Sports Fishermen vs. Roofers: The lesser of two evils?

The seasonal outdoor laborers (roofers, loggers, demo crews, etc) have moved on to greener pastures, and apparently the next seasonal migration of men to our region are sports fishermen.

Reasons why sports fishermen are so much hotter than roofers:

1. Red sea turtle boxer shorts coordinate in color AND theme with red Hawaiian swim trunks
2. Have enough discretionary income to pay for guided fishing tours
3. Better dancers because there are no oversized shoulders to throw them off balance
4. Higher IQ: Remember, no license required to become roofer, unlike becoming a fisherman (Hee!)
5. Much sexier making out on a boat than in a trailer/hotel room with 8 other guys
6. Their real jobs don't have purposely misspelled words in the company name like "(Insert construction term here) R Us"
7. Better wardrobes which are bought at Academy instead of found in dumpster (Amber: presumably)
8. Keys to yacht more impressive than keys to rusty cement truck
9. Fish for dinner is still better than whatever you can scrounge up at the Circle C convenience store
10. Lounging around on a private fishing boat is much more enjoyable than perching atop a roof wearing a hard hat

It ain't dainty, fo sho!

It is dainty to be sick if you have leisure and convenience for it.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

The last few months have been a little hard on the posse medically speaking, and let me tell ya, it has been anything but dainty! While Blush wins for length and variety of illnesses (including cellulitis, bursitis, and a throat infection, not to mention the tests for suspected gout*, mono, a thyroid disorder, disfunctioning liver and step … all of which resulted in 22 office visits, a trip to the ER, six different antibiotics and wandering the city like a nomad looking for nurse friends to give her a shot in the butt every day for 3 weeks), Amber wins the Wednesday Happy Hour Gross Medical Condition of the Week Award:

As diagnosed by Dr. X, who, if you didn't know, has a master’s degree in electrical engineering, so of course he's brilliant in my book.

Dr. X: You have a bit of food stuck on your tonsil.
Amber: *mortified* Oh! I'm sorry! Let me go get some water … and a harikari sword

Dr. X: No no no, it's nothing that you would know about
Amber: *sniff* gonna keep the sword handy
Dr.X: and water probably won't dislodge it anyway
Amber: *sniff* tequila?

Anyhoo, seems like I have a very rare, and disgusting, tonsil
condition. A hole that traps food. Seriously. But not like a
zit, because according to Dr. X, it's not a zit coz it's not entirely closed up.
Yuckomundo!

So after Dr. X and his trusty lab dude both tried and fail to scrape my tonsil out of my throat with various pointy sticks (No! Shine the light on her tonsil, not her nose! Ms. Amber, relax and try to suppress the gag reflex.*Editor's note: Never knew that was a MEDICAL instruction* Her tonsil, her tonsil! Hand me that wire loop! Not her nose! Ms. Amber, relax please.) they decided it was a job for a specialist.

Incidentally, Amber and Blush are both patients of Dr. X, although he doesn’t know they are practically sisters (They have been asked that so many times at the Slice of Heaven, they just roll with it now. “Yes we are” is much easier than getting into some long drawn out conversation with drunken roofers.). If Dr. X did know about their kinship, it might change his diagnosis since Amber believes that we are all getting these weird infections from the soap in ‘Heaven.

*When Dr. X said I had gout, I asked him, “Is that really even a disease? Isn’t that just something you read about in Civil War novels?” He was highly offended and rattled off the textbook medical description for gout, which to me sounded like the teacher on Charlie Brown: Whaaaaaa whaaaaaa whaaaaa. Whaaaaa wha wha wha whaaaaaaa.

Roofers

The Slice of Heaven is located in an area that has seasonal work which occasionally calls for demo crews, roofers, contractors, and other various outdoor laborers to decend upon us. They sniff out 'Heaven like bloodhounds on a coon. While we have found them to be mostly good ole boys, they do have a few peculiarities. How can you spot 'em?

