don't you tell me when to breathe

I have an uncanny ability to wreck, ruin, or otherwise fail at civilized, adult activities.  Exhibit A: on our honeymoon, Beau and I had a jacuzzi in our suite and the one time we tried to use it, I poured too many bubbles in, so we spent the rest of the evening fighting them back with the little spray nozzle and attempting not to get soap in our eyes.  With that in mind, it will not come as a surprise that when my friends booked a trip to the spa for a recent weekend getaway, everyone wondered how I would fall on my face this time.  I was determined not to prove them right.  

My first visit to a sauna was lovely.  I managed to wrap my sheet into a fashionable strapless dress and arrange myself delicately on a bench so that I looked purposely relaxed when the boys arrived.  I drank lots of iced lemon water and attempted to lead conversation to philosophical subjects because we looked like a bunch of Greek dudes in togas.  No one was having it, but then again, my beaver didn't fall out so all in all, I considered the sauna a success.

Next up was the mineral bath, which I was warned in advance looked like a tepid cup of tea, so I knew not to freak out that my tub appeared to be filled with sewage water.  When my bath attendant left my little room, I put a tentative toe in.  This was not tepid.  This was boiling.  But I felt bad making a fuss so I just eased myself in and sat there.  Even under the best conditions, I am not a bath person (see Exhibit A: honeymoon jacuzzi). I get bored in a tub even if I have a book.  At the spa, I didn't even have a rubber ducky.  Just the melodious sounds of Native American Pan Pipe Music Volume III.  I looked around. I judged the corporate art hanging on the wall and the aging tiles.  I made little hand fountains.  I splashed.  I sipped one of my two remaining cups of lemon water.  I wrote haikus like:

Start with hot water

Now add minerals and me

You made Karen broth

And:

I'm good at the spa

Toxins out, good stuff goes in

Do I pee in here?

Eventually, the volcanic water got to me and I dumped my last cup of icy lemon water over my head.  About 25 minutes later, my bath attendant reappeared to tell me to get dried off for my massage.  Ahhh.  That's nice.  The sauna was alright, though, frankly, it felt like Florida in August.  The mineral bath was... ok.  But the massage.  Massages I totally get.  Before it began, I even got cucumbers on my face.

Cucumber in eyes

Literally, in my eyes

Wonder if they're peeled  

Thankfully, I managed to wipe the cucumber goo off of my contacts and my retinas stopped burning shortly thereafter.  My masseuse introduced herself and began prodding my limbs and asking relevant questions, “Any chronic pain?  Where do you carry your stress?”  She seemed disappointed that I'm a merry little dog walker and was just there for fun and not for medical treatment.  Finally, I fessed up to having had lower back problems once upon a time, just to shut her up.

“Well, we could just do a normal everyday massage or we can work on your pressure points which will provide more lasting comfort and relief.”    

To which I responded something like, “Umm, sure, let’s do that.”  It’s difficult to be contrary when you are naked and have your face planted in what appears to be a hemorrhoid donut.

She counseled me on correct breathing technique, which sounded a lot like yoga.  I have never been good with authority figures.  Now that I’m technically an adult, that means I mostly just rage at traffic lights and occasionally, yogis who tried to direct my breathing from the safety of their DVD palace.  Regardless, I made every effort to breathe deeply as she suggested while she dug her bony little fingers underneath my musculature.

“This will hurt a lot less if you breathe properly.”

“Oh, don’t worry.  I’m not in pain,” is apparently the wrong thing to say to a masseuse.  I realize now it may come across as insulting to someone who is purposely jabbing at your pressure points.  Mea culpa.  But honestly lady, did you see the tats all over my back?  I’m alright with pain.  

Breathe correctly and this won't hurt at all

She snorted and made more of an effort to go all kali ma on my backend.  I continued to wait for the sharp poking to become a massage but that never really happened.  Finally, she stopped and informed me that our time was up.  “You did great.  Well, actually, you breathed completely wrong so you may have some pain in the next few days.  It might feel like a light sunburn.  Just take some Advil.”  And they she whisked out the door, never to be seen again.

