Month: March 2011

Sleepless invited me to join her and a friend for lunch and I, of course, obliged. Being that Sleepless is evolving, her friend, Progressive, was ordering different whites (wine, that is) to wet her pallet. As we were enjoying the meal, my age became a topic of conversation. I truly do not care about age. So much so that it is something I rarely think about and often actually have to think about when people inquire. “So, when did you graduate high school? ’83?” Progressive asked. “’83? Really?” I retorted. That’s Not Chinese would be so happy right now. Withing seconds, Progressive  became regressive. He is just like a camera, although instead of adding pounds, he adds years.

A meal isn’t complete without dessert, so Sleepless and I opted to share the molten chocolate cake. When it arrived at the table the plate was garnished with mint leaves, raspberries, caramel sauce, and whipping cream. “Look at that,” said Progressive, “they even gave you creme fresh.” “Creme fresh?” Sleepless echoed while laughing. “Yes,” I added. “Creme fresh. What is that?” “I speak European,” Progressive informed us, “It’s a combination of English and…..other languages. European.”

We decided to compliment our creme fresh with mexican hot chocolate and coffee. Prior to leaving to start our hot beverages, the server posed a clarifying question to Sleepless, “Do you want alcohol in your coffee?” “Yes. Absolutely!” Sleepless answered without hesitation. “That’s what I thought,” the server quipped.

As Sleepless and I were enjoying our hot beverages, Progressive requested the check and proceeded to take care of it, sans us. “That is something we do not need,” Sleepless informed him and continued, “We’re sugar selves.” Without hesitation I added, “But thank you for lunch.” After the math I had to do to figure out that ’83 was not my graduation year, lunch was the least Progressive could do. He was wise to this and opted to head out before us. “Sorry to give you the shaft,” he said, “but I’ve got to get going.” “I don’t mind the shaft. Do you?” I responded and asked Sleepless. “Not at all,” Sleepless replied. “I swallow the shaft – have since ’83. Or was it ’69? I can’t remember.”

That’s Not Chinese had the good fortune of leaving work early the other night which, as fortunes go, resulted in me having the good fortune of her company.

Being that she works swing shifts, it was later in the evening when she stopped by. Nonetheless, I had wine in the decanter, ready for her consumption. We were discussing the past few days and the many opportunities we had to spend time together. “I love reading the blog about those events,” she told me. “I mean, we’re funny, but you make us sound even funnier. And, as I’ve told you before, I like reading it the most when I’m in it.” She, Skiwi, and Charlie Sheen have something in common: a passion for face time. Another trait she and Sheen share, the use of the ‘t’ word – That’s Not Chinese has been spewing ‘troll’ for years.

As we continued to chat, I started to get a little tired. “OK, I’m finishing this glass of wine and then I’m leaving,” she told me. “Sorry, I’m so tired. This chair is like carbon monoxide,” I replied as I leaned back further into my most comfortable piece of furniture. “It’s not the chair or carbon monoxide,” That’s Not Chinese responded. “It’s the fact that you keep the temperature at (she gets up and walks over to the thermostat) 72 degrees. You’re killing me!” “I do that for my guests.” “Uh huh, well, it has caused your eyes to be all droopy.”

I opted against verifying her claim and sunk deeper into my CO chair. She finished her wine quickly, like Charlie Sheen with tiger’s blood, and then bid me farewell. “Looking forward to reading about this in the blog,” she stated. “Oh, you’ll be in the blog – it’s all about the face time.” “Exactly,” she replied, “Don’t make me call you a troll.” “Nobody sticks baby in a corner,” I replied and added, “Been there, Sheen that.”

Per the recommendation of Sleepless, I checked out Gypsy – 1962 version – from the library. I had been watching it for about an hour when Tree came upstairs and joined me. Two hours into the movie and they still weren’t to the burlesque days of Gypsy’s life. “I can’t believe how long this movie is,” I told Tree. “I’ve got to get stuff done, namely, pick an outfit for tonight, so I really need the pace to pick up.” “I know, right?” Tree consoled me. “No violence, nothing exploding, no nudity. How do they expect to keep our attention?”

 

I decided to grab the costume boxes so we could select our outfits for the evening while waiting for Gypsy’s big break. As I set down the boxes, Tree was ecstatic, “This is great! You know I’m going to be borrowing this stuff, often.” “Yes, I know,” I told him and added, “I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to get into my box.” Gypsy was continuing to play in the background and we were loving some of the lines/lyrics. “Gangway, world, get off of my runway!” “If you want an ulcer Momma, get one of your own. You can’t have mine.” “If you want to bump it, bump it with a trumpet.” Sleepless was right in suggesting this film – Gypsy was clearly a girl with a soul like mine.

