Tag Archives: friendship

Incontinence is an inconvenience.

My old friend Cracker called from Boise tonight. She relayed the story of her recent dealings with the customer service department of a company that will remain unnamed. Clearly she was frustrated. What follows are the ACTUAL emails between Cracker and a department rep.

FROM: CS REP
This refund takes 30 days and I have process. I am sorry for any incontinence this may have cause you.

Thanks, G


FROM: CRACKER

G,

Thank you for your 30 day refund notice for my file. As a matter of fact, this whole situation HAS made me incontinent. I’ve noticed that over the course of this ordeal, I’ve lost bladder control and often found my office chair wet after dealing with you on the phone on a daily basis having to repeat myself time and time again despite your “phone conversation records.”

If our account is not refunded in 30 per your policy (even though YOU made an unauthorized withdrawal) I will more than likely have permanent bladder damage, thus you will also be paying for…. (more)

Cracker

P.S. If you didn’t catch my above drift, “incontinence” means you have bladder problems. You might want to strike that word from future e-mails to your customers.

FROM: CS REP
No problem.

Outsourcing. It’s good comedy.

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Filed under Piece of Insanity

New Year’s Cliff Notes

Yesterday, I was gently reminded how dismally I’ve failed at basic blog duties. (How can I ever repay you, QB?) I never recapped New Year’s Eve. Criminey.

There were good friends.

And bad cell phone cameras.

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Lots to drink.

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And Mommypie texting.

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A dirty comb.

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A dirty ass comb.

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And Mommypie texting.

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More drink.

More comb.

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A car ride home.

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Zee End.

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Proof positive that an old dog CAN learn new tricks.

Last night I looked at the video footage from Hawaii for the first time and I just about peed my pants.

This was our last night at the house. Three had already flown home, which left Cannonball, Hamster and me. And a pool. And a video camera. Oh yeah. And ALCOHOL.

And this is how Cannonball got her name.

Honestly, I cannot BELIEVE I’m actually showing you this. Fair warning: it was a late night, and I look like a like a pile of hot cross dog crap. Helluuu no makeup. And it’s probably only funny to a few people, i.e., the three in the video. Those weird voices and lip movements? Yeah, we were on some Japanese movie trip. Just ignore it — we’re 11. Needless to say, as you’ll probably figure out, there were quite a few margaritas involved.

AND, most importantly, don’t watch it more than once (like you would anyway), or you’ll want to punch me in the face for the constant LAUGHING.

It’s safe to say I’ve never been called a mean drunk.

HAVING TROUBLE WITH THE VIDEO — IT’LL BE BACK UP SOON!

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Don’t have a cow, Baby.

Our second full day in Hawaii and we hit the road, driving to the opposite end of the island. To see my very first volcano. I have to confess, this was the thing I was most excited to do.

Six women in a car + juvenille tendencies = BALL TALK.

Somehow we started talking about Rocky Mountain Oysters. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with Western Cuisine, are not really oysters. They’re bull balls. In this corner of the U.S. we even have a little annual something called the Testicle Festival.

So not kidding.

Cannonball spent summers working on her family ranch. And castrating cattle. Which is how I think the whole conversation started.

“So are all the sperm actually IN the balls when they’re cooked?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“So you’re eating fried sperm.”

“Uhh … maybe?”

“Gross.”

“Gag.”

“Have you ever tried them?”

“Yeah. They were … meaty.”

“Meaty?”

“Dude.”

“Meh.”

“Have YOU ever eaten them?”

“No way. I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“Yeah, what if you COULD get pregnant by eating balls?”

“Wait. You can’t?”

“That would suck.”

“BALLS.”

*BAHAHAHAHA*

“You’d have a cow-baby.”

“Inter-specie-al cow-baby.”

And then Cher came on the radio and started singing Half Breed.

Okay, not really, but that would’ve been AWESOME.

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40 is the new 30, Baby.

As my flight neared touchdown, my initial reaction was nothing short of WTF? The view was less than stunning. To say the least. The elderly gentleman sitting beside me must have read my mind. Or my face. He offered reassurance that the acres of black rock were, in fact, lava flows, and that they did NOT cover the entire region.