I shook off my deep disillusionment with atypical aplomb and carried on with life.  There was still an adorable little town to explore for the rest of the day and a store full of flavored olive oils to visit.  There’s nothing quite like crusty bread soaked in fat to cheer a girl up.  But by the time we left the shop, my stomach was rumbling in a peculiar way.  I chugged some water in the car, thinking that the sauna must have dehydrated me more than I originally thought.

As we neared the location of our dinner reservations, I’d fallen into a quiet stupor, one identified by my husband as Defcon 5 - the state into which I retreat when many pleas for food have not been appropriately met.  I sat at the table shooting dirty, dirty looks at the waiter who was chatting with the bartender instead of filling my water glass.  When the bread basket arrived, I was too overcome with nausea to eat a whole roll.  I began thinking something was more wrong than dehydration so I excused myself to the ladies room, which was three floors and two wedding parties away from our table.  No, I did not vomit on a bride.

I returned none the better and sat down silently to contemplate the menu and attempt not to further destroy a nice meal for my companions.  As they warily chattered around me, I focused on the offerings.  Nothing sounded appetizing to my flipping stomach but when I reached meatballs on the list, I began hearing Gollum in my head whispering “meatballssss.”  This was clearly the food for me.          

Pale, light-headed and shaking, I managed to eat a highly restorative meatball.  My friends looked on with approval as I shoveled down half the plate before the full weight of my relief caused me to lean my head in my hands.

“You going to boot?” Beau quietly asked.

“No.  No, I’m fine now.  I was just so scared.”

“Yeah, I thought you were sick, too.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“...”

“I just... I peed in the mineral bath and for the past thirty minutes I’ve been worried that the heat from the sauna had opened my pores up and urine had soaked directly into my skin and I had poisoned myself.”

“There it is.”

The Phantom Menace

I’ve been working here for just over a month now. By my count, this is my 30th business day at Save De Puppehs Inc. Let’s say each day I visit the rest room approximately four times. I realize that is a conservative estimate considering that I daily drink between 72 and 90 oz of water. Each visit lasts an average of four minutes including seating, pep talking, action, flushing, hand washing, hair primping and checking my teeth for bits of food. So, by the end of today, I will have spent a grand total so far of 480 minutes, eight working hours or one business day in the ladies room, a world of unwritten rules and never-ending scandal.

Every restroom has its share of villainous characters. In the past, you’ve heard about Bertha, Amy Winehouses’ doppelganger and Happy Friday. Now I’d like to introduce you to my new arch nemesis, The Phantom Menace, whose crime is possibly the worst one possible in a girls’ room: she has left many a stall looking like a murder scene. Even I won’t describe the gory details of the things I’ve seen lately. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t clean up after herself.

I’ve always wondered what goes through the minds of these exhibitionists. Why leave it all there for the world to see? If you’re so proud of it, take a goddamn picture and hang it up on your refrigerator at home. We (the collective WE of the rest of the building) are not so interested.

The collective WE made this known by complaining to every office and building manager who would listen until they 1) sent an awkward email around about cleanliness 2) taped the email up around the bathroom and 3) when the notices were ripped down and EVERY SINGLE one of our four stalls was systematically violated in retaliation, posted the message in protective Plexiglas sign holders on the inside of every stall door at eye level.

It wasn’t until I was scanning the memo for the n-millionth time this morning that I locked on a certain phrase: “Management has been receiving numerous complaints for several weeks now.” Several weeks. Not “countless” and not “a few.” Several. I’ve been working here several weeks. OH GOD! DOES EVERYONE THINK IT’S ME!?!

Now, I know it’s not me perpetrating these acts of egregious toilet violence, but in my egocentric, hypochondriac mind, I now assume that others have made the same connection in time period with a different conclusion. This is currently my worst fear in life next to zombies, sharks and serial killers all of whom might be hiding under my bed at any given moment.

