Month: November 2011

I fancy myself a creative person and decided since nobody is tapping my ass I should tap into my creativity. Please, please, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about crafts.

 

I once took up scrapbooking and spent a lot of money on it. Then, one day, the city sewer line broke and backed up in my basement. As a result, sheet protectors turned into shit protectors, I learned a lot of my neighbors are vegetarians, and all of the money I invested in scrapbooking ended up going down the drain, literally. Thus, I haven’t engaged in this activity for years. The other day I decided it might be time to engage in crafts again and looked around the house for something I could do with my existing goods.

 

I lucked out, in that I decided to do a craft that involved carafes of sorts – something of which I have plenty. Unfortunately, not all of them were empty and, although I enjoy drinking, I’m not a binge drinker. I needed a plan B. As I pondered this, I came up with plan DD: dumpster diving.

 

Tree stopped by to hang out, so I invited him to join me, “Want to dumpster dive with me?” He replied, without hesitation, “Of course! I haven’t done that since I used to get really high.”

 

This first glass recycling dumpster we dove into didn’t have much to offer, so we drove to a bigger, and what turned out to be better, dumpster – I guess size does matter. We found a few bottles that were really great and really deep into the pile. Tree put his experience to work and hoisted himself into the dumpster for retrieval. Just when we were about to leave, a couple drove up with boxes of bottles. “Do you mind if I rummage through your box?” I asked and then, seeing their amazing wares, asked another question, “How often do you guys come here?” “Just when these are full,” the man replied. “How often are they full?” Tree asked under his breath.

 

As we were getting in the car, they began throwing their bottles in the container. The first shot, by the boy, didn’t go in the hole, rather, broke, then repelled off the bin in several directions. “This is rather entertaining. In fact, seeing what people drink and watching them take out their frustrations in the bin may be better than people watching at the airport,” I told Tree. He agreed and we watched them continue to launch their bottles in the bin. The boy occasionally made the shot, the girl never made the shot and the beer bottles continually boomeranged off the bin.

 

We decided it might be best to get out of there, so as to avoid being hit with their broken bottles. As we drove away, I rolled down the window and yelled, “Thanks for the bottles. See you next week.” The boy ducked to avoid the bottom of a beer bottle, looked our way, waved and said, “See you next week!”

It isn’t very often that I have an entire weekend, at home, alone. Thus, this weekend, I planned just that. Being that my cell phone is once again acting up and my cable package only includes Comedy Central and local stations, I decided to disregard ‘modern technology,’ and went back to that which I know and love, the two Vs: vinyls and VHS.

 

My first movie pick of the day was Tune In Tomorrow. This is one of my favorite flicks and, in my opinion, one of Keanu Reeves’ best movies. I realize Johnny Utah (not the one in Point Break) may dispute this, but I really liked Keanu as Martin Loader. As Martin Loader, he falls in love with his aunt (sister of his dad’s brother’s wife), who is several years older than him. At one point, he tells her about Paris, “All American writers go to Paris and stay in a little hotel on the left banks.” Later in the movie, he brings Paris up, yet again, “In Paris, all the women are older than the men.” I may have to go to Paris, again.

 

Once this movie ended and while it was rewinding, I went downstairs to select another great flick. While doing so, I listened to some vinyl that I recently acquired at a secondhand store. I selected KCPX 24 superstar hits, Record 2, however, when I pulled the vinyl out of the sleeve I found Elvis’ Christmas Album. Slightly different choice when you were hoping to hear How Do You Do? by Mouth & McNeal. So, not that I don’t like Elvis – its just a little early  for Christmas music, I opted instead for Chicago and one of their most popular albums, Chicago IX.

