2007: A Year in Summary

New Year’s resolutions, though made with the best intentions, are the equivalent of setting an expiration date on your goals. I’ve never known a dieter to make it to February without having gained 5 pounds and I’ve never known a smoker to make it to January 5 without a pack of Marlboros. It would seem their only commonality is the ill fated New Year’s resolution, an action tantamount to formally declaring “This is what I’ll fail at this year.” So while others are rushing headfirst into their unsuccessful futures, I choose to reflect on the past year and invite you to join me in recognizing the many wonders of committed mediocrity. I give you the highlights of 2007:

Most Embarrassing Moment

In the early days of my current job when I first discovered the existence of Bertha I attempted to flee the befouled 7th floor restroom in favor of the neighboring (and hopefully virgin) 8th floor lavatory. Being a sprightly young thing I headed for the previously uncharted territory of the stairwell instead of the elevator because, after all, it’s only one flight away. Upon reaching the next floor, I discovered that the door was locked. Halfway back to the 7th floor it occurred to me that perhaps all the doors in the stairwell automatically locked. Of course, since I am God’s personal jester, my door also refused to budge so I stomped down the remaining 6 flights, grumbling under my breath and came face to face with a 10 foot high red metal gate with an sign reading “Warning: Alarm will sound if opened. Use only in case of emergency”.

Sensing that my position at the company was not yet firm enough to support a total evacuation of the building, I turned away from the gate. My quiet mumbling turned to intelligible cursing as I ran back up the 6 flights trying every door along the way. By the time I reached the 7th floor, panic had fully set in. I sat down briefly in the corner to consider my options. 7 minutes had passed since I left my desk. Surely they would send a rescue party within the hour. But the need to urinate was now a pressing issue. Images of my dead carcass being discovered months later curled in a puddle of its own waste was enough to motivate my next course of action. I leapt from my corner and began flinging my body into the door, pounding with my tiny fists of fury and screaming “Help.” I did this for 8 minutes until a couple of women from the neighboring office cautiously opened the door and found me, tears welling in my eyes, voice hoarse, hyperventilating with newly disheveled hair.

The only reasonable thing to do was to smooth my dress, politely say “thank you” in as casual a manner as possible and run to the 7th floor bathroom before my bladder exploded all over the hallway.

Runners Up: 1) The time I got caught sniffing the packaging tape because it smells like salad dressing 2) the time I accidentally called 911 when trying to fax something to India

Worst Vacation Spot

In March, Beau and I booked a long weekend through lastminutetravel.com for an all-inclusive resort called Club Carrousel in Cancun, Mexico where we lasted one night and never got our money back from the website. We were informed upon arrival that we needed reservations for the only restaurant on site so we ended up eating Chex Mix and a bottle of cheap tequila on the beach. I woke up in the middle of the night covered in ants. Before transferring to a real hotel down the street we grabbed breakfast which consisted of sliced up hotdogs and coffee which looked conspicuously like the tap water in our room.

Runner Up: The Liki Tiki Village of Kissimme, FL

Best Vacation Spot

Beau’s family has a house on Cape Cod. I spent my days swimming laps around a boat and my evenings at the local yacht club where the bartenders know what I mean by a Big Girl Size Rumndietcoke.

Runner Up: The Inn Victoria of Chester, VT

Best Fight Sequence

On January 1, 2007 at about 12:05 am, Beau brandished a fingerful of ranch dressing and pretended to put it in my hair despite my advice that this was a bad idea. So I punched him. In the ear. And he still dates me! But let this be a warning that rum, ranch dressing, and my hair do NOT mix.

Runner Up: The time I tried to fight an old bar fly outside the Silhouette for getting up in the Whore’s face about taxis.

Best Pick Up Attempt

Midsummer, I was enjoying a Journey sing-a-long to an excellent cover band at The Burren when a note slid up to my spot at the bar. Without stopping to chat or buy me a drink or touch my hair in an inappropriate manner, a gentleman by the name of Scott left me his business card (complete with cell phone number) and then ran away. Before I could react, Mistress snatched the card and called young Scott to leave a lengthy voicemail informing him of the error of his ways.

Runner Up: Being told that my eyes are “dark and piercing, just like [my] personality”

Best Drunken Shenanigans

Last St. Patty’s day, fueled by an incalculable amount of rum and a long standing obsession with a particular chair on a particular neighbor’s porch, I rescued said chair and brought it back to Beau’s old apartment in South Boston. He did not like my present.