To make matters worse, I only feel guilty about something when I HAVEN’T done anything wrong. I can look a man in the eye and tell the most shameful lies on the planet without a flicker of the truth passing across my face. But if I’m telling the truth, I will look like the guiltiest suspect in the lineup. I felt personally at fault for the oil spill in the Gulf. The same thing happens when I take a sick day at work. If I’m really under the weather, I spend all day feeling like I’m not ill enough to stay home and thinking I’m a bad person for not going to the office. If I’m playing hooky, I don’t give it a second thought. Yes, this is all ludicrous. Does not change the fact that I look and feel responsible when I’m not to blame.

So, how do I unsully my good name and keep the others from potentially pointing the finger at me? I could just stand on my desk and loudly proclaim it’s not me or I could send a mass email to the same effect. Either way, people might want to pursue the topic in conversation and I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from looking guilty so that option’s out. I could offer to have a security guard follow me to the girls’ room and check my stall after I’ve completed my business. But I get such bad stage fright that I would sooner wait till the end of the day to use the lavatory. Maybe I could just stop drinking water during the day!

The possibilities are limitless. I’ve brainstormed around 50 and stopped myself before the spiral of irrational thought got out of control. But I won’t be the victim here. For once though, I intend on staying in a job for more than 15 minutes. Time is on my side for a change. I’ll be right here, Ms. Menace. I’ll be watching out the crack in my stall and running out after you if I don’t hear a flush when you leave. Your secret is no longer safe. I will find you. You’ve irked the wrong neurotic observer of strict bathroom etiquette.

When You Assume...

Everyone at my new job is super friendly, even the people from the other company on our floor. I’m getting used to smiling at people in the hallway instead of turning my body sideways to avoid coming in contact with the air they’ve been breathing. The next time I visit my Dad in South Carolina, I’m SO not going to freak out when a stranger greets me in the street.

So, I was pretty surprised when I said good morning to an unfamiliar face coming out of our shared kitchen and she just gave me one of those contemptuous why-are-you-talking-to-me smiles. I brought it up to my coworkers at lunch later that day and they laughed and told me there’s a deaf girl in the next office over and said it was probably her.

(The following isn’t really relevant to the story as I’m just using this scenario to introduce how I came to find out about the deaf girl but I have to share it anyway. The lunch conversation continued and my description of the unfriendly stranger with a short black bob didn’t match the description of the purported deaf girl with long light brown hair usually worn in a high ponytail. I saw the bobbed girl later. She’s an intern in my office WHO CAN HEAR PERFECTLY FINE. BITCH.)

Regardless, I bumped into the REAL deaf girl coming out of the ladies’ room last week. This time I knew it was actually her because when she opened the door and almost hit me in the face, she said sorry but kind of in that Helen Keller voice like “sah-reh.” After thinking that, I immediately ran into a stall to berate myself for my insensitivity and make up for it by mentally complimenting how cute her dress was. It really was. I’m not just making that up. Then I started wondering if dressing particularly cute was some sort of visual overcompensation and I had to change the topic in my head because I don’t even MEAN to think these things. They just happen whether I want them to or not and I frequently feel bad about them.

A few days ago, she was in front of me walking into the bathroom in yet another adorable dress – a pink one with big Hawaiian flowers. We seated ourselves and she immediately ripped ass. Instead of panicking and leaving the room like I usually would, I realized that despite our rocky start, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. For once, I could (and DID) take a wiz without the stage fright of someone listening in and judging the quantity of my wiz or audible speed of release. I even contributed a little gas of my own and there we were, tooting along in our own little bathroom jamboree while I imagined a movie montage of us laughing while drinking coffee on a park bench and window shopping for really cute dresses on our lunch break. Amidst my reverie, she left the bathroom and I was sadly left to wash my hands alone.