You might be a Roofer if:

• Your shoulder span is greater than your IQ
• You chase natural disasters looking for work
• All of your t-shirts are missing sleeves because your shoulders don't fit
• Your answer to "can you conjugate a verb" is "Conju-what?"
• Your regular housing arrangements include 8 guys to a room
• Getting dressed up means wearing your cap with the company logo
• You know to the ounce how much you can bench press
• Your definition of the good life: when your paycheck covers your bar tab
• You think buying a woman a shot is the ultimate romantic gesture
• Words that are synonymous to you: Parking Lot/Toilet
• You think "I'm just gonna sit here and look at your tits" is a great line
• Your last-ditch, roll-the-dice line is "If you're not going to be nice to me, I guess I'm going home to jerk off and go to sleep" (hey, bubba, don't let the door hit you in the ass on yer way out)
• You sit around in shithole bars and make fun of the shinglemakers
• Your aftershave bears a striking resemblance to tar shampoo
• You can maneuver the ramp at the Slice of Heaven with a beer in each hand and a woman on your back!!!

Post-Weekend Wrap Up

The Slice of Heaven rarely disappoints for an evening of unlimited mocking, and Friday night was no exception.

Among the most memorable:

The Ham Lady

She wore a dress that was mostly backless, except for these criss-cross laces making her look like …. a ham. She was also wearing these obviously new “come f*&$ me” shoes. And she was on a date. Like a first date. One thing to find out that your friend/crush/etc. shares your affinity for colorful locales (Amber: shithole bars) and suggest it as a lark 6 or 7 dates in, another thing to take someone there for a first date. On the other hand, maybe it’s better to find out up front their ability to mock. So Amber and I made up this whole conversation that we thought must be running through the Ham Lady’s head about what kind of nasty place he’s taking her to, and if he thinks the enchilada dinner makes up for this, he is sadly mistaken, and there she had went and bought brand new $14.95 shoes and had her 23-year-old daughter strap her into the ham dress and everything.

WELL! We were delighted to see that after a couple of beers the Ham Lady was totally into the Slice of Heaven. She was dancin’ in her chair (One karaoke singer was serious about working the crowd and said if people didn’t want to get out on the dance floor, they could just dance in their chairs. I appreciated his permission to do so.), and she was singin’ along and clappin’ and who-hoooin’. Amber looked at her and declared, “Another Slice of Heaven success story.”

Sammy Hagar and Sandra Dee

There is a little game The Posse likes to play called “Guess the Song.” Let me tell you, we failed MISERABLY on Friday night, and it is always so delightful when we are surprised. First up was a Sammy Hagar look-alike with wild blonde curly hair, a Hawaiian shirt and white shorts (he’s not at all concerned about the Labor Day rule). His duet partner was a sweet shy woman with a blonde ponytail and innocent white blouse. We were rubbing our hands together with anticipation….We could see some totally raunchy rock song coming up that was guaranteed to make Ms. Innocent blush. We were totally floored when they sang Johnny Cash and June Carter’s “Jackson.” And there’s Sammy Hagar acting like he’s stomping his foot western-style, but really he looks like some kind of mentally challenged heron raising his leg up and down and pointing his flip flop totally out of sync with the beat.

ZZ Top

The next little surprise was ZZ-Top-looking dude singing “Purple Rain.” But, like, a super-old ZZ Top with a meth problem. And Amber reminds me that at one point I was going to pull a humanitarianism and go back him up, but I was terrified that things would crawl out of his waist-length beard and into my invisa-bra (which is another story for another day). Ewwwwwwww. People got out their lighters to hold aloft, more for sympathy than for adoration. But ZZ Top did make the most of his time while waiting between songs and advised us all: “Don’t waste yer life!” I’m not sure if he has any openings to become my life coach or not.

Math Club President

Then there was the Math Club President and her Soccer Mom Side Kick. MCP, a very young woman, was wearing a plain blue sweatshirt and navy walking shorts. She had her kinky hair pulled back in a sensible pony tail and had on big tortoise shell glasses. Her SMSK had on a very short denim skirt and a just to throw us off, a conservative polo-type shirt. The shirt… so incongruent with the way she kept squatting in the denim skirt as she sang, and I was concerned about the suitability (Amber: What?? There’s a dress code now??) of her underpants that were in danger of being on display in ‘Heaven. What would her mother say?! (Amber: We KNOW what Blush’s mom would say! Hee!) We were so busy drinking in the juxtaposition of MCP not only being IN ‘Heaven, but actually singing, that we didn’t even have time to Guess the Song. We would have totally blown it anyway, because they belted out “Welcome to the Jungle” like they had been singin’ it in their basement since 1987. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that they were ever on beat. Even more unfortunately, MCP left before her match made in heaven (hur hur) Audio Visual/Physics Club President sauntered in, resplendent in his khaki shorts, short-sleeved button down TUCKED in which is pretty much a hanging offense at the Slice, and black plastic rimmed glasses straight from a movie starring1960 NASA nerds.

