Month: September 2011

While at a meeting today a coworker advised me he was retiring next year. “Have you worked here thirty years?” I asked. “Nope. I’m going at twenty,” he smuggly replied.

 

“Twenty? Really? Do you have to buy any years or anything?” I asked with great interest. “Nothing. I’m just done in twenty,” he told me. “Hmmm. I may have to try that.”

 

When I returned to the office I sent HR a quick email. “May I please retire at twenty years instead of thirty? Thank you.” I then preceded to make my pre-retirement plans. Long lunches, shorter worker days, afternoon naps – I wanted to be sure to have a smooth transition into retirement.

 

Several hours later, HR sent me a response, “No, you cannot retire at twenty years. You have to be at least 60 to do that.” They then provided me a slew of formulas to calculate my retirement.

 

“I can’t believe this,” I said to myself as I put the AARP application in the recycle bin. I then continued to talk myself – I can do that, because I’m pre-retirement. “Seriously, this sucks. I qualify for Belly Dancing for Boomers and Computer Classes for Seniors, but I can’t retire. Unbelievable.”

 

Then, I woke up from my daydream, retracted my “YCKMYA,” aka “You Can Kiss My White/Wide Ass” email, shortened my lunch and refilled my coffee cup. It was very clear that I have, at a minimum, another 5 hours, 16 days and 15 years before I can retire.

 

If one is going to trash-talk they should do it right: standing in the street and resting on the trash can. Which is exactly what my neighbor and I did when I returned home from work.

 

“Your house was abnormally quiet this weekend,” she told me. I thought about this for a moment, because I couldn’t remember that being the case.  “Well, I was babysitting one night.” Then I remembered I did have friends over for a wee bit, “My friends and I did shout out to you from the porch when you came home one evening.”

 

“Oh, yes. I forgot about that,” she told me. This is twice in one weekend that someone has forgotten about interaction with me and, to my surprise, admitted it to me.

 

Earlier, Dr. BJ told me he had a dream about me. “Did we have sex?” I asked. “I can’t remember.” “Well, if we had sex, maybe you blocked it out,” I advised him. “Oh, yes. If we had sex I would definitely block that out,” he replied. “Whatevs,” I said and thought to myself, “Please, I haven’t been on a kiddy ride since I was a kid.”

 

I continued my conversation with my neighbor, who went on to talk more trash on me, “You look whipped.” “Whipped?” I asked. “Yeah. Rough day?” she inquired. “Well, I did have to get up and go to work, so, yes,” I replied, then grabbed my rubbish bins and told her, “I must be on my way.” In my head, however, I was thinking, “I’m guessing she is the reason her dad left her mom.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although I don’t tell everyone all of my ailments – primarily because I don’t have many and they can read about them in the blog – I am not embarrassed to discuss things openly and honestly.

 

Thus, when my coworker asked why I was taking antibiotics, I candid(a)ly replied, “My pH balance is off. As a result, I’ve got the mother of all yeast infections.”

 

“You know how to take care of that? Douche with yogurt,” my coworker advised.

 

“Are you serious?” I asked.

 

“Yes,” she said proudly, started to walk away, then turned and added, “Not flavored, just plain.”

 

After work, I stopped by Opreggano’s house and shared this exchange with her.

 

“I’ve never heard such a thing,” she told me.

 

“I know, look that up online,” I advised.

 

She did, and we were shocked to learn about “The Great Yogurt Conspiracy” – a 1972 criminal trial against Carol Downer for the insertion of yogurt into a woman’s vagina as treatment for Candida (the yeast variety – not the 1970 hit by Tony Orlando and Dawn).

 

Learning about this was a real ‘culture shock’ for Opreggano and I. We were intrigued and continued to read about at-home methods for treating the common Candida. When Opreggano read one could use a ‘squeeze bottle’ to apply the home remedy, she quickly jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and returned with an empty hair coloring bottle.

 

“Here you go,” she giggled.

 

“I promise to wash it before I return it,” I replied.

 

“I won’t be wanting that back,” she informed me.

 

Seems strange, especially since so many hair product manufacturers stress the importance of a pH balanced shampoo.

 

As I left Opreggano’s house, she yelled out to me, “Don’t forget to stop and buy yogurt, unflavored.”

 

“Very funny,” I thought to myself.

