I’m chatting with a guy at the bar. He is wearing a very nice pink checkered shirt. I have a blanket and a robe with the same exact pattern. I tell him.
“I love your shirt.”
“You can borrow it if you take me out for a drink.”
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| Pink underwear or commando? |
So about my bike…
Did you think you had heard the last of it? NO WAY. My bar manager says every blog post about my bike should end with: “To be continued…”
Back to my bike. I took it for a ride this weekend and the men couldn’t stop checking it out. “Nice streamers, nice basket, oh look at that flower.”
Yes we may have been near Provincetown.
To be continued…
For anyone who was worried, I paid Massachusetts. We can be friends again.
My boyfriend and I head over to my bar manager’s home for dinner. The conversation quickly dissolves. My bar manager declares,
“Did you know that people get the same good feeling from petting a dog that women do from breastfeeding?”
Sounds possible but there’s only one person in the room who would really know and it’s not my bar manager, my boyfriend or me. Although we’ve all petted a dog.
My bar manager continues,
“Dogs also have a real bone in their penises.”
“No way.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I go home and consult Google. There is a penis bone. Many mammals have one. Not humans. There is also a female equivalent: the clitoris bone.
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| A raccoon penis bone necklace. If only there were matching clitoris bone earrings. |
I head to the bike shop to pick up my bike. They helped me install a new white basket. Yes I already had a basket, but it was pink and I needed a white one too.
I browse the water bottle holders. I tell the guy,
“I’d like to get one of these installed too.”
“Well lets see.” He examines my bike and tells me,
“None of these are going to work.”
I stare at him blankly. I’m at a bike shop with my bike talking to a bike guy who fixes bikes. I see no reason I should not be a getting a water bottle holder screwed on. He continues,
“With a bike like this they assume you’re not going far enough to get thirsty.”
EXCUSE ME! I will be going far enough to get thirsty. Never mind that I get thirsty within a few blocks.
The guy notices my consternation and says,
“There are cup holders that you could attach to your handlebars right here.”
“But that’s where my handlebar flowers go.”
“Well then it should be easy to water them.”
Bad news bears. The state of Massachusetts has decided that I owe them money from 2009. I can’t even remember whether I was in South America, Africa or Worcester. Massachusetts says Worcester.
And if I do owe them money, why is this the first time I’m hearing about it? They told me that if I don’t pay this bill from four years ago in less than a month there will be more late fees. I do not deserve a four-year late fee because they’re behind on their paperwork.
Two older, well-dressed men are at the bar. One complains to me,
We went bowling last night and my bowling leaves something to be desired. It’s not awful. Growing up on skee-ball at the Dream Machine in the Greendale mall was good for some hand-eye-ball coordination. Worcester people am I right?
I almost broke 100 points one game. We had to create bowling names. I used my rapper name. Yeah I have a rapper name which doubles as my bowling name which should probably be my new email address: “J Money.”
And as I do before any activity, I have carefully planned my wardrobe. Before we leave my boyfriend (Luck B Strikes) asks me,
“Do you have socks?”
“Oh I have socks. They’ve got ruffles.”
“Really?”
I pull them out. Each sock has two layers of ruffles. He asks,
“Are those bowling socks?”
“They’re everything socks.”
After three games, J Money pulls in at a close second. I tell Luck B Strikes,
“That was fun.” He replies,
“I really liked your socks.”
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| Money |
I show up for my boyfriend’s birthday in a tiny tight red cocktail dress and high heels. I’m dragging a suitcase behind me. We stand on the sidewalk as a truck pulls up with a trailer marked: “exotic car rentals.”
People from my boyfriend’s building are giving me the once over. They’re looking at him, looking at the trailer and back at me. The Porsche convertible vrooms to a start. Yes it vrooms. This is a sexy car. My boyfriend gestures at me and the car and declares,
“It looks like I pulled out my credit card and bought the whole weekend.”
That is the nicest way anyone has ever called me a high-end hooker.
