Making Memories

My husband is full of good ideas. He is also full of shit, but it’s a good balance.
One of his mottos is that when you go on vacation it should be about making memories. Well…my daughter’s Senior Spring Break Trip to Cancun last month was no exception! I had many concerns about spending a week with 16 kids and some of their parents, whom I had never met before, but I can truthfully say that it was one of the best vacations I have ever taken!
As my tan quickly faded…the memories of our trip have continued to live on.

• Having Richardo, the very crabby bartender, calling security on me and another mom. I mean who would have thought not having your wrist band on at an all-inclusive would have been such a big damn deal?! Who in the world could’ve been sporting our yellow aka old-enough-to-indulge-in-libations wristbands? Hmmmm…I wonder?!
• During dinner, getting yelled at by some gentleman who was also on vacation. Really…why are you even concerning yourself with us?! You are on vacation with your wife and friends…have fun! Maybe his wife wasn’t “putting out” and maybe we did drop the F bomb a few times but why were there young children at the restaurant at 10:00 pm? If I were governor (too many skeletons in my closet for that to ever happen) I would ban children from nice restaurants after 7:00 pm.
• Lounging poolside with lovely tropical drinks while listening to Mr. O’Neil’s fantastic jokes.
• The Swing Bar. Enough said about that!
• Having my daughter only remind me twice that this was her Senior Spring Break and not mine. That’s not bad…just two times.
• Lynne and I just trying to keep ourselves out of the Mexican houskow with the constant wristband fiasco! Are you kidding me?! Have you even seen Locked Up Abroad? No thank you!
• Lastly, I will never ever forget our very lively and tequila-filled dinner conversations that resulted in necessary yoga breathing for Marty and many, many laughs by all.

Besides being absolutely giddy about the new friends that met on this vacation, I also realized that it truly is a small, small world. I would never have imagined, while vacationing in Mexico, that I would run into a college roommate who I have not seen for over 20 years and who lives in Atlanta. Imagine…being there at the same exact time and same exact resort. What are the chances? I’m no mathematician but I can only guess that it’s rather slim! It was so good to see her and, Kara, if you are reading this…you look fabulous!
I usually try to post an 80’s song below since that is one of my favorite decades for music but the song below just reminds me too much of our Mexico trip so I couldn’t resist. Turn it up…

Back in the Saddle

I am notorious for starting things and then not continuing or finishing them. If I just open the large metal file cabinet in my office, I will be quickly reminded of the many business ideas and inventions that I have had in the past, yet none of them has actually come to fruition. I believe that if you throw enough shit against the wall…something has to eventually stick. Right?

I thought my ship had come in when in the early 90’s I invented ‘The Bagel Box’. It was an acrylic storage device for bagels that kept them from getting hard and stale in a day. I mean wasn’t the mere thought of stale bagels something that kept you up at night? Of course, I thought this was one kick-ass invention but time was of the essence and time was something that I lacked since I was raising two small children then. That’s another thing that I am good at…making excuses. My husband always reminds me that, “Excuses are like assholes…everyone has one!” Thanks, honey!

This blog is different though (there’s another excuse…did you catch it?) because it is not a business idea but rather a place where I can express myself through stories that hopefully make people laugh all while providing me with some much needed therapy. Some men find therapy on the golf course or women might find it shopping at the local department store; I find therapy at my computer writing about life.

Therapy doesn’t always have to involve seeking professional care but there times when that might become essential. This brings me to the reason for the sabbatical from my blog. I was dealing with a very personal and delicate issue with someone who is extremely near and dear to me. I would do anything in the world for this person but I too was in denial that there was even a problem. I was trying to think the other day about when I allowed complete and utter dysfunction to become my normalcy.

In retrospect, it is hard to believe that I was even able to get out of bed every day and function. It was an extremely hard journey for everyone involved but now we are all much healthier and happier because of it. Enough said about that.

Now that this ordeal is behind me, I am going to try my hardest to be better about writing more regularly but…just kidding. No buts!

The song below is dedicated to the person mentioned above whom I absolutely love to pieces and always will…no matter what!

Get out, people! No, seriously, get out!

The powdery white stuff is on its way! No, silly, not booger sugar…I’m talking about snow! In the state that I currently reside, we had about 400 feet of snow last year and they are predicting that this winter will even be colder and bring more snow.
Good God…why do I live in a place that is hardly fit for year round habitation?

The cold and the snow are an easy excuse to spend your nights and the majority of the weekend on the couch wrapped up in a Snuggie like a pig in a blanket.

Here’s a suggestion (free of charge, of course)…grab a friend, neighbor, spouse, cousin, significant other (you get the idea) and go see some live music. Even if you live in the sticks, you should be able to find some dive bar that supports the local arts by providing live music. Indulge in a libation or two. Dance. Sit back and watch other people try to dance.