 

Since the theme of the evening was School Night, Tree and I picked a couple of really great school girl outfits. Luckily, I have the SPICE GIRLS hair play kit, so Tree was able to compliment his plaid skirt and white dress shirt with Baby Spice ponytails. I opted for some thigh high tube socks, a pair of old school, nylon, Spalding shorts, and a tank tube with a bobcat picture pinned to the center. We were going to own the runway and the mic.

 

Upon arriving at the bar we found Passed The Sniff Test at our table. Like a magician’s sleeve, something very special lie beneath his t-shirt and cargo shorts – a gold wrestler’s unitard. KJ was donning a nylon track suit and Giddy Up was decked out in all black, lipstick included. “Every school needs a goth girl,” she said while smiling and posing for a picture. “Oops, goths aren’t supposed to smile. Sorry about that.”

 

The only other people in the bar, besides the five of us in costume and Tree’s mom, were two men who had been seated at the bar since we first arrived. All of our other friends, several who had specifically requested this themed evening, were truant. Tree was assessing the patron situation and asked, “What do you think those boys think of school girls?” “I think they’re not supposed to be within 500 yards of school girls,” Passed The Sniff Test quipped. And on that note, Tree and I took our spot on the ‘runway’ and sang Raise Your Glass, while sashaying our school girl ass.

Blind dates can be awkward, so it is always nice when one can make a group date out of it; as was the case the other night when The Responsible One and I attempted to line up our friends. We met at a pub and, although the atmosphere was decent, we decided to change venues – maybe go somewhere we could dance.

FatGirl and Tree, part of the group date, were really pushing for a gay bar. “I’ve only got $10 and if we go to a gay bar I can get free drinks with these,” said FatGirl while rubbing his pecks. That’s Not Chinese wasn’t keen on this choice, so we continued to discuss other options. Gay bars continued to be suggested by FatGirl and Tree. “What normal bars……” The Responsible One started to ask and then realized what had come out of her mouth. “Oh shit. That is not at all what I meant. I’m gay friendly. Look,” she said and pointed to Sausage Sampler. “Now who is the drink whisperer?” Drink Whisperer smuggly and rhetorically asked.

We ended up going to a ‘normal’ bar just down the street and found we were a year or two older than most of the patrons. “Maybe we should try going to a ‘normal’ gay bar,” suggested Tree. We did, only to find a lot of other people had the same idea. Tree and FatGirl, wanting deep drink discounts, opted to fight the crowds. Sausage Sampler and That’s Not Chinese decided to call it a night. Sleepless, Drink Whisperer, Passed The Sniff Test, The Responsible One and I felt like we had some singing to do and drove as fast as we could to our favorite karaoke bar.

The crowd was like a mixed salad – good for the soul and complimented by just the right amount of nuts. “I had really thought everybody was done for the night,” Passed The Sniff Test told us. “Oh no,” said Sleepless. “The party never ends, it just changes venue.”

By the end of the night, we had come up with a new business idea, a bar called ‘Geri’s.’ The target population would be geriatric adults. On the menu, warm milk with a Centrum Silver sidecar. Want to get a little crazy and treat constipation? Try a Flaming Fiber shot. In the mood to win? Give the BINGO Bomb a go. Mind Erasers will always be the ‘drink special.’ Instead of condoms, we plan to have Depends dispensers in the loo. Matlock and Murder She Wrote will be playing on flat screen TVs while soft music plays overhead. The rubberized dance floor will be perfect for unexpected falls and dirty dancing in sensible shoes. Like public television exercise shows, we’ll have a section with folding chairs for low-effort gyrating.

Like Sleepless said, the party never ends – it just changes venues and ‘adapts’ with age.

Tree and I are big fans of brunch, so we decided to have some at That’s Not Chinese’s house – we even invited Sleepless and Little Sleep. Unfortunately, That’s Not Chinese was not entirely aware of or prepared for the occasion. Luckily, Tree had carried a carton of eggs with him for miles (at least 10) and I had brought some champagne for That’s Not Chinese’s favorite brunch beverage, nomosas (like mimosa, minus the juice).

For whatever reason, That’s Not Chinese was struggling with the champagne and had spilled it several times. “Once, twice, three times a lady,” Tree sang to her on the third spill. “S-Unit always tells me there is a song for everything,” I told them. “She is absolutely right!” Tree confirmed.

