duct tape boots. I’m assuming to bait me. She knows I’m a sucker for good boots.

 

The minute I arrived she opened my wine, poured each of us a glass and said, “We have to dance.”

 

This wasn’t our first dance party. D-Dog and I shared a lovely dance party with her last year.

 

After bustin’ a few moves we sat on the couch and enjoyed our wine.

 

“Ever since we were small, we knew,” So Hip told me, paused briefly, then finished her thought, “We have to be true to ourselves. And look at us, we’re doing it. Let’s sing; we have to sing.”

 

Within seconds we were belting out Fleetwood Mac and So Hip’s all-time favorite, Down in the Meadow by Marilyn Monroe.

 

A few songs and dances later and she was ready for a change of pace.

 

“We have to go on the roof.”

 

As I often do when we’ve been drinking, I had reservations about climbing a rickety, rusted, old fire escape ladder.

 

“We don’t have to go on the roof,” she kindly informed me and made her way back down the ladder, in her dress.

 

Once back in her art studio we had more wine, sang more songs and artistic inspiration sparked.

 

“We have to draw,” she told me.

 

She busted out the charcoal, flipped to a clean sheet of paper and we were busier than Banksy in no time.

 

Our work was good, real good, and So Hip was hungry, real hungry.

 

“We have to eat.”

 

Although it was St. Patrick’s Day, it was actually the day after at this point and most restaurants were closed. So, as we have done in the past, we stopped at one of the best fast-food Mexican restaurants in the city for a bean and cheese burrito.

 

Perhaps it was the lard in the homemade tortilla, the climb up the ladder, the artwork, the singing, the dancing, the drinking or a combination of it all, but So Hip had hit a wall and, with a half-eaten burrito by her side, she curled up in her blanket and drifted off to sleep.

 

I blew out the candles, turned the music down a notch or two, wrote a thank you on our art work, and headed home because, as she told me several times while we were dancing, “We have to work tomorrow.”