 

I didn’t stop at the store for a variety of reasons. The primary reason being I didn’t want to do so. The secondary reason being I wanted to watch one of my library movies. I opted for The Road to Wellville – a ‘fictional’ story about Dr. John Harvey Kellogg’s Sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan. Although I had seen this movie when it was first released, I had forgotten about much of it’s goodness.

 

Only minutes into the movie, Mr. Lightbody, who is suffering from stomach problems, is assessed by Dr. Kellogg:

 

Dr. Kellogg: “The Bulgarians live longer than any other humans on earth and do you know why?”

Mr. Lightbody: “I don’t know any Bulgarians.”

Dr. Kellogg: “Yogurt.”

 

Dr. Kellogg then prescribed 15 gallons of yogurt. Mr. Lightbody tells the Doctor he can’t eat that much yogurt.

 

“Oh it’s not going in that end, Mr. Lightbody,” Dr. Kellogg replies.

 

It appeared that, like Opreggano and I, Mr. Lightbody experienced a little bit of culture shock.

 

Although the movie may not have been an exact representation of Dr. Kellogg’s life, it captured many of his eccentric beliefs and practices. One of his favorite devices (and practices) was the enema. Even better, an enema with a side of yogurt. According to wikipedia, “Every water enema was followed by a pint of yogurt – half was eaten, the other half was administered by enema.”

 

So, if you see me at the grocery store, stocking up on yogurt, don’t be shocked. Consider it a lesson, if you will, in culture – unflavored.

While in the Hamptons, Skiwi and DDDG proved to be very good grill masters. As a result, we decided to give them an opportunity to wow everyone again by having a barbecue at their house.

 

Tree and I arrived to find DDDG anxiously waiting in the kitchen and donning a wreath of fake flowers and ribbons like one would see on a maypole. “I love your headdress,” I told her. “Thank you. It used to be on a straw bonnet,” she replied. “Some woman at the Senior Center is definitely missing her bonnet,” Skiwi quipped.

 

Opreggano soon joined us, around which time Skiwi noticed a wasp near the salsa, and quickly threw his napkin in that direction. The napkin immediately caught fire due to the proximity of the salsa to the lit tealight. “Not blogworthy. Do not blog about this,” Skiwi advised me while grabbing the burning napkin and throwing it on the lawn where it continued to burn. “That”s definitely going in the blog,” Opreggano told him.

 

The fire eventually dwindled and the party kindled with the arrival of The Leaver and her three-pack of Belgian-style beer. “I would have brought a full six-pack but I had Chinese the other day,” she explained to us. “Wouldn’t have been my first pick with Chinese food,” Tree commented.

 

As The Leaver consumed her beer, Tree and I were telling the group about our earlier experience at the coffee shop, when we had to advise someone of the meaning of the ‘handles’ of some of his contacts on a dating site; the most obvious being ‘XTACCX.’ “Get it? Ecstacy sex. He is into sex on ecstacy,” I told the man. “Sex on ecstacy is great,” The Leaver concurred. “So we’ve heard,” Opreggano said and added, “That’s Not Chinese and Tree almost had sex while on ecstacy. Just ask her.” “No. Ask me,” Tree said. “That never happened.”

 

The Leaver didn’t notice the side conversation and continued on, “I’ve done ecstacy at least ten times. In the dessert. It really expands your mind. It’s been years since I’ve done it. I have some from 2006, I think. Do you think it’s still good?” “It’s not like red wine,” I told her.

 

Skiwi opted to change the subject. “Isn’t this delightful? Speakers, outdoor lighting and Michael Jackson. It doesn’t get better than this.” “Don’t forget napkin fires,” Opreggano reminded him. “Not blogworthy,” he reminded me.

 

At the end of the Michael Jackson song, and less than one beer later (this hasn’t been the weekend for finishing drinks), The Leaver decided to leave, “I’m not good with goodbyes,” Opreggano and Tree followed suit, and the dinner party, like the burning napkin, dwindled.

 

Always a proper hostess, DDDG closed the evening by warming our bellies with a spot of tea. Chamomile for Skiwi, so he could sleep (it was nearing 11 PM – way past his bed time). Mint for me, so as to avoid further stomach problems, and Jasmine for DDDG, to compliment her maypole headdress. Spot on on all accounts.

 

 

So it turns out the doctor and S-Unit are right. One shouldn’t drink while taking antibiotics and I am very thirsty.