Bride and Groom

OH! And let's not forget the wedding party! A stout middle aged couple who had finally realized that it was cheaper to maintain one trailer than two. The whole wedding party was from Michigan and all were clad in tourist T-shirts excpet the bride who's "going away outfit" consisted of capri pants and an ethnic-print blouse with some wooden wind chimes hanging from the neckline. And she still had the Diamonique hair accessory perched right above her very round bangs and right below the 1963 bouffant. So the couple was sitting around, minding their own business, when the Karaoke King calls them up to the stage to sing the Island Mating Call. They have no idea what's coming, but are being good sports and waddle up to the stage. The groom is not lettin go of his 47th beer of the night by any means and brings it right on up. As soon as the bride sees the lyrics begin to roll, she gasps in horror and shakes her finger at the wedding party who has surreptitiously signed them up to sing "Let's get Drunk and F*&%." The groom doesn't even blink, but bellows out the song in between swigs of beer. Unfortunately, he doesn't gaze into his bride's eyes as he serenades her because he has to concentrate so hard on the words rolling past to take notice of her.

Plane tickets to wedding destination: $750. Honeymoon suite: $200. Three rounds of drinks for the wedding party: $180. Wedding reception at the Slice of Heaven: Priceless.

Friends

I don’t know how many times this year I have said, “I have the BEST friends EVER!”, but I do. Maybe being divorced has caused me both to rely on and appreciate my friends a lot more. Maybe by this time in my life I have weeded out most of the deadwood that was bringin’ me down. Maybe because of the bumps and bruises we all have, we are more tolerant of each other. Maybe this is Karma payback for that day in late 2000 when I decided that no matter how people treated me, I was going to try to be the kind of person I had always admired (although this is very much a work in progress).

At any rate, who else but the best friends in the world would:

• Offer to run over your ex and split the $10,000 fine
• Pick up your kids at a total stranger’s house on a moment’s notice and care for them indefinitely
• Have the honesty, compassion and wisdom to tell you, “I don’t know what to say.”
• Come over to keep you company while you cry AND bring wine
• Listen to you sing every song on the radio during a 14 hr road trip and not change the station
• Back you up on karaoke
• Ask a guy anything for a quarter
• Teach you how to curl your hair and fix your make up after the age of 15
• Not only not complain about how often you stay over, but buy you new bedding
• Know that dessert at your house will be Girl Scout cookies AGAIN, but come over for dinner anyway
• Teach you how to buy and wear a bra
• Listen to stories of people they have never met and keep all the names straight
• Offer up their homes for a rendezvous
• Cheer when you walk into the bar at Ladies’ Night
• Keep a secret
• Ask you at the beginning of your rant if they are supposed to just listen, agree with you, play devil’s advocate, offer advice, or help blast the jerk of the moment
• Offer your clueless self insight on alternative lifestyles
• Invent a new category of Extreme Amusement: The Mockolympics

Atlanta Boys: Asses or Assets?

Shout out!!!!

ASSES!!!!

Ain’t there no fishin’ in Atlanta? Obviously the catch and release program is unfamiliar to these boys!

Most fish, when they gets caught, resign themselves to being eatin’! De fish saw yer bait, decided to take a nibble, was open to more, and ended up takin a big ole bite, knowin she’d be endin up on yer hook.

Now, if you ain’t planning on catchin and releasin, don’t brings de ice chest and set up to keep de fish. That just adds to de fish’s confusion! I understand if you get it in de boat and realize that it has to bes thrown back, but at least gives the girls the heads up! Mutual catch and release can be fun if it is based on honesty!!!

Cat gots your tongue?

I am just sayin’

You wanna play catch and release…I’m GAME!!!

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

One of the most delightful things about the Posse is the diversity. We hail from all over this hemisphere, we have totally different skill sets, our personalities run the gamut, and yet, we are all fabulous. In fact, when one man became confused about whom he was interested in most, Kranberry said, “Face it Ladies, I wouldn’t be able to choose from among us either!”