 

While listening to 25 to 6 to 4, I found my next VHS hit, Two Moon Junction. If you haven’t seen Two Moon Junction, then you haven’t seen Sherilyn Fenn naked or, maybe, you have. In this fine flick, which I would describe as extra soft porn, Richard Tyson plays Perry, a sexy, shirtless, semi-driving drifter. I think one of the reasons I like this movie is because Perry rarely, if ever, wears his shirt. In fact, in one scene he is washing dishes in a kitchen restaurant and is wearing jeans and an apron. Once his shift ended, he walked out to his semi, with his shirt on. He would have been an easy character for wardrobe because he wore (or didn’t wear) this shirt and jeans the entire movie. At one point, he told April (Sherilyn), “The lady’s got a secret, don’t you? I ain’t got no secrets. I ain’t got nothing. Except a bike, a truck, and a post office box in Clearwater, Florida.” He forgot to mention his jeans and occasionally worn shirt.

 

After this film, I moved right on to Final Analysis. Not exactly sure why I own this film, however, as I watched I realized it might have been because of the great defense tactic that Heather’s (Kim Basinger) attorney used when she was charged with killing her husband. Pathological Intoxication or, in Latin, ‘mania a potu,’ is an exaggerated response to alcohol that often results in excessive sexual activity and violent behavior. I know a few people with this diagnosis. Heather’s husband had a horrible temper (one reason she killed him) and a good sense of fashion. In one scene, he saw his wife’s lover (unbeknownst to him) and made a reference to him being in the Justice Department. Later, the lover (Richard Gere) recounts the exchange with Heather, “He thought I was in the Justice Department. Do I dress that bad?” Funny and true.

 

My vinyling and VHSing didn’t stop with these fine flashbacks. I continued on with Raising Arizona, The Best of Roger Whitaker, 9 to 5, Vicki Carr and, when I felt I’d laid around long enough, a little Chicken Fat followed by Aerobic Celebration: Aerobic Exercise to Contemporary Christian Music. While arm stretching toward the sky to the beat of Until He Comes, I thought to myself, “If this doesn’t make him come, I don’t know what will.” Then, I stretched out my legs in an upside down V, as outlined in the ‘Instruction Manual Complete With Photographs,’ and soaked in the beauty of all my Vs. With this many Vs, I don’t need modern technology or cable TV.

The Responsible One and I clearly didn’t spend enough time together the other day on the road trip, so we decided to attend a training together today. I invited MissInformation, but she never returned my call. There’s a good chance she is avoiding me and/or in therapy trying to cope with seeing my naked body the other day.

 

Not wanting to revisit that scenario, I told The Responsible One I would meet her at the training. She arrived before me and sent me a text saying she would save me a seat. A few minutes later, she sent me another text, “Just kidding. Wrong hotel. I’ll save you a seat when I get there.” Apparently The Responsible One pulled a me. Luckily, like me, she didn’t go to the wrong room, just the wrong hotel.

 

By the time I arrived the training had been going for at least 30 minutes and The Responsible One had stepped out to take a phone call. Our seats were front row and the only way to enter the training was from the front of the class room. We debated waiting to return to the room at break, but one of the training staff informed us break wouldn’t be for some time, so we ended up walking into the front of the training room and taking our seats. Five minutes later, the instructor announced a break.

 

The Responsible One pulled out a laminated picture of her boss’ head, which was on top of Charlie Brown’s body. “I need to take pictures of him in random places. You should probably take him home with you.” “Let’s go do that now!” I said and added, “I love doing stuff like this.” We were sticking him everywhere – in the microwave, the tourist information display, with the beverages, in the grass, on the flat screen during a media conference – he was really getting around. Unfortunately, he was having difficulty staying erect (that’s what he said) and we determined it might be helpful to tape something to the back of him. “Maybe we could use tongue depressors,” The Responsible One suggested. “How about creamsicle sticks? We can eat them and then use the sticks,” I suggested. We were just about to do another photo opp when, like recess, the break ended.

