Month: October 2013

The other day, while dining with Beaner, a Carpenters song began playing overhead. “You know the thing about The Carpenters is they sound great, but all of their songs are incredibly sad,” she observed. We then started changing the words of upbeat songs to reflect lyrics representative of The Carpenters.

 

Later on, I decided to do a little research on the Carpenters. Although Karen seemed to get most of the attention publicly, Richard got most of the attention at home and, surprisingly, wrote many of the sad, sad lyrics. Apparently Richard was the favorite child, while Karen was constantly seeking validation from her mother, Agnes. In addition, Richard dated and married (one year after Karen’s death) their first cousin. This situation was not pleasing to Karen but Richard suggested she drop it because the cousin was adopted and they had taken blood tests, so all was good.

 

I shared the information about the cousin with Beaner. She was convinced ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ was inspired by the kissing cousins. She might be right, but I’m thinking their rather hush hush relationship may have actually inspired ‘A Kind of Hush.’ So sweet, yet, typical Carpenters style, so sad.

 

I made the observation that their mother’s name is the same as my in-house ghost, Agnes. Beaner suggested I study my genealogy because I may “have a special tie to The Carpenters.” Regardless of what I may learn, I have no intentions to marry any of my cousins. In fact, just the thought of it inspires me to sing ‘Goodbye to Love.’

Rated R and I decided to spend the afternoon tending to our needs which turned out to be food, drink, shopping and more drink.

 

While dining we noticed several patrons were staring our way and both of us wondered why this was happening. We’re used to awkward stares – we get them all of the time when up to our normal shenanigans – but these stares made no sense because we were just calmly sitting and eating. As we left I noticed a TV above our table on which football was displayed. This could have actually been what drove the attention of other patrons our way, but my vanity tells me that isn’t so.

 

While on our shopping excursion I picked up the scent of what I thought was a cigar. Sure enough, I found a woman smoking  in the parking lot. “Is that a Pimp Stick cigar you’re smoking?” I asked. “No, it’s a clove cigarette,” she replied. “Lovely,” was my response. “Would you like one?” she kindly offered. “Yes, please,” I said and she kindly handed me two. One, make that two, for me and none for Rated R, who is currently Rated PG (yep, she’s pregnant again).

 

Our last stop was the coffee shop where we got some fuel for our bodies. Rated R then headed to a baby shower – it is what PG women do – and I planned to get ready for my next adventure: witch party. This is what women do once a year in costume and, for some, the rest of the year out of costume.

 

I knew my make-up was going to be elaborate so I decided to don my dress first. I quickly realized all of my time tending to my needs had caught up with me causing the buttons on my dress to refuse to do their part. In an attempt to keep the attention from my ‘busted’ dress, I decided to apply make-up that would make my eyes pop (just like my buttons). Just prior to donning my wig and hat there was a knock at my door. In view of the door I had no time to cover up so I answered the door as though nothing was out of the ordinary or out of my dress.

My next door neighbor, clearly shocked to see me, asked if I was going to a Halloween party. I replied, “I do this all of the time on the second Saturday of the month. It’s the Second Saturday, right?” “No, the third,” he said, staring at me just like the patrons at the restaurant did. “My bad,” I said, knowing his stare was just where it appeared to be because there was no TV displaying football behind or around me.

 

Having been ‘busted,’ I decided there was no need to continue to wait for my ride inside my house, thus, I grabbed my wig, hat, cape, clove cigarettes and took a seat on the porch where my fellow witch, Nora the cat, awaited me. As I lit my cigarette I nearly also lit my synthetic hair. An act that would surely cause furious dancing and would definitely allow me to see the stars through a freshly burned roof. This witch act was coming all to easily for me. What was next? Heading to the coast, undressing and rolling around in the sand? Been there, done that. Beware those who stare….it is the second, I mean third, Saturday and this pampered bitch, I mean witch, is (almost) on fire!

 

 

Several years ago a man dressed up as a clown and left a loaf of banana bread on his ex-girlfriend’s door. In the criminal justice world this act put him in direct violation of a protective order.  In my world, this made for a great headline. In Sleepless’ world, this provided an opportunity to regift banana bread.

 

I would regularly come home from work to find a loaf of banana bread hanging on my front door. One week, however, there was no bread. I didn’t think much of it until Sleepless asked about it. We quickly came to the conclusion that my banana bread was, in fact, missing. In hopes of locating the loaf, I constructed a poster to hang around the hood.

 

MISSING:

Banana Bread

Last seen on my porch

on Friday, August 26

Also Missing: Nuts (optional)

If found, please enjoy

(with milk or soy if dairy is an issue for you)

 

Sadly, we didn’t find the bread or get any leads, not even a crumb. I did, however, discover my loaf was not the only missing carb in the hood. A sign posted at a nearby park gave every indication that we were facing an epidemic. The sign, which appeared to be handmade by a child or ransom note professional, read:

 

LosT Muffin

“Larry”

Description:

blueberry Chunks

Yummy!

Find Him!!

 

My guess is someone, somewhere, knows exactly where my loaf and Larry may be and, even without a reward offered, they’re reaping a sweet reward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Years ago I read a ‘character reference’ that started a little something like this, “I have known my brother for 25 years and we have never had sex.” That seems like a detail that should go without saying.

 

The other day at work I was chatting with a coworker who informed me she was the only girl in her family. She then said, in a very blasé way, “I have five brothers and none of them raped me.” “That’s good,” I replied. She then shared a back story as to why she presented the fact in that manner. “A friend told me a lot of her female friends with brothers had been molested by at least one of them as a child. I told her I hadn’t been molested.” “Thanks for sharing,” was my response.