“Listen,” That’s Not Chinese said, “This morning came way too early. I was in bed, sleeping, when I got a text from my mom and I was like, ‘damn mother.’ Then, as I attempted to ignore it, you (me) called and I accidentally answered it and I was like, ‘shit.’ Then I had to get up and I was like, ‘fuck.'” “Very nice,” I told her and then asked, “Have you met Little Sleep?” “We aren’t child appropriate,” Tree stated in her and his defense. Sleepless and I agreed and told them they probably couldn’t be a part of our Babysitter’s Club.

As we were eating our brunch we decided to watch an episode of Modern Family in which Sofia Vergara had several scenes. “I love her accent,” said Tree. “I’m totally going to a speech therapist so I can sound like her.” After the episode we opted to watch Adele on Vh1. That’s Not Chinese was singing her little heart out. “I can totally sing on tone with her when she is singing live.” It was about this time that she sang a bit off key. “No, really, I can do it,” That’s Not Chinese assured us. “I know, I know,” Tree said in a comforting tone while softly rubbing the top of her hand and forearm.

After Adele’s concert we were discussing her lyrics and the reason (break up) for many of her songs. I shared a story about an ex and That’s Not Chinese went to the place she only goes to when I tell her stories about this ex. “I think you two should saunter off now. I’ve got some vandalizing to do.” This news was very pleasing to Tree. “I’m in! Let’s vandalize, I love it!” he said while clapping his hands together like Mongo the Singing Hand Clapping Monkey.

Not wanting to get in the way of her vandalism, and having run out of bubbly, Tree and I headed out for our next adventure.

While grabbing coffee with Not A Supporter we started talking about kids and how many we wanted to have, hypothetically speaking. “I’d have a hundred kids if I was married to someone with loads of money,” she told me. “Me too,” I told her. “Have you got any prospects?” she asked. “No,” I replied and then noticed a ‘mature’ female with some incredibly beautiful shiny grey hair. “I really want hair that color.” Shiny objects get me every time. “If you could have hair like that and be pregnant, that would be awesome.”

Later in the day I received a couple of text messages from Long Ride. He was teasing me about a bunch of different things and then sent me a suggestion, “U should send me some fun photos….;-) I know you are creative.” I had a feeling I knew what he meant by ‘fun,’ I’m not nude to this game, but decided to ask for clarification. He clarified, my assumption was right, and I respectfully declined – I’m not doing anything like that – not again, anyway. I did agree, however, to send him a creative picture. I’m hoping it will be of me with grey hair and a bump. Depending on how things go, it may just be of me with grey hair and a Bumpit.

A few hours later I was enjoying a fine Italian meal with MyFace and Handsome Cowboy. MyFace was telling Handsome Cowboy about the blog, which he doesn’t read, so she told him his ‘blog name’. Somehow, in the midst of this exchange, Handsome Cowboy thought MyFace had said his name was YourAnus. “MyFace, YourAnus, I like it,” I told him, “I may have to change your name – I have that kind of authority you know.”

Our server was a handsome young man who fancied someone just like him. Handsome Cowboy was chatting it up with the server and acknowledging how much he appreciated his opinion on the menu, “I’m taking you home with me,” he told him at one point. After the server walked away, Handsome Cowboy looked at MyFace and I and said, “I probably shouldn’t have said that.” “I think it’s fine,” I told him, “I’m sure he’ll do so, especially once he finds out your blog name is YourAnus.” Handsome Cowboy laughed and said, “I’m not new to this. Gay men have always been drawn to me.” “Me too,” I added. “Yes, you’re really never going to meet a straight men with all of that gay magnetism you have,” MyFace advised. “They (gay men) always tell me I just need to convert,” Handsome Cowboy told us.

Then, as often happens with married couples, Handsome Cowboy and MyFace started having some in-depth conversations about family, beliefs, insurance, and the like. As often happens when I’m with people who are having such discussions, I was perusing the room with my eyes, looking for a shiny object that would catch and keep my attention. “Sorry about that,” said Handsome Cowboy. “We’re having a conversation as though you’re not here.” “It’s because you’re like family,” said MyFace. “It’s OK,” I told them. “I’m not new to this. I was just looking for some shiny objects.” “Just like Dr. BJ,” MyFace added, “Distract, distract, distract.” “Yes, exactly!” I said. “Speaking of which, look at that full moon, so shiny.”

Every now and again I have the privilege of working on a committee with XYZ. Unfortunately, for me, he hasn’t attended the last few meetings. I told Calling The Dog, the chair of the meeting, to send him an email advising him to zip up his zipper and come to the meeting.