 

As we made our way back to our front row seats, The Responsible One was trying to hide her boss from the rest of the trainees, so she stuck him in her jacket. “Do you really think that is an appropriate place for your boss? I’m not taking a picture of that,” I said. During the rest of the training, I couldn’t stop thinking of places where we could take his picture – so exciting!

 

After the training, I received a picture message from The Responsible One. It was of her boss, having an appertif. We decided to take more pictures of the gnome next week, “You, me and a photo-shopped guy on a popsicle stick. It’s like a dream come true,” she said in a text. “Dreamsicle come true,” I replied.

If you’ve followed my blog at all, you know that my box gets hit a lot. Tuesday evenings and the holidays, Halloween in particular, tend to be the busiest times for me. As a result, I spend a lot of time washing, putting everything back in it’s place and reminiscing.

 

To make the post-hit process a little less painful and a lot more enjoyable, I like to drink a glass of wine and listen to my records while doing it. Tonight’s first pick: Barabajagal by Donovan. I think Donovan would be honored to know he is with me while I’m hittin’ my box hard. I love my box. And, like Donovan, I love my shirt, my shoes, my jeans and all of my wardrobe!

 

As I was putting various items in their proper place, I was thinking of all of the amazing people who have been in my box. Sleepless, Opreggano, Callin’ The Dog, Fine Girl, Tree, D-Dog, Addly, La La Lovely, Ice Cream Man (via Sleepless), Can’t Be Bothered, MiniMe and Striker. There is so much goodness in my box, that I am sure there are oodles more who have been in it when I wasn’t paying attention.

 

After listening to both sides of the Donovan LP, I decided to listen to Donny Osmond, “My Best To You.” By this time, even though I was supposed to be cleaning up my box, I had gotten distracted and was trying on one of my favorite dresses. As I admired myself in the mirror, Donny sang (to me, of course). As he sang the first song, Sweet and Innocent, it was as if he was singing to me. “Cause you’re too sweet and innocent, buy you’re just oh too young for me.” If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. He is so right, I am too young for him. As far as sweet, like Basement Jaxx says, “forget about sugar, have a spoonful of me.” And, innocent? Duh, yes, look at me! I’m home alone, on a Thursday night, innocently organizing my costume box.

 

 

 

MissInformation, The Responsible One and I were traveling South for work and, to avoid having to drive into the office, MissInformation agreed to pick me up from my home. The plan was to head out at ten so, knowing they are both notorious for being on time, I planned to be ready by 9:50.

 

I began getting ready around 9 and, by 9:30, I was doing great, right on schedule. As I was blowdrying my hair, I thought it might be a good idea to plug in the camera battery so we could take pictures and do a few dash cam videos while out and about. With my round hair brush in my hair, attempting to manage my cowlick, I exited the bathroom and headed to the kitchen. It was at this time that the doorbell rang.

 

Being that I live in a small house, my kitchen is right next to my bathroom. In order to access the kitchen, one has to pass by a doorway that is visible from the front door, which has a window. Standing at my door, twenty minutes early, was MissInformation (she lived up to her name today). Standing in the kitchen doorway, was me, buck naked. I, of course, gasped and quickly tried to cover my tits and wobbly bits. With, however, only two hands, this wasn’t easy. Thus, I dashed to the corner of the kitchen and assessed my surroundings. As I suspected, there were no items in the kitchen that I could use to cover me bits. So, I did what any naked person in my position would do, I acted ‘natural,’ casually walked by the doorway, gave her the ‘one minute’ sign, and grabbed my robe.

 

“Sorry about that,” I told MissInformation as I opened the door. “That has only happened one other time, with a salesman.” “No worries, I really couldn’t see anything,” she replied. “Really? Nothing?” I asked. “I saw a silhouette, and I could tell you were naked,” said MissInformation. “Hmmm, hope I looked good. Again, sorry, but you weren’t supposed to be here until ten.” “I’m early and you should get a curtain. No wonder your neighbor watches from across the way,” she told me. “I’ve got a curtain, but I don’t like to use it. You may be on to something. I should nude better.”