I walked back down the hallway to my office still lost in my own personal thoughts when who should appear out of the kitchen with a cup of water but my new office BFF! She smiled in return to my greeting and we parted ways. It wasn’t until I was back at my cube before I realized that when she was leaving the kitchen, she was wearing a blue toile dress. Not a pink one. I’d mistaken someone else’s ponytail for her signature look and got so caught up thinking about her wardrobe that I didn't even look at her face.

And this is why I have such a hard time making new friends.

A New Meaning to Free-Range

Alright, yes, it has been three weeks since my last post and nearly two months since my wedding and I have been side stepping complaints from a certain luncheon meat who will remain unnamed but guys. I got my dream job. A few weeks ago I started working for an animal welfare nonprofit and it rocks. It also kind of makes me feel like I’ve never worked a legitimate day in my entire life because the work is demanding and brain-energy consuming and interesting for once. I’m doing a lot of real writing which is completely different from blogging because instead of recounting the slapstick routine that is my daily existence, I’m tearing out hearts with sob stories about abused puppehs. I mist at my desk all the time. I shit you not.

So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.

Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.

I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.

Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.

As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.

Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.

As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”

Well. Fuck.

That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.

I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.

After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.

Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.

Collect The Moments One By One

Before I can talk about the wedding, I have to properly cover the days leading up to the wedding when we sat back and watched all of our loved ones converge on Cape Cod. It’s surreal seeing different parts of your life collide like that. My best friend from the 2nd grade made friends with my gay BFF. My sister played beer pong with my drinking buddies. My Dad hit on Beau’s pretty cousin. Again.

Brideslave Grasshoppah & sanitary beer pong

The weekend started with a speed bump when our friends gathered on the lawn of their rental house and the landlord didn’t show up to let us in. We busted out the party supplies (namely vodka, leis and a deck of cards) and partied on the front lawn.

Why not? We rented the lawn too.

Though our friends seemed content playing Asshole in the yard, poor Beau was getting distraught and leaving irritated voicemails for the delinquent landlord. I was rapidly approaching the optimum number of red cups for Supreme Levels of Confidence so though we’d made multiple attempts at breaking into the house, I gave it another go. Somehow, the vodka mixed with the Jersey in me and I busted in.

"What if you boost me up to the balcony?" / "Nobody is boosting you anywhere"

After settling in, we all trooped back to the Beau homestead where Mama and Papa Beau hosted a fantastic barbeque, fed us meat and mac’n’cheese, and poured more alcohol down our throats. We returned to the frat house to play drinking games and listen to Sandstorm on loop. At some point, we tried to take a cute picture out front and succeeded only in breaking the fence.

Should have shown up to let us in. Now your fence is busted.

Somewhere around midnight, Beau and I started the mile trek home on foot. We held hands to keep from stumbling into bushes of hydrangeas and to protect ourselves from potential skunks. About a block from his house on a quiet side street, a cop car drove towards us. It did a U-turn at the end of the street, slowly passed us again, and then halted at the stop sign at the end of the block.

“Are we getting pulled over on foot?” Beau hiccupped. I nodded. We were quiet and attempted to be less stumbly as we neared the cruiser. When we were 10 feet away, the trooper opened the door and pointed a flashlight in our eyes. He ascertained that yes, we were coming back from a friend’s house and probably noticed that we were half in the wrapper. Beau waved off his offer of a ride since we were so close to his house. I spent the remainder of the walk scowling at his for passing up the opportunity to arrive home in a cop car. Also, I was in flip flops and didn’t feel like walking anymore.

That was the last unmarried night we spent in the same bedroom.

Fur is Murder

This morning I went to the dentist, got two fillings done and it was entirely uneventful (except that I drooled a little bit on my dress and was too lazy to change when I swung by the house to pick up my lunch before driving to work so am currently trying to sit in such a way that I hide the slobber spot) but it DID remind me that the Saturday before my wedding, I did something even more painful: I got waxed. For the first time. In places other than my eyebrows. And I have opinions.