Last weekend, my husband and I did just that and went to see a friend and his cronies play 80’s cover music at a nearby bar. It was fabulous! I had my new favorite drink…tequila gimlet. Ok, I had a couple of them and the next morning I felt the same as I did back in college after doing several tequila shots right before Mingles (the dark, loud, lights flashing, make-out on the kick-ass dance floor bar that we would clamor to only after spending the majority of our night at some dumpy bar drinking cheap tap beers) closed for the night. I guess I am just not that young anymore!

By the time we left several hours later, numerous people at the bar had monikers, kindly given to them by my husband.

There was:

Camo-boy. This early 20’s beatnik was already smashed by the time my husband and I arrived which was only about 8:30. He wore a camo-style jacket out for the night (serious fashion faux pas even in Minnesota) which he chose to never take off. Perhaps he was too hammered or perhaps he was afraid of losing his precious hunting coat. We lost sight of camo-boy shortly after he was trying to pick up some fairly decent looking cougars.

Fat Jesus. Yes, this boy strongly resembled Zach Galifianakis. I believe Fat Jesus originally accompanied Camo-boy to the bar but was not nearly as shit-faced. Do you think it would be harder or easier to pick up chicks when you resemble Jesus? Hmmm…that’s one to ponder.

Skinny Jesus. A few tables away perched a Skinny Jesus on a bar stool, consuming a beer and sporting ‘Jesus-type’ sandals. As if a man’s feet aren’t ugly enough…why would they choose to slip them into a hideous pair of sandals? Why?

The Pickled Parrot. And to complete the night, there was The Pickled Parrot. He was the loner at the bar who wore his 80’s mesh baseball hat and proceeded to whistle (very loudly, I might add) to the live music. Whistling at a bar…really? I find whistling rather peculiar and I think it is like some other activity that you do by yourself (use your imagination) that should be done only in the privacy of your own home!

Ooo...la...la

Slacks…britches…pants…trousers…dungarees…jeans.

Oh my, who doesn’t love a good pair of jeans? I remember as a teenager wearing Levi’s 501 button fly jeans. There was a big tag on the back, right hip that gave the dimensions (I think I have been in real estate too long) of the jeans. W27 L34 - ie Waist 27 Length 34. I thought it would even be cooler (because I was already so cool sport a Members Only jacket) to take a ball point pen and scratch out the waist measurement. Now why on earth would I do that considering I was as skinny as a stick of macaroni back then?

There were also Sasson jeans. “Ooo…la…la…Sasson.” Gloria Vanderbilt’s. Calvin Klein’s. “Nothing comes between me and my Calvin’s.” Guess and Gerbaud.

My favorite pair of jeans were Guess. They had pockets, both in the front and back, that were shaped like big ½ moons and were lined with some cool, soft leather. God, I loved those jeans! They were expensive at the time - a pricey $60. I know that because I bought them myself after many summer hours of serving Skittle Scrambles and Fried Chicken Steak to the locals at Country Kitchen.

I made one very crucial mistake, however, when I purchased these beautiful jeans. I bought them right before I left for college. Sure, I heard the horror stories of girls leaving for college and coming back for the Holidays carrying an extra 15 pounds on them. Oh, the “Freshman 15”…that won’t happen to me…I thought! I would resist the tempting all-you-can-eat ice cream bar located in the cafeteria…I wouldn’t drink fattening beer or eat late at night after consuming copious amounts of said fattening beer. I will participate in the nightly aerobics class instead.

Well all that went to Hell within the first few weeks of college. There is just something about being on your own for the very first time that you feel you can do whatever you want without any ramifications.

Sadly my Guess jeans started getting tighter and tighter and pretty soon trying to fit into my jeans was similar to trying to shove a marshmallow in a piggy bank. Eventually the once cool leather tore. Not having the heart to retire the jeans quite yet, my mother (the consummate master of anything to do with the fabric store) replaced the leather with some more substantial fabric (no not kryptonite…I said fabric, people!). Eventually, much to my chagrin, I was no longer able to strut around campus in my beloved Guess jeans.

Even though jeans are as close to the perfect clothing article as a Speedo is for Michael Phelps, there is one place that, I feel, it is completely unsuitable to be wearing jeans yet I have seen them worn here more than once.

I am talking about the gym. In the past couple of weeks, I have seen grown men (yes that’s plural) working out in jeans. I will cut one guy, who was wearing jean shorts, a little bit of slack but not much because he was still at the gym for goodness sakes!

I mean, I am no fashion expert but really…jeans to the gym? Stop it!