While watching Baby Q, I had the privilege of working at a conference. So, I packed up the stroller and we headed to our station. Babies are a great draw to your table, especially when you only have pamphlets. People do not go to conferences to get pamphlets. They want free t-shirts, pens, letter openers, note pads, frisbees, tissue boxes, lanyards, candy, karaoke, and, most importantly, to oogle over a baby.

 

I let Baby Q do her thing (giggle, throw things, scream) and people were eating it up. One gentleman stopped by and began chatting with her, “I have two daughters and they are beautiful just like you.” He was saying this with an accent – a real one, not like my Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins accent. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Colombia,” he replied. “Are you fluent in English and Spanish?” “Yes, and French,” he advised me. “Impressive. I’m trying to teach her French,” I told him. “Ah, you speak French,” he said excitedly. “Non (French for ‘no’), I thought we’d learn together,” I replied. He then rattled off the numbers, one through ten, in French and said, “Répète.” I did what I always do when people are doing something I can’t do or don’t understand  (like speaking French, winking or watching football), I smiled, nodded my head and, because I was at a conference, handed him a pamphlet and said, “Merci. Bon voyage.”

 

All of this language learning and working was exhausting for Baby Q. As she was walking (a practice she is just learning, so it is more like a stagger) around the lobby, she would just give up, flop on the ground, lay on her back, and sigh. Everyone thought this was so cute. I did too, but wondered why it is not perceived as cute when adults do it. I was reminded me of the time that Fru Fru Pants and I were at a conference in Kansas City and, after a few drinks, we did, pretty much, the exact same thing. The only difference being we were just about to get kicked out of a bar. I didn’t realize this was about to happen, but Fru Fru Pants was wise to the ways of the world and, as I was giving one of my best dance floor performances in my free conference tee, she drunk whispered in my ear, “We’re about to get kicked out. Let’s go!” “How do you know?” I asked. “I’ve been in, and kicked out of, more than one bar in my life,” she advised me as we quickly staggered out the door with the bouncer close behind us. We made our way as far away from the entrance as we possibly could – I’m guessing twenty feet – flopped on the grass, laid on our backs, sighed, and then laughed so hard we nearly peed our pants.

 

I’ve been to several conferences since Kansas and haven’t done that nor have I been kicked out of a bar. “Why not?” one might ask. No real reason other than the simple phrase, made famous by Dorothy, which we had silkscreened on our paid for, not free, custom-made souvenir tee, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

 

In preparation of the next daylight savings time, I have decided to not move my clocks back. It’s all about being prepared.

 

A few weeks ago, my power went out. It was out for several hours, during which time I lit my candle (yes, singular) and several tealights. I quickly learned that, although they provide great mood lighting, tealights are not very helpful during a power outage. My single lit candle, the wind blowing outside and Debbie Boone’s song, ‘You Light Up My Life,’ playing in my head, motivated me to pen a letter to a friend. If I had a dip pen and ink bottle (and a few more candles) I would have written to everyone. I later told Har about my letter writing experience and she replied, “He better hope your power goes out again soon or he won’t be getting another letter for some time, if ever.”

 

I decided to change these odds by purchasing more candles; hopefully, the dip pen and ink bottle are soon to follow. I also decided to read up on emergency preparedness. I went to the government site ‘Ready’ and the first heading I saw was, ‘Protect your family with a disaster plan.’ I immediately wanted to leave a comment, “Dear Government, my family is the disaster.” I read on and realized being prepared is a lot of work. According to this website, being prepared involves being informed, making a plan, and building a kit – that’s a lot for someone who is still trying to put together a parade kit. I have the best of intentions to be ready, and have a parade kit, but time just keeps ticking away and right now my focus is on candles.