He was right. The Big Island, with its rugged diversity of terrain, was nothing short of spectacular. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

All six of us arrived between 4 and 8 p.m., and after looong flights, our first night in Kona was spent relaxing and catching up at a local eatery. Most notable event of the evening — a MONGOOSE scurrying beneath tables on the patio while customers ate. I didn’t know it was a mongoose at the time. I would’ve put money on squirrel/rat cross breed.

Our rental house? BEAUTIFUL. HUGE. Three bedrooms, three baths, gorgeous furnishings, pool, you name it.

Oh yeah, and and THIS.

Second time in a month! What are the odds? Never mind that I totally clogged it with overzealous usage, you KNOW I was a happy girl.

The next day was spent at the beach — I made a solemn vow to not publish swimsuit photos, but I CAN show you this.

As we ventured into the ocean for the first time, this awesome sea turtle bumped into Finn’s leg, prompting her to yell, “That CREATURE just touched me” and beat a hasty retreat back to the shore. She and OnStar weren’t as into the whole water thing as the rest of us.

Landlubbers.

Surprisingly enough, I could’ve stayed in the water all day, every day. And I didn’t worry about sharks or stingrays OR jellyfish. I didn’t worry about anything. I DID wish MP was there to see the turtle though.

Later that night we did the full-on tourist thing and attended a luau. My only gauge being The Brady Bunch Goes to Hawaii episodes, I fully expected to be sitting around a blazing fire, eating poi and getting up only to dance with natives. Turns out reality isn’t quite so romantic. Reality looks more like a Bingo Parlor. Only outside.

It was AWESOME.

After paying our $70, we were HEAVILY encouraged to go to the bar. Um, okay.

Two drinks at a time. Two FREE drinks at a time. No limit.

Um, okay.

We’re moms. We’re good at following directions.

The drinks from the punch bowl were actually pretty weak. The bartender was more than happy to top our drinks off with an extra shot.

BTW, “Chile’s” former blog name was “Tea.” Remember, she got engaged a few weeks back? “Chile” just suits her personality better, especially now that she’s living there. Mkay, just wanted to clear that up.

The luau itself lasted two or three hours. We ate. We drank. We listened to music.

We drank.

We tried swinging some Poi Balls.

Stop it.

I’ll try [most] anything once.

That’s hot.

As the night wore on, there was a moment we all looked at each other and had the same thought.

“Do you have a buzz?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not at ALL. Do you?”

“Um, nooo.”

“How many have you had?”

“Six. You?”

“Five.”

Apparently, THAT’s how they can afford to offer open bar. And that shot of rum? Probably not much more than colored water. I still can’t believe I didn’t notice. I worked my way through college as a BARTENDER, for cripe’s sake. Shameful.

The performers have GOT think tourists are complete tools.

Yeah, they’d be right. Helluuu Poi Balls.

The dancers were fantastic, though, and all in all, totally worth the money.

The night was still fairly young when the luau came to a close, and being almost completely sober, AND IN HAWAII, we decided to find a bar. We found a place called Huggos, camped out outside at a table overlooking the sea, listened to some live music and made up for lost time.

I love that in the 25+ years we’ve known each other, we get together and we’re all so clearly the same people. With the same group dynamic. It’s like no time has passed.

And at one point, while everyone danced, I did this.

And 10 seconds later, I did this. Shot a really, really, REALLY poor quality camera phone video of Chile and Cannonball gettin’ down. Which should wrap this post up. At least you’ll get the feel of the place.

Tomorrow, I tackle the volcano.

WAIT! I HAVE been to a luau before! HOW could I forget THIS?!?

Seriously.

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I’m handing out lint brushes for Christmas this year.

The past week has been so full of gut-busting stories — most of the really good ones told by people other than me. Before I forget, I must relay a short story about my friend Cannonball. (The origin of her name will be revealed in a later post. Which may or may not include video footage.)

So, Cannonball was sitting next to a co-worker at a seminar, when she noticed a piece of lint on Co-worker’s pants. As Co-worker’s attention was focused on the speaker, Cannonball reached over, and nonchalantly plucked the fuzz from her leg. Something we’ve all done.

But this fuzz was springy.