 

There is a chance the thirst could be heat and age related, but I prefer to blame it on the antibiotics. Anyway, I’ve basically been on a bit of a liquid diet lately, sans alcohol.

 

Thus, when I arrived at Wanted’s house to find a chilled Smirnoff Ice waiting for me, I graciously and foolishly accepted.

 

One and a half Smirnoffs later, my stomach was working overtime. As much as I wanted to blame it on dinner – a French Vanilla latte and Salt and Pepper potato chips – I knew better.

 

This antibiotic was really cramping my lifestyle. In addition to being cut off  from alcohol during the course of the prescription, one is advised against drinking three days after taking it. Taking antibiotics is a lot like being in the 55+ community again – feels like rehab. “You picked a really great weekend to be on an antibiotic,” Tree told me as we discussed Labor Day weekend barbecue plans, and then added, “And what are you doing drinking Smirnoff Ice?”

 

Being that I didn’t have a really good answer, I cut him off, changed the subject and hoped for better days.

It has been a while since I’ve had my ‘visitation’ with Baby Q. Luckily, her parents were wanting to have some uninterrupted ‘adult time,’ so I got the chance to have another 24 hours with her.

 

Being a fan of vintage Sesame Street – you really haven’t lived until you have watched “It’s the Shpritzer Honker Splasher,” “We All Sing the Same Song,” “You’re my Baby,” “What’s the Name of That Song?” and any of their other videos from the early years (that would be the 1970s) – I decided to share these nuggets of wisdom with Baby Q. While doing so, I got a bit nostalgic and considered, for a mere second, the idea of having a wee one or two running around the house again. Then Baby Q got red faced, the room started to stink, and I was soon seeing actual nuggets. I think I’ll stick to babysitting/visitation only.

 

Several hours later, after introducing Baby Q to the library and duck feeding – for the record, she said ‘duck;’ I promise, it was ‘duck’ and not something that rhymes with ‘duck’ – I was getting ready to put her to bed when Wanted, BamRight?!?! and On My Terms stopped by for stoop time.

 

It was at this time that the need for parental supervision switched from Baby Q to BamRight?!?!. He was in standard form, flexing his muscles, yelling “Vaffanculo” and other random rudes at passersby, and suggesting people rub and touch him. I must admit, none of us were surprised by his behavior because we had witnessed this before.  In addition, he had commandeered Wanted’s phone prior to arriving and had been sending me multiple texts about his CockAsian – not to be confused with Caucasian. Unfortunately, according to the texts, he had clearly ‘confused’ his cock with something negative because at one point he described it as “strawberries with little marshmallows.” I suggested he have the doctor, not me, look at it. He replied, “hire a babysitter.” I replied, “For the baby or BamRight?!?!”

 

Several insults to my neighbors and non-complete fist bumps later, Wanted suggested BamRight?!?! stop drinking and head home. As they drove away, On My Terms and I worried about her safety, mentioned how glad we were that we no longer needed parental supervision, and then discussed whose house we could toilet paper next time we all get together.

As much I like to travel, I’m not the best at unpacking. Once I get home, I usually throw my suitcase in my room and don’t do much with it until I have tripped over it so many times that I have to unpack it. This week, I’ve got both a suitcase and a backpack in my room.

 

Being that I have been home for almost two weeks, I decided I should unpack. In an attempt to pack efficiently, I had shoved my shoes in my wellies. Unfortunately, my wellies got a bit damp in the Hamptons (not because it rained, but because I wore them in the pool) and weren’t completely dry when I packed them. As a result, the shoes inside them were covered with mold. Nothing like a souvenir.

 

While on our nightly phone call, I shared this story with S-Unit. Being a fashionista, she was saddened. As our conversation continued, she mentioned something about drinking. “Did I tell you I’m on antibiotics and can’t drink for seven days?” I asked. “You are going to be so thirsty,” she dryly replied, giggled, then asked, “Why are you on antibiotics?” “The mother of all yeast infections,” I confided in her. “Not only did your shoes come back moldy from the Hamptons….” she said and then started laughing so hard she couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Touché,” I said. “I think you mean douche,” she quipped, pronouncing ‘douche,’ ‘doo-shay,’ and laughing even harder.

 

Speaking of souvenirs, Sleepless and I thought of a t-shirt idea while in the Hamptons. “My boyfriend went on Spring Break and all I got was this stupid STD.” Who doesn’t want to wear that sTd-shirt?!?!