So the other day Amber acts totally offended when I mention that sometimes she is a bit … particular …. about certain things. Hello!!?! Are you NOT the woman who refuses to use the restroom at A Slice of Heaven, and, in fact, went on a total tirade about how “I DO NOT go potty in the lake. I DO NOT go potty in the forest. I DO NOT go potty in the ocean. I DO NOT go potty on the side of the road. Blah blah blah.” ??

I tried to convince her that going to the restroom in the Slice of Heaven is not that bad. I mean, sure, it’s always a safe bet that you should grab a couple of napkins from the bar ‘just in case’ because apparently after 14 years of continuous operation they can’t quite get the hang of how much toilet paper they need per night. Or maybe they have a certain budget for toilet paper and once it’s gone, it’s gone, baby. Deal. The dispensation of the soap, however, deserves describing.

Don’t even think about using the industrial liquid soap dispensers on the wall. They have never held soap since the freebee supply they came with ran out. And women in all stages of drunkenness (from vomiting to soiling themselves) have probably tried to use these dispensers, so there is most likely next year’s winning science project contained right there on that little handle.

But, never fear, the Slice of Heaven staff has got you covered. There is a little sandwich-sized Tupperware right there on the counter between the double sinks. Fitting perfectly into the Tupperware is a very soaked, slightly moldy sponge. And resting on that throne fit for a queen is the slimiest bar of Ivory soap you have ever seen.


I told Amber that it doesn’t have to totally gross you out. Just run your index finger in a small circle along the top of the bar twice, then rub your hands together vigorously under the water and you’re good to go. You could literally see her skin crawl as I described it.

So that got the Posse to thinkin’…. We’re the local girls here. We should contribute to our favorite establishment and supply them with a pump container of antibacterial Dial. But then we started thinking that maybe this should be for the exclusive use of the locals, like some clubs here have the special Local’s Entrance and exclusive Local’s Bar.

We could put the soap in a glass case (like a fire hose) that we could mount on the restroom wall. And we would be in charge of the key. The key would be attached to a really big wooden paddle like in the seventh grade when you had to ask the teacher for the restroom pass and then everyone knew you were on your period. And the Posse member who drank so much that she threw up the weekend before (you know who you are you “self-regulating” wussies!) would have to sit at the bar with the wooden paddle around her neck for the entire next Friday night. And while we originally intended for this to be a mark of shame, we now realize that there is a certain clientele (Goooooooo ROOFERS!) who will find this extremely attractive, so wear the khaki skirt at your own risk. I’m just sayin’.

Casting About

The Catch and Release program name is kind of a spoof on the guys that chase, chase, chase you…are just about to “catch” you, and then “release you.” They don’t call, they stop texting, they just disappear off the face of the earth. (The worst is the non-consensual release)

But the Posse knows that it’s all about adjusting our own expectations and attitudes. We know that sometimes it’s ok just to enjoy the moment… to cast out your line and see if your bait gets a little nibble … see if your bobber starts to twitch just a little. There is absolutely nothing wrong with spending an hour or so with someone who declares you “The Coolest Girl I Have Ever Met!” even if you know he will never dial those digits he begged for. Better than staying home curled up with a half gallon of Ben & Jerry’s crying over Grey’s Anatomy reruns every weekend. Nope, we climb back into the boat with our girlfriends laughing and mocking and totally entertaining ourselves each weekend.

Below are openings guaranteed to lure in that big shiny redfish … the roofer with the big shoulders, the adorable guy here on vacation, or anyone in the vicinity that looks like he might be able to string together three sentences that could be mildly entertaining.

1. This is a tag team effort. When a big shouldered brute approaches, Kranberry asks, “Sweetie, how much can you bench press?” Brute: “Blah blah blah, fireman testing, blah blah blah, best weight ever, blah blah blah.” Blush: (poking him on the arm) Honey, the correct answer is “You, baby!” Best response was from ‘Uncle Andy’ who replied, “Baby, not only could I bench press you, I could curl you all night!” Whooo-hoooo! Other good answers, “Whatever you need baby!”, “You’re not even that heavy!”

Danger Note: a man who actually knows how much he bench presses is either a fitness instructor, steroid taker or professional body builder. Any knowledge of an actual number is indication of self involvedness!