And as she pulled on it, it made a stretchy, gooey bridge between finger and pantleg.

BOI-OI-OIIING

See it in slow-mo.

Think rubber cement.

Only not.

Holy snot.

It was a booger.

Turns out co-worker had sneezed and surreptitiously wiped her hand on her pant leg. And was now horrified. As was Cannonball, who, by sheer will alone, successfully managed to suppress the the surge of vomit welling in her throat. Had that been ME, the story would’ve ended waaaay differently.

And THAT, gentle reader, is why I’ll never groom another human outside my gene pool. AGAIN.

The End.

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Filed under Bits and Pieces

You had me at ‘neener neener.’

My BFF of nearly 30 years has been living in Chile this past year, teaching English to businessmen and women, and now second graders.

Tea returned home this week, bringing her new Chilean boyfriend for a quick visit before she and I head to Hawaii and the Girls Gone Wild event next week. We’ll be joining four other high school girlfriends, sans husbands, boyfriends and children, for six days of tropical bliss.

We’ll be celebrating 2008, the year we all turn 40.

And Tea will be celebrating something perhaps even bigger. Her engagement. I don’t know anyone who deserves crazy insane happiness more than Tea — it’s been a long time coming, and I’m over the moon for my friend.

I am officially LAST to bite the dust.

I’m still not sure I ever want to get married, but someday if I change my mind, I now know how to get a man to propose.

Tea had known James just a few days when the two were teasing each other, exchanging taunts. She threw out the Chilean equivalent of “neener neener” or “nanie nanie boo boo.”

Which is “saca pica.”

She said “saca pico.”

Take out your penis.

And that, my friend, is how one little vowel forever altered the course of history.

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Da Goils, they’re going to Hawaii.

These are Da Goils. (Letter B, that’s me.) We’ve known each other forever.

We’re a diverse crew.

One of us lit a fart in high school. (Yes, you heard right. We’re a cultured bunch.) You wouldn’t BELIEVE the size of the blue flame that shot out of her arse, burning a hole right through her hot pink long johns.

One of us currently lives in Chile, teaching English to business people. She and I are the only ones who have never been married, although I think she’s close.

 One of us peed on her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend while they were making out at a party. She was drunk and looking for the bathroom. They were lying on a beanbag chair in a dark room. Honest mistake.

One of us was valedectorian. And a closet pot smoker. And voted Most Likely to Succeed. And is now filthy stinkin’ rich.

One of us was editorial editor of the high school paper, which included her monthly column about high school life.

One of us drove a HUGE brown station wagon from the ’70s, affectionately referred to as the Coppertone Tank. It came complete with rear-looking seats in the ‘way back’ dedicated to her younger siblings.

Sometimes I do that — look at a photo and wonder, if our past selves were somehow given a picture of our future selves, would we be able to guess our paths?

Would we be able to guess who never got married? Who had three kids? Who had two or one? Or none? Who divorced and remarried? Who was the first to lose a parent? Who was the second?

Some of our lives have been predictable. Some, anything but. I take comfort in this. Because no matter the outcome, there’s nothing like old friends. At least not for me. I’m fairly certain that kind of bond is impossible to recreate after a certain age. I wouldn’t trade the memories for anything.

The photo above was taken at our 20-year class reunion in ’06 — a fateful occasion it turns out, because it was then we decided that come 2008, when we all turned 40, we were doing a girl’s trip. No husbands, no boyfriends, no kids. No excuses.

Just us.

I can’t believe we’re actually going to pull it off.

Yessiroonie, this August we’ll all be basking in the toasty Hawaiian sun. (Uh, BURNING is probably more accurate for Mommypie.)

Getting everyone to agree on a destination took some time. We decided on Hawaii after each of us summarized our criteria in a sentence or two.

For instance, one wanted to be pampered, and to NOT have to cook. Another didn’t want to be locked into a schedule. And one didn’t want to travel out of the country.

My desire was simply to lie on the beach and have beautiful shirtless boys serve me drinks. And because I’ve become attached to the notion it’s just not vacation without a floating bar, that was added to the list as well.

Which I suppose means it’s time to bite the bullet and buy a new swimsuit.

Eech.

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