GrigioGirl

Tonight Sleepless and I met up with Calling The Dog and other friends to celebrate a work promotion.

 

We arrived to find Calling The Dog had invited another one of our friends to join us and knew, immediately, we were in for a good time.

 

We brought in our own wine and champagne and immediately began drinking. As we did, Calling The Dog’s friend started disclosing.

 

Based on the line of work we all do, disclosure is something with which we are very familiar. That said, there are times when disclosure still catches us off guard. Tonight was one of those times.

 

“I’ve got some pot at home. I’ve also got some hashish, or whatever it is called. My cousin brings it to me,” Calling The Dog’s friend told all of us at some point during the evening – most likely a few bottles in.

 

“I’d love to have you all come over and smoke it with me,” she kindly offered and added, “Listen, I’m a single woman in my 70s, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

 

She then told us about her experiences in the West Village during the late 60s and early 70s – from ‘dating,’ to dancing to doormen.

 

“He’d get me high, he’d make me jell-o, he did light shows.”

 

“I used to do a lot of modern dance and thought the moves were really cool but then I remembered I was smoking a lot of pot.”

 

“The doorman was the dope dealer. He’d get us pot and speed.”

 

As the evening came to a close her restless leg syndrome kicked in so she pulled out her bag of pills and said, “I’ve had a couple of drinks and now I’m taking two dopamine, I’ll be out soon.”

 

As Sleepless and I drove away from the meal, laughing about all of the conversation, Sleepless quickly rolled down the car windows and said, “She had two dopamine and I just farted.

 

Within seconds we went from ‘hotbox’ to dutch oven.

 

As mentioned previously, both my neighbor and The Leaver are convinced I should date girls. This Friday night, while at an art event for So Hip, I ran into my neighbor and her girlfriend.

 

I hadn’t been at the event for five minutes when my neighbor started pointing to another person – a female, of course – at the party and mouthing, “You should go out with her.”

 

I politely smiled and continued to drink my wine and enjoy the event.

 

My neighbor stepped out of the room for a second and I heard her telling So Hip’s beau about her plan, “I want to line her up with the girl over there.”

 

This evening, I put my Future Homemakers of America skills to work and pulled my Alaskan rockfish out of the freezer, grabbed some vegetables from my garden (and a few from the store) and made a fish stew. I knew it would be a lot of stew and decided to offer some to my neighbor and her girlfriend.

 

They had already eaten, so I wished them a good night and my neighbor immediately replied, “U too Future Lesbian of America, lol.”

Being hip requires a lot more talent and finesse than some might know. Fortunately, So Hip has got this mastered. In addition to being a supreme human being, in general, she is also a very talented art show and put her wares on display for a city gallery stroll.

 

Sleepless and I decided to attend the stroll and, true to form, arrive five or so minutes after the gallery had closed. Not to fret, I knew the location of the after party so we quickly made our way there. It should be noted, that on our way to the gallery we saw a man in blue jeans,  a red shirt, white shoes and a white belt. I commented, probably not too quietly, that I’ve never been a fan of the white belt and he should probably rethink his outfit. The man was going the opposite direction when we first saw him. Moments later, he passed us with his red shirt untucked and white belt out of sight; most likely hidden.

 

Although he appeared to be heading the same direction, we did not see him at the after party. We did, however, have the chance to spend a good amount of time with So Hip. She was very happy and, as she often does when happiness overcomes her, started going around the room and giving kudos to guests.

 

“I’m worried she won’t know my name,” Sleepless told me.

 

“No need to worry. We’ll make you a name tag,” I replied and quickly made her a name tag with masking tape and a permanent marker.

 

So Hip did turn her attention to Sleepless, but by the time she did her focus had changed. She reached into the pocket of her  beautiful, black silk wrap and pulled out a relatively large bottle.

 

“Here, this is what you’re going to get,” she told Sleepless as she sprayed her face.

 

“Is there something wrong with my face? What just happened?” Sleepless asked me, stunned.