Fortyish

Sometimes I forget my age.
I mean I still get greasy hair (what’s with that?), I have small boobs that look like I am still pubescent, I rock out to 80’s music and I still get an occasional zit. But then I am quickly reminded that I am officially 44 years old when I sneeze and pee myself. Not a complete, wet-my-pants pee but enough to bum me out.
I also noticed that I seem to be hard of hearing lately. My friend, who happens to be my neighbor, came over the other day to just chat. After conversing (or as some people say conversating which really isn’t a word) for a while she asked if she could use my biffy. There is always that sheer panic when someone wants to use my toilet unannounced. I hope the last person in there remembered to flush everything down as I have unfortunately been met with a surprise every now and then.
Upon finishing, my neighbor ran out of my bathroom yelling, “I have to go…my undies are on fire!”
“What?” I asked concerned.
“My UNDIES are on fire!” she yelled again as she ran out my front door.
She had white pants on because it was in between Memorial and Labor Day so I looked at her arse as she ran across the street and into her yard. It didn’t look like her undies where on fire. But I thought if she did have a bad case of the hemorrhoids maybe I wouldn’t notice by just looking at her fanny. I personally don't have any experience with hemorrhoids but once a friend told me that she had such a bad case of them when she was pregnant that her buttocks actually got stuck to the bottom of her bathtub. I guess they acted like suction cups. Ouch!
Later when I saw my neighbor, I asked why her undies were on fire…I mean I like to know those things as long as you don’t get too graphic.
She laughed. “Oh my God, not my undies, you Ding Ding! My ONIONS! My onions where on fire! I left them frying on the stove!”
Whew…I was relieved for her!
I think my husband, who is also 44, is having problems with his hearing too. The other day, I asked him to let the dog in. A few minutes went by and I looked out the window and she was still out. So I asked him, “Why didn’t you let Millie in?”
“Because she didn’t want to come in,” he answered with his head in the refrigerator.
Now I know that isn’t true because she was now whining outside the window, so I decided that I would just have to do it myself. I guess I sent a boy to do a man's job!
There she was, her chain wrapped around a rock, waiting for me to rescue her.
“Silly head,” I said to my husband as I came into the kitchen with the dog happily running alongside me, “she couldn’t make it to the door because her chain was wrapped around a rock!”
“Did you say you wanted to suck my cock?” he said with a smirk on his face.
HAHA…he is definitely experiencing some very serious hearing problems!

21 years

Twenty-one years ago on a warm and sunny autumn day, much like today, we both (happily) said “I do”.
And quite a ride it has been, my friend! A whopping 7,665 days; some better and some definitely worse, some richer and some poorer, some in sickness and some in health but through it all, I still love & adore you and think you are the funniest man alive! Here’s to us…

The Name Game

Whenever I hear someone poking fun of someone else’s name I am quick to educate them that the person didn’t name him or herself. That is usually done by the parent or parents of the child or, in the case of Orenthal James Simpson, yes the infamous OJ Simpson, the aunt of the child. It turns out, in fact, that his nickname OJ is very fitting if you are referring to his apparel of choice these days – Orange Jumpsuit.

Now someone could easily surmise that being born in the late sixties and having a name like Kiki, that my parents were total, peace-love-and-Bobby-Sherman type hippies living in some kind of commune when I was born. On the contrary…my mother was a teacher who stayed home to raise her three children and my father was a pilot for a major (at that time anyway) airline. Not only that, but my brother actually gave me the nickname, Kiki, when he began to talk but had a hard time with the name Kirsten. I completely understand since even most fully grown humans can’t pronounce my real name correctly.

There is an umlaut (you know a double dot) over my “i” which is there to indicate a vowel sound different from that of the actual letter. So the kir part of my name rhymes with dear. Hmmmm…come to think of it, maybe my parents were a couple of closet hippies!

Parents need to be extra careful when naming their child. A car is not necessarily a good name for a person (Porsche), nor is a brand of shoe (Timberland) or a piece of fruit (Apple). Also, naming your child Shithead but pronouncing it Sha teed might have some later repercussions. Or naming her La-ia and pronouncing it La Dashia (yes, pronouncing the dash) is not recommended for it is just wrong.

Also, I highly recommended that you do not give your son the middle name Wayne. Besides the most heinous murderers like John Wayne Gacy and Elmer Wayne Henley there are scores of other murderers sporting Wayne as their middle name. If you don’t believe me, check it out on the googles.

So I have been Kiki since I was just a toddler but I didn’t learn the meaning of my nickname, in Filipino, until my mid-thirties.

Upon being introduced to a particular middle-aged women, she shook my hand and giggled.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Kiki,” I politely replied. And then I spelled it for her as I often do but I'm not sure why I feel the need to do that.

Apparently something was very amusing to her.

“Do you know what Kiki means in Filipino?” she asked in between snorts.

I shook my head.

“It means pussy,” she said as she pointed to her underpants area. Then she began to whisper, “Pussy...as in slang for a women’s vagina...not a pussy cat,” she further explained even though I didn’t really need further explanation as I completely understood what she meant by pussy when she started pointing at her vagina.

That’s just swell!

Note to self…if I am ever in the Philippines, make certain to only use my real name.