We were a  few minutes into today’s meeting when I noticed there was no sign of XYZ. I was hungry and Miss Information informed me the conference room next door had snacks, “I dare you to go over there and take one.” There are a couple of things for which I have no strength: snacks and dares, and not necessarily in that order. I headed to the other room, peered in the door before entering – to assess the situation – and found there were about 40 people in the room. Most of the people were seated around the large table, but there were a few scattered along the back wall. The table with food was on the wall furthest from the door, in-between the conference table and the scattered staff. 

I entered the room, head held tall, and walked with a purpose toward the food table. When people looked at me, which about 40 of them did, I smiled. I arrived at the food table, grabbed a sugar cookie, took a bite, did an about face, and continued to enjoy it while I made my exit. I returned to my meeting with only one regret – that I didn’t take a cupcake too.

Miss Information was proper impressed with my accomplishment and was rousing me to do it again when XYZ made his grand entrance. He was wearing a dapper navy blue suit, with an orange tie and a white dress shirt. To compliment this look, he had unzipped his zipper and pulled the bottom of his dress shirt through the opening of the zipper, just so. “Oh no you didn’t,” I said. “I sent him the email,” Calling The Dog proudly informed me. XYZ took a page out of my book and smiled, all the while looking pretty. Calling The Dog and I were pleased. Everyone else in the room appeared to be either shocked or offended, thus, adding to my pleasure. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I announced, “I present exhibit Z.”

A while back when driving to work I had an epiphany of sorts, “My job is to smile and look pretty and, sometimes, have words come out of my mouth.”  It is for this very reason that I have stocked up on dental floss, toothpaste, and lip shimmer.

Smiling and looking pretty is something I have been doing, in theory, since I got the t-shirt that read ‘pre·co·cious,’ when I was ten years old. I received this shirt at a time when having t-shirts with words,  broken into syl·la·bles, was all the rage. The t-shirt was a light peach and the font was a faded black. When wearing it, people, and by ‘people’ I mean my school teachers and relatives, would often say to me, “You are a precocious one.” Since the shirt only had the word and not the definition, I would just smile and look pretty, of course. At the time, I was unaware of the definition of precocious.

Looking back now, I realize that I was, in fact, very precocious. Smiling and looking pretty is a proclivity and ability not everyone is capable of and I figured it out at a very young age. Thus, years later, when I actually got to put it into practice at work, I was very proud.

Every now and again I participate in television interviews and the subject matter is usually rather grim, which means no smiling. My most recent interview was no exception. The reporter asked me several questions and the interview was going swimmingly, until he asked a question I could not answer.

I had previously provided a round-about answer, but the reporter would not relent and I could not, under any circumstance, directly answer the question.  So, I thought back to my morning epiphany and pre·co·cious t-shirt wearing days, and I smiled.  “You’re not going to answer my question, are you?” the reporter asked. My smile remained and, to take it up a notch, I complimented it with my signature wink (head tilt to the left).  The reporter smiled back and stopped asking.

As he walked away, without the answer, the lyrics to Bette Davis Eyes played in my head, “She’s precocious, and she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush…..” Smiling and looking pretty does have it’s advantages.

It’s hard to believe it has been a year since my last pappuccino. My doctor is great, very thorough. “She felt me up more than any of my last three lays – combined,” I told That’s Not Chinese.  “At least she didn’t tell you that she could tell you hadn’t been with a man in some time,” That’s Not Chinese responded. “No, she definitely didn’t tell me that.”

A few hours later, Dr. BJ phoned to invite me to watch American Idol at his house. He and his friends are total AI junkies. I thanked him for the invitation and told him I would love to come. “I hope you don’t mind hanging around a lot of gay boys,” he warned. “Girl, please,” I snapped. Literally. I snapped and hung up the phone. Like I told That’s Not Chinese the other night, “Three snaps and I’m done.”

FatGirl was one of the gays in attendance and could not get enough of Jennifer Lopez – he adores her. “Isn’t she pretty?” he asked us. Before any of us could agree he added, “I feel like I’m looking in the mirror.” I was in charge of sweets and had stopped at the local grocer for some cookies. Dr. BJ took the first bite. “Oh, these cookies are hard,” he said while eating the cookie. ” We’ve bought them before and have found when they’re small, they’re hard.” FatGirl giggled.

D-Dog arrived with Casera and they immediately went for the cookies. “They’re hard,” I warned.” “Mmmm, that’s ok,” said D-Dog while savoring the cookie, “I like ’em hard.” “Me too,” said FatGirl. “I wasn’t going to touch that,” said Casera. “Oh, I would,” FatGirl giggled and added, “I’d touch anything that’s hard.” Three (ginger) snaps later and we were all out of there.