 

Turns out, candles are tellers of time and have been since at least 520 AD (the HD is silent). Candle clocks were thin candles with markings that indicated how much time had passed based on how much of the candle had burned. Although candle clocks didn’t tick tock, putting a nail in the candle caused it to clatter on the platter once wax hit it – much like a timer. Like me, candles and daylight savings time are not compatible. You know what they say, once you burn wax you never go back. I’m sold. Candles provide light (mood and emergency), motivate me to write letters, allow one to ‘share their intentions’ for another, and are the number one cause for residential fires in America. Light it up!

Ah, it is finally here, S-Unit’s big day, 11-11-11. She has been waiting for this day for some time. In addition, she has been waiting some time for the man of her dreams. She and the man of her dreams (who she is still waiting to meet) were to be wed on this very special day. Being that this would have been a life changing event (not like the slumber party that Contestant #56 attended, but important still), S-Unit has been wishing at 1:11. 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, 5:55, and 11:11, and relying on the Magic 8 Ball for answers and direction. Has any of this helped her? Cannot predict now (shake, shake, shake), ask again later.

 

The Leaver is another person who believes 11-11-11 to be a special day. Although she doesn’t want to marry on this day, she has strong feelings about it, “I’m telling you, something’s not right. Things are very strange today. It’s because it is 11-11-11.” “Maybe,” I replied and asked, “What did you think about John?” John is an elderly gentlemen who The Leaver met at my favorite fast food corndog restaurant. She was intrigued by his passion for his religion so she got his number in case we ever wanted to interview him. After going to the library and liquor store – only to find that they were closed in honor of Veterans Day, we decided to interview John. John is extremely unique in his ways and was very excited that we wanted to interview him – he didn’t even wait for us to go to the door, rather, he met us at the car with his scriptures in hand. In answer to my question about John, The Leaver said, “11-11-11. Brings out the crazy.” “Pretty sure he is like that every hour of every day, regardless of how many ones there are in it,” I replied and added, “Plus, you met him long before today.”

 

I really don’t get the hype about 11-11-11. Which is no surprise, because I don’t get the hype about daylight savings time either. I still haven’t changed any of my clocks back. That said, technically, I experienced 11-11-11 an hour before everyone else and I have a feeling I’ve been on time to work much more than usual. Odd. I decided to Google ’11 11 11′ and the first site I visited had this introduction, ‘Welcome random search engine visitor.’ So 11-11-11 of them. It went on to discuss how my landing on that page could have been fate, chance, random power, predestination or something else. I’ll have to let Google they need to change their name to ‘Something Else.’

 

As I read on, I found that this whole day was serious business for many. This site had all kinds of astrological, historical, astronomical and gamblitical (gambling with an ‘itical’) information specific to this day.  In fact, they even conducted a metaphysics survey. Apparently, one of three things could happen on this day: something good, nothing or something bad. I reminisced about my day and realized all of those things happened at some point in the day. We had a delicious lunch, sat around doing nothing for about 30 minutes while waiting for a return call, and weren’t able to go to the library, liquor store or post office (three of my favorite activities). Good, nothing, bad. Do people rely too much on superstition and non-evidenced based information? I’m going to have to agree with the Magic 8 Ball on this one, signs point to yes.

 

 

 

 

 

While at dinner with Opreggano we were discussing what we call, ‘we’ve been meaning to tell you.’ “I have some concerns about telling people what I’ve been meaning to tell them,” I told her. Telling people how you feel is not always appreciated. We’ve all heard the phrase, ‘tell people how you feel before it’s too late.’ Once you do this, it is too late – too late to take it back. I have found that telling someone what I’ve been meaning to tell them often results in me not getting a raise, them avoiding me, not speaking with me ever again, or, even worse, they no longer read my blog. “I really don’t want to jeopardize my readership. I think I’m up to four and if I lose just one person that is one-quarter of my readers,” I advised Opreggano. “I read it all of the time and, when they’re good, I have Cream Of Tartar read them,” she replied. “When they’re good? So how often does he read them?” I asked. “He’s a lot like That’s Not Chinese, in that, he likes to read them when he is in them.” “Great,” I replied with little confidence.