 

A few days later, it was Boss’s day and I had a card for everyone to sign. Some people just signed their name and others included a personal message. My coworker with five brothers entered the office, grabbed a pen to sign the card, and said, “I never know what to write.” “How about you write, ‘I have five brothers and none of them raped me. Happy Boss’s Day!'” was my suggestion.

 

 

While sitting at home one evening, listening to my floorboards and bones creak, I decided to do a little research about the latter.

 

The rough city streets of Chicago have really taken a toll on me. So much so that, when I move my left arm, my bones do a little jig called crepitus – a grating, cracking sound.

 

As it turns out, crepitus isn’t just for bones; it is also for Greeks.  According to Wikipedia, Crepitus is the Roman god of flatulence. Knowing That’s Not Chinese would be pleased to hear this news, I sent her a link to the info. She replied, “Crepitus is NOT Chinese.” “Sure smells Chinese,” was my reply.

 

She didn’t respond. Typical. Last time I saw her she asked, “Am I going to be in the blog?” I replied, “”Have you said anything blogworthy?” “That question is blogworthy,” was her only response.

 

Not sure that it was actually blogworthy but, as usual, That’s Not Chinese crept into the blog like a stinky fart creeps into an aerobics class.

 

 

Last week a coworker came to work raving about a recent dental visit. “I got a root canal for just over $100. Can you believe that? Most places charge $600-700!”

 

This week, she returned to work with bad news. “I had to get another root canal. Apparently the dentist did the root canal on the wrong tooth. Plus, it appears something in the wrong root canal has caused an infection. So, basically, I had two root canals. The dentist I previously went to was closed for the holiday so I had to go to a new dentist and he kept asking if I was homeless.”

 

As she continued to share details of her dental dilemma she repeated the question this week’s dentist asked her, “Are you homeless?” “Why did he keep asking you that? Where did you get your dental work done last week?” I asked. “A homeless clinic,” she reluctantly replied. “Are you homeless?” I asked. “No! I’m a cheapskate,” she informed me.

 

Turns out her financial mindset may be the actual ‘root’ of her problems. Confucius say, “The best time to go to the (good) dentist is tooth hurty.” Confucius don’t say, “Two root canal better than one.”

Each year a local ski resort hosts Oktoberfest activities. This year, Irish Girl and I decided to attend. After doing so, we headed straight to the ski resort bar and reminisced about our younger years.

 

“All I ever dated were skaters, snowboarders and skiers. They were a lot of fun but, one day, I decided I wanted a little more out of life,” I told Irish Girl. “Like a sweatshirt with a sequined tiger on it and a Russian looking hat,” Irish Girl quipped, referring to my attire for the day. “Exactly,” I replied.

 

We joined up with some of her friends and the reminiscing continued. “I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts where we would hold the Drunk Driving Olympics,” said one of the friends whose accent grew thicker with each drink. “We once held the Hampton Olympics, not to be confused with the Hampton Limp Dicks,” I told him. “We could probably do the Drunk Driving Limp Dicks too,” he said, then digressed. “I love Snapchat. I’m constantly posting dick pics.” “Doesn’t that make you nervous?” I asked. “No, they’re soft shots and only up for nine seconds,” he said. “I’m surprised they’re up for even nine seconds if they’re flaccid,” I replied. “Do you do Snapchat?” he asked. “No. I prefer Snatchchat. Where, like us women, the shots last for hours not seconds,” was my jackass reply.

He continued on with his stories and provided a little advice, “If a stripper buys you a drink it probably has a roofie in it. You should make note of that.” “Good advice. So if that happens, what should I do with the drink?” I asked. “Drink it,” he replied.
“Noted,” I said, put my Russian hat on and left….the past behind me.

 

 

The more Sleepless, Beaner and I go to Zumba the more we realize how much coordination we lack. This becomes especially obvious when females are teaching the class.

 

“For some reason they (female instructors) tend to do more hip moves. Moves my hips don’t do,” Sleepless told us. “I definitely don’t move that way,” Beaner said and added, “It’s like they’re spending too much time trying to be sexy. I do a really sexy naked robot.”

 

And with that, we walked our stiff moving bodies out of class and Beaner headed home to give her husband some sexy naked robot…..sass.

Sleepless and I decided, out of respect for many of our coworkers, to attend Red Mass.

 

I’d been to mass before, during Christmas at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, but I paid way more attention to the architecture and the hats than I did the ceremony. Plus, it had been several years since this took place, so recall of any of the ceremonial actions were, as Sleepless would say, “penguins that had fallen off the iceberg.”

 

We arrived just in time to sit down and then stand up as the priests entered the cathedral. As regular mass attendees did the sign of the cross, Sleepless and reviewed the program in hopes that it would provide us prompts for what was next to come. It did, in some ways. For example, when it was our turn to sing, it was much like karaoke in that the words were detailed in the program for us. Unfortunately, like many karaoke evenings, we weren’t always on key or in tune.

 

At some point we were told to greet our neighbors. Sleepless received guidance from the woman/coworker next to her. I did not, thus, thought people were saying, “Pleased to meet you.” I would respond, “You too.” Turns out the phrase was actually, “Peace be with you.”

 

At some point one of the priests advised, “We must all look with love at young attorneys.” I put on my best love face and looked at Sleepless. I was getting pretty good at mass.

 

As the sacrament was served I leaned over to Sleepless, “I still can’t get past the flesh and blood thing. That said, if someone were to eat something to signify my flesh it would probably be a muffin top.”

 

Several ups, downs, kneels, and ‘Glory to the highest’  later the service was over and we were invited to a reception downstairs. The latter is something I actually do remember about mass: coffee and snacks. No more improvising for me, this part was simple.

 

All in all, we did a pretty decent job improvising – thanks be to whomever printed the program. Without it, our participation might have been a “mass”ive failure.