 

“So Hip just happened. There’s nothing wrong with your face. I’m sure that’s rose water. She’s taking care of you,” I advised.

 

It was rose water and, for whatever reason, Sleepless was the only guest privy to that treatment.

 

A few minutes later we decided to leave. As we made our way across the street we saw none other than white belt man, walking in the same direction as us.

 

“I have concerns,” I told her.

 

She did too and, in addition, had spotted a karaoke bar with private rooms, so we quickly darted inside to learn more about it and, more importantly, not walk with white belt.

 

A few minutes and no happy ending later, we were back on the streets. Sleepless with her refreshed face and me with a phone number for the karaoke bar.

One of my coworkers was struggling a bit at work today so I decided to stop by the store and get a few items to cheer her up.

 

My first choice was flowers. Once I picked a few bunches I then looked for a vase. Being that I was at the grocery store, my options were limited, so I selected a green plastic Halloween pumpkin. Although there was a hole in the bottom I figured I could rig the flowers in place, over the hole, in a plastic cup.

 

I also decided to buy a package of Rolos because, as the jingle goes, you can roll a Rolo to pal, chums and friend. So, why not to your coworker? Besides, who doesn’t like chocolate covered caramel from end to end?

 

Being that she was a bit concerned about finances, I purchased her a PayDay. Nothing says ‘money doesn’t matter,’ like caramel wrapped in salty peanuts.

 

Then, just for good measure and because one of my coworkers told me she recently mentioned she loved pears “more than anything,” I bought her a few pears.

 

I put all of this together then approached her desk to make my delivery; she was definitely surprised. Especially when the water started leaking out of the bottom of the pumpkin and all over her desk. Damn you plastic cup!

 

I quickly moved the pumpkin, rearranged the plastic cup, and again attempted to place it on her desk. Water went everywhere, again.
It eventually stopped leaking, but not before the water shorted out her landline. I told her that was just one more gift from me and now she wouldn’t have to answer the phone for the rest of the day; or, perhaps,  for a couple of days until IT could fix it.

 

Lately, Live Longer has been knitting. I believe this hobbit (combination of hobby and habit) began just before we visited Portland.

 

“It’s supposed to be really relaxing, ” she told me as we drove to her friends house to finish her snood (round neck scarf).   “But sometimes I’ll find myself grinding my teeth and experiencing what feels like carpel tunnel because I’ve been gripping the needles too tight.”

 

“Sounds very relaxing,” I told her.

 

As soon as we arrived at her friend’s house the two of them started speaking a different, and rather naughty, language.

“Just slip through there,” her friend said.

 

“Really? It seems so loose,” Live Longer responded.

 

“You can make it tighter. You can also take it through the back loop.” her friend advised.

 

“If I was only hearing this conversation, and I didn’t know you were knitting, I’d have some questions,” I told them while focusing on my very simple, sex-term free, craft of deco-podging a photo frame.

 

A few minutes later, another comment, “Oh, wow, you’re purling. I can’t watch.”

 

“No need to watch,” I said. “Just listen.”

 

 

 

 

 

Beaner invited me to join her and a high school friend for brunch.

 

They’re a little bit younger than I am, thus, have their lives ahead of them. Being that I’m a little older, the most obvious thing ahead of me is my muffin top.

 

When I look ‘ahead,’ I am regularly reminded of the wise words my gynecologist shared with me regarding my age, exercise and weight gain, “It’s what you put in your mouth that matters.”

 

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that I’d have enough money to supersize my next meal.

 

Fortunately, Beaner had picked a kitschy place for lunch and I was able to enjoy a couple of really healthy options: Bloody Marys (veggies/tomato), grilled cheese (grains/dairy) and potatoes (carbs).

 

After my second Bloody Mary I had to ‘break the seal’ – another perk of being older. While in the loo I noticed I had already acquired the ‘socialite glow.’

 

“This is what happens when you’re menopausal and drinking,” I told Beaner and her pal when I returned to the table, pointing to my rosy cheeks.