 

This is my 585th entry. I did a search of those in which Cream Of Tartar is mentioned: 39. I’m screwed. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll have him read them more often. I like it when you pull out your bitch,” Opreggano told me and then raised her hand for a high bitch slap.

 

A few nights later, I was attending an award event for student veteran of the year at a nearby university. The award recipient was none other than Skirt Chaser. Passed The Sniff Test, Bitchin’ Camaro and I were completely irreverent. “I’m not sure we should sit together. There is a chance we’ll get in trouble,” I told them while assessing the seating situation and being reminded of the funeral I recently attended. “Even more reason to sit together,” Passed The Sniff Test replied. As we were reading about Skirt Chaser’s accomplishments, Passed The Sniff Test quipped, “They forgot to list Skirt Chaser as one of his titles.” We were perusing the food when we noticed a ‘Donated by’ sign. “I’m surprised Planned Parenthood didn’t donate the food,” I told them.  Then, when receiving his award, he was presented with a large (fake) check from a local bank. They advised him the check could be used for tuition, books and other miscellaneous supplies. “Condoms,” quipped Bitchin’ Camaro.

 

After the award ceremony, we all went to dinner and Passed The Sniff Test advised Skirt Chaser of our comments. “That’s right!” Skirt Chaser proudly replied and extended his arm for a fist bump. From here, the conversation turned to homelessness – how and why, I cannot recall. “The homeless people in D.C. are da bomb ’cause they’re gender biased,” Not A Skirt Chaser told us. “Gender biased? What do you mean?” Bitchin’ Camaro asked. “When a man walks by they’re all like, ‘Hey man, give me a dollar. Give me some money.’ When a women walks by they’re all, ‘Hey baby. Lookin’ good. Mmmm hmmm hmmm.I’d like to get me some of that. You want to come home with me?'” he told us, gestures and all. “Home? I think they mean to say, ‘You want to come homeless with me?'” I stated.

 

This brought up the topic of a campus groper. Apparently there is a man on campus who has been groping women. “Let’s go up there and do some vigilante justice,” Bitchin’ Camaro suggested. “I’m game,” I told her and added, “When we catch him we can say, ‘Cop Afeel of Vigilante Patrol. You’re under arrest.'” “I love it!” Bitchin’ Camaro. “You should really consider changing your last name to Afeel,” I advised her. “Yes, you should. Then when people recognize you (as a reporter did earlier this evening), instead of saying, ‘Lieutenant, right?,’ they can say, ‘Cop Afeel?'” Passed The Sniff Test exclaimed. Recognize.

 

 

A good portion of my friends enjoy ‘checking in’ at various locations online. Being that I check out more than I check in, I’m not a big user of this feature. While with S-Unit this weekend, however, she asked me to check us in at a famous eatery. I did so and a few hours later, when we were talking about the eatery, she said, “I was just thinking I should foursquare myself in the shower.” “If you do, don’t forget to include the caulk,” I advised her. “Oh, I won’t,” she said while still giggling about her comment.

 

Contestant #56, also a giggler, shares the same birth month as S-Unit, so I phoned her to wish her a happy one. “Are you doing anything fun?” I asked. She giggled and replied, “I’m at a slumber party.” “A slumber party? Good for you. That’s a great way to spend your birthday. Have you played pass the dildo yet?” More giggles, “No.” “Well, you should definitely buy something. Maybe they’ll give you a party favor since it’s your birthday. Something nice, like the floor model vibrator,” I said. “I don’t know if I want that,” she told me, sans giggle. “Right. The last thing you want is a STD from a vibrator. Just buy some of those sex toys cleaning products,” I advised. The giggles were back, “Ew. Maybe I’ll splurge for something new.” “You should – it will be a life changing event. Actually, it will be a sex life changing event.”