2. Often we take turns being on “quarter duty”, which means you are trying to hook your girlfriend up with the man she’s got her eye on. So the friend takes a quarter, shows it to the target (victim) and uses a variety of lines beginning, “My friends paid me a quarter to…

• find out how tall you are.
• ask if you work on an oil rig.
• grab your ass, but I said I’d do it for free. (Ok, this one is self-serving if you just want to skip the middle man. It has had 100% success.)
• find out your shoe size.
• ask you to sing White Wedding, and if you're good, they’ll all throw their panties at you.
• ask you to show us your nipple rings/take your shirt off/show your boxers.
• find out if you carry your own Purell.
• find out if that beer gut is real (Amber’s cracking herself up)
• ask if someone is paying you to dance like that.

3. Baby, why are you wearin’ that gay cap? (hand painted and bedazzled)

4. Did you come to Las Vegas to be uptight or what?

5. Are you the designated driver tonight or what?

6. Are you here for a fitness convention? (Best reply: No, a steroids convention)

7. Are you a roofer?

8. If I was as smart as you ladies, I wouldn’t be a professional mover. (Kranberry’s response: Baby, that’s why God gave you those big shoulders!)

9. Sorry, we’re not accepting any more friends named Matt. Move it along! (We love to see men beg)

10. Can you conjugate a verb?

11. You had me at rubric.

12. I love a man who’s prepared! (to man sporting his own koozie)

13. I love a man who comes with instructions! (to guy in t-shirt that says "Take me home tonight")

14. No, thanks. I'm just here to mock. (again, the loving to see men beg scenario)

15. I have a boyfriend, but my friend (insert name of friend next to you) will probably go home with you. Might cost you a quarter though.

16. My friend Blush kisses all the karaoke singers. For free!

17. I'm not looking at you. I'm looking at your friend.

18. I'll give you a quarter if you introduce me to your cousin.

19. My friends gave me a quarter to tell you to fuck off, but I told them I would do it for free.

20. You know, in some states you can get arrested for what you're doing to my knee.

21. Can you swim? (Said to Coast Guard Guys. Guaranteed to raise their blood pressure in 2 seconds flat.)

Post Holiday Weekend

Road trips….

I’ve never had a bad road trip (including the one where the dumbass driver flipped the car while changing the radio station – the good then still outweighed getting my car towed and laid up for a week or more in a body shop 200 miles from home, believe it or not). In fact, I would venture to say that at least one road trip I have taken has been life changing for me, and that all have bonded me to people in a way that I could never replicate under ordinary circumstances. But confine a few friends within the several hundred cubic feet of space in an automobile with snacks, music, and an open road, and that is a recipe for discovering the joy in life. Even better if the road trip has been arranged with less than 48 hours notice.

Each road trip has at least one good story that gets better with each telling…

• The visit to Iowa that ended up with a “side trip” to Minnesota
• The amazing music in Waterville, Ks
• Skidding through Skidmore, Tx
• Climbing the North Hill* in Mexico
• Eating tapas in Houston
• Road rage in Giddings, Tx
  
  *If by “hill” you mean: sheer rock wall with no available oxygen and footing only suited to a spry mountain goat
  

Elaboration on any of the above stories is available on request, but with the disclaimer that I may be the only one who judges the content to be absolutely hilarious.

Dinner Parties….

In addition to making time for more road trips in my life, I am deeming it my personal mission to revive two things from the 1950s/60s: dinner parties and cocktail hour. You know all those classic movies where the woman is wearing the pearls and the huge poofy skirt and walking around the living room with a martini glass in her hand? What happened to that? Why is the image of a (working, single) mom having a much-needed drink after work deteriorated to someone sneaking around the kitchen drinking whisky out of a coffee cup as she pulls the chicken fingers and tater tots out of the oven and throws them at her kids who are watching inappropriate television shows on the living room floor? Baaaaah I say!

Based on an impromptu experience last night…. Let’s bring back the cocktail hour and dinner party! I pledge to buy a drink shaker and more than one flavor of adult beverage fixins. I pledge to stock cans of mixed nuts in my pantry. And I pledge to clear up the papers, mail and magazines on the piano and coffee table so that Merlot doesn’t yearn to wear a biohazard suit when she walks through my door.