Before you go thinking this even MORE of an over share than usual, I didn’t get the whole shebang done. Despite the encouragement of most of my female friends, I resisted popular opinion and opted for my thighs and bikini line instead of getting a landing strip in the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It began harmlessly enough with my eyebrows. I chatted with my waxer, Alice, about the wedding. She was cute, not overly-perky, and had a big fake hibiscus behind her right ear. What a coincidence? I also like big fake flowers. We bonded over being chubby and avoiding buying pants until our old ones have holes and how I would likely reward myself with ice cream after my waxing appointment. Alice and I were thick as thieves. Until she stole my pubic hair.

I dropped trou, preparing myself for what I understood would not be a pleasant experience. The first rip wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I thought to myself “I can handle this. I’ve been through worse.” Over the next hour, that would prove to be a terrible, terrible lie. I can honestly say that it was worse than all three of my tattoos combined at the same time. PLUS, unlike the tattoo parlor, there wasn’t a TV playing Labyrinth in the background. Instead, she dimmed the lights and we listened to Sounds of the Ocean: Volume IV on loop. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing but I couldn’t wrap my head around the dichotomy. It would be like playing Enya on the set of Saw. Waves calmly lapping against the shore and getting the hair ripped out of your crotch just don’t go together. It took me DAYS on the honeymoon to stop cringing when we walked on the beach.

What else could I do but attempt to control the volume of my voice during our idle banter and not yell “I WILL KILL YOU” when she asked about my wedding dress. I kept my furiously perspiring hands tightly clasped on my stomach to keep myself from giving in to instinct and begin hitting the person causing me so much pain. In addition to controlling myself, the wet spot under my profusely sweating palms was growing and I stressed about hiding it from this woman with a terrible fake tan who had already seen my ugliest pair of underwear and parts of my lady bits. But the anxiety gave me something to think about other than holding her down and pulling out her fingernails so I accepted it.

To keep myself distracted I made a mental list of those responsible for my situation: I cursed my own propensity for fuzziness. I cursed my genetic information for giving me the fuzzy phenotype. I cursed my parents for those genes. I cursed Italy for my fuzzy heritage. I cursed all of the Mediterranean just to be on the safe side. I cursed my bathing suits and I cursed Old Navy for not having any board shorts in my size that week. I cursed the fashion industry for insisting that females be bald everywhere but their heads. I cursed every dollar I’d spent in support of that industry and I cursed every goddamn Vogue I’d ever read. Then I squinted and I cursed Alice in my mind so vehemently that she caught my eye and started looking scared. So, I stopped playing that game.

But. It. Kept. Going. I ran out of clever little things to think about and my jaw started hurting from grinding my teeth. The sweat spot was out of control. I’d already memorized every detail of the neon painting of a Caribbean beach landscape on the wall and had already drafted a mean letter to the artist in my head belittling his talent. I searched the walls for something else to focus on. Mere feet from the painting was Alice’s waxer certificate. From mid-April. You know when the camera rushes in on a focal point really quickly in a movie and you can tell the main character must be shitting his pants? That’s sort of what it was like. Just then Alice asked “Did you want to do the back of your legs too?” and I responded a little too quickly with an unnaturally high voice “NOTHANKS.ITHINKI’MALLSET.”

In a thinly veiled attempt to restore my karma after an hour of homicidal thoughts, I tipped well despite the fact that I was walking like I’d been riding a horse all day, had wax stuck to my pants, and, as I later found out, still had plenty of patches that she’d missed, making me resemble not a blushing bride but a mangy dog.

So, yeah, I have opinions. Here's one: cavities are more fun than waxing appointments.

Hitched

Stay tuned for TONS of photos and stories (oh the stories!) of the wedding and honeymoon coming up in the next few weeks. I’m trying to hold out for the DVD from our wedding photographer before I get rolling. Till then, here’s a sneak peak from the fabulously charming and talented Kate Haus of Alpine Moon Photography.