It’s my boyfriend’s birthday today! For his birthday I’m going to get my hair and nails done. What a lucky guy.
I tell a manly middle-aged regular about our plans,
“I rented a convertible!”
“Fun. You’re going to need to do something with you hair. Do you have a scarf?”
“I have hair elastics.”
This is the last guy I expected to get hair advice from. He continues,
“If you don’t do something with your hair it’s going to be ruined.”
“Ok.”
“I know because I rented a convertible for prom and my date didn’t talk to me again.”
I am sore in so many places. And it’s hard to say from what. In 48 hours I did a summer’s worth of activities.
I played tennis, went swimming, went on a boat, went water skiing, went in a helicopter, went kayaking, went swimming again and went horseback riding.
That’s not even taking into account indoor activities.
I head to the paper store to pick out a new journal. I find a good one. The cashier tells me,
“If you like this one we sell it online and you can get it personalized.”
“Nice.”
“And with the holidays right around the corner it makes a great gift.”
I serve a guy a beer. He looks at me confused. He asks,
“Are you the bartender?”
“Yes.”
“But you weren’t the bartender who was here last night.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So there are different bartenders.”
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I took my bike to the bike shop today so they could help me put on my new basket. I know I have a boyfriend for that, but he also has a job.
I spent the weekend at my boyfriend’s parent’s home. They liked the store-bought fudge. Blueberry pie attempt #2 will commence this week.
Baking today was a learning experience. I will be buying fudge on my way to work.
 |
| Too late. |
I was chatting with a bar guest about the chocolate cream pie I baked. It was delicious. He asks,
“How’d the pie turn out?”
“Great!”
“Do you like to cook?”
“Eh.”
“No?”
“I like to cook for my boyfriend.”
“But you know your way around the kitchen.”
“Of course.” The stove, fridge and sink don’t move much.
“It’s a shame women these days don’t know how to cook anymore. I’m not asking for much. I just don’t want to have to go out to eat every night.”
Well let me give you a map of the kitchen.
Back during the heat wave, I wore my hair in a bun to work. It was too hot to have a single hair touching my body.
The same regular who remarked on my hair before says,
“Do you know who you look like with your hair like that?”
“No.”
“You look like so-and-so. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“She has a mustache.”
“I look like a lady with a mustache?”
“A better looking version. It’s a compliment.”
I am the very proud owner of a very pink bike.
For the past week I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with a bike guy detailing all the accessories I want,
“Do you have handlebar flowers?”
“No I wish, but I have all sorts of bells and baskets.”
Does he really wish? All week I have a funny picture in my head of a burly bike guy who wishes he had handlebar flowers for me.
My boyfriend and I show up at the shop. I’m not far off in my estimations. The burly bike guy is an ex-marine. He offers me a selection of streamers. He tells me that whatever accessories I want he can order. He picks out some pink-flower nozzles for my tires. This guy has good taste.
My boyfriend has a pickup truck and I imagine we’ll just toss the bike in the back. I haven’t given it too much thought. We stop at Home Depot on the way to buy some tie-down straps. He tells me,
“We’re gonna stand your bike up in the back like a motorcycle.”
Wow. This just got serious.
Three hours of traffic and several bathroom stops (for me) later, we drive away with a very pink bike in the back of a very manly truck. I clutch my pink bike basket and thank my boyfriend over and over again. He tells me,
“It’s nothing. I’m just happy to haul something with my truck.”
He notices me clinging to my bike basket and tells me,
“Now you’ll understand when I’m hugging my truck tires.”
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| Very important cargo |
Who am I? I’m not sure anymore. I’m baking. Not only am I baking, but I’m baking in an attic. It’s 98 degrees outside, real feel 101, so maybe add 20 degrees and that’s my kitchen.
As soon as I turn on the oven my roommate runs out of the apartment. A lot of love and sweat is going into this pie. Mainly sweat.
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| Heaven. |
Good Times with Jess 