 

“Well your blood has to go somewhere,” Beaner quipped. She should see if my gynecologist is looking for a medical assistant.

 

The day after my island hair television debut I met up with Live Longer, Beaner, Rated R and BioMom for drinks. The morning of the gathering I had taken the time to change the plates on my iron and opted to straighten the island right out of my hair.

 

Sadly, one can take the crimp out of their hair, but they can’t take the visual out of the eyes of those who witnessed it’s magic on TV. Thanks Philo Farnsworth.

 

Just prior to meeting up with my lady friends I received an email from a former coworker who informed me she had seen the news and my “hair was voluminous.” I hoped that would be my only feedback.

 

Nope.

 

“I saw you on the news last night,” BioMom told me as soon as I sat down. “I was like, ‘I did a piece of my hair like that in the 80s.'”

 

“A piece of your hair?” I asked.

 

“Mmmm hmmm, just like you. One crimped section of hair on the one side of your head,” she said.

 

“How can I see this interview?” Live Longer asked.

 

“Yes, this is a must see,” said Rated R.

 

“Try the world wide web,” I advised.

 

“I think I can still see a little bit of a crimp,” Beaner said, combing through my hair with her fingers.

 

“Shit, she’s right. There it is, 80s island hair girl,” Rated R piped in.

 

“Not OK!” was my only response.

 

The other night I couldn’t sleep. This is nothing new for me. Fortunately, my cable was actually working, so I was able to catch up on all of the celebrity gossip shows. At around three in the morning I was watching OK! when they did a ‘how to’ hairstyling bit featuring one of their sponsors.

 

The ‘how to’ was focused on island hair and involved a little bit of product, a crimping iron, a wee ‘tousle,’ and a wreath-type headband.

 

A few hours later, after my nap and while I was getting ready for work, I decided to dig my crimping iron out of storage and give island hair a go. I quickly discovered this was not island hair unless the island on which one is staying is actually Rikers – this hair was criminal!

 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wash my hair so I pulled out my 1″ curling iron and tried to ‘curl’ the island away. For the most part, I was completely unsuccessful. Thus, I had no other choice but to do embrace my hair and head inland to work.

 

 

I arrived at PDX to find Live Longer patiently waiting for me in complete Portland fashion: donning a simple black dress while contently knitting something. I would give more details about that which she was knitting, bu t I don’t have them, nor she didn’t provide them.

 

“What are you knitting?” I asked.

 

“Like a scarf thing,” she hesitantly told me and then said, “I really don’t know.”

 

I didn’t push her for more details. Instead, I respected her for embracing her inner Portland knitster and informed her I was ready to embrace a drink.

 

She was more than ready for this request and had three bottles of champagne chilling in the fridge. We grabbed our glasses, filled them with bubbly, recreated a photo from our talk show – a show that only exists when we visit Portland, made an amazing ‘how to’ video, shared a rooftop conversation with a neighbor, had some barbecue, activated girl power, went dancing, and then fell asleep on a broken pullout couch.

 

For one night, we did it right.

The lack of an operative sewer system put me in a bit of a pickle, so I decided to go to a place where people love all things pickled: Portland.

Being that I was only staying for one night, thus had no luggage to check, I didn’t bother with arriving too early.  In fact, I clearly didn’t really bother with arriving in general. I arrived at the airport thinking I had about one hour before boarding.

I spent that hour leisurely walking toward my gate, tooling around the various airport shops, and observing the other passengers. I decided to sit down and charge my phone for a bit and then figured it might be time to walk toward my gate when I heard my name overheard, “Final boarding call….”

 

Oops. Turns out there is a reason I am not an accountant. I totally transposed the numbers and was leaving at 3:05, not 3:50.

 

Luckily, although I’m not a runner (and there are plenty of reasons for that), I was able to quickly make it to my gate, take my seat, send Live Longer a text to let her know I was on my way and breath a sigh of relief that I did not get myself into a bit of  a flight pickle.

 

Between my sewer pickle and time pickle, I am really looking forward to getting pickled in Portland.