Runner Up: Mistress vomiting on Beau’s car this past Saturday

Worst Hangover

The day after St. Patty’s day, fueled by an incalculable amount of rum. 5 boots, zero rallies.

Runner Up: The day after Pleasure Island. 2 boots, one rally.

Ah 2007. We'll miss you.

Do not try to roast cocktail weiners on a fork over the stove. You will start a grease fire.

My Supreme Dissapointment In "28 Weeks Later"

I have a profound interest in all things zombie. Zombie culture, zombie repellent, zombie attack contingency plans. Unlike my dinosaur enthusiasm which stems mostly from a desire to see carnivorous reptiles eat members of my own species, my affinity for this particular genre of monster leads deep into the inner psyche of Dangerous K - the portion that truly believes that an outbreak of zombism is the most frightening thing that could happen to our planet.

As such, I took time out of my busy Christmas Eve schedule of eating things and puttering around in my new slippers to rent 28 Weeks Later, the sequel to one of my favorite zombie movies, 28 Days Later. Now, imagine my dismay when Part 2 of the 28 Units Later series failed to live up to the hopeful expectations set by the first.

***SPOILER WARNING: Do not continue reading if you have not yet seen 28 Weeks Later and still plan on it despite my urging otherwise***

The opening scene introduces us to Don (Robert Carlyle of Trainspotting fame) and Alice, a British couple who are holed up in a charming English cottage with strangers. Naturally, zombies break in about 4 minutes into the movie and corner them in an upstairs bedroom where Don abandons Alice to her fate of being eaten alive by mutants while he escapes via speed boat. So, now the audience knows that Don is the main character and that we also really dislike him. A promising beginning.

Flash forward to a burrough of London (post-outbreak of zombism) which has been secured by American military forces and cleared of such pesky problems as zombies, zombie virus, and corpses. Enter implausible plot hole #1: we're to believe that less than a year after the incident, the Americans are reintroducing humans into the environment. I find it difficult to accept this course of action for a number of reasons but mainly because America would not pass up this stellar excuse to first nuke Britain like it's always wanted, thereby eradicating the virus and also this sequel.

In the repopulation efforts, Don's children, Andy and Tammy, return from a conveniently timed school trip to Spain where they were far from harm's way and come back to Don, the sole survivor of the attack on the charming English cottage. No mention of Don's speed boat.

After a brief and dramatically restrained scene in which Don lies through his teeth to the children about being unable to save Alice, the kiddies leave the compound against the warnings of the US military. They return to their childhood home where they collect personal possessions and photos of their mother. At this point, we are meant to wax poetic about the sentimental though ill-thought actions of Andy and Tammy. Instead, this is where my intense dislike of them began. Such actions are akin to the phrase "I'll be right back" in a slasher movie and I just can't sympathize with the stupid.

In said tenement, Andy discovers his mother hiding behind a couch, moderately loony but otherwise unharmed despite bearing human bite marks. Hello, Carrier. As always, the military busts in at the exact right time to rescue the protagonists. In addition, they take in Alice for further testing as her immunity may hold the key to a vaccine or cure against zombism.

The children are understandably TOed and begin with the accusatory "You said you watched her die" comments while Don makes shallow attempts at defending himself. Minutes later, we follow him through the medical unit (where he has inexplicable access to everything with a nifty swipey ID card though he seems to serve no authoritative purpose on the compound [aka plot hole #2]) and directly into Alice's room.

This rapidly progresses into plot hole #3 in which Don apologizes for leaving his wife to be torn limb from limb by the infected and she... forgives him? Seriously? No matter how you slice this one, you cannot expect a woman to forgive for such a grievous offense. At the very least, not this quickly. I've seen females freak out over forgotten anniversaries and moldy cheese. No way in hell this chick is going to forgive a man for abandoning her TO BE EATEN ALIVE BY ZOMBIES.

Anyway, in their brief bought of make-up tongue-kissing, Alice, the carrier, passes the virus onto Don, the douche bag, via saliva and the outbreak begins anew inside the confines of the medical unit. Don starts by attacking Alice who is strapped to a hospital gurney. Now, I take no issue with a zombie attacking a helpless human but I do have a problem with the method of assault which includes (plot hole #4) punching and eye-gouging NEITHER of which facilitate in the digestion of human flesh by Don The Zombie. There is an inherent simplicity in the zombie motivation for human brains and absolutely nothing else. Yet Don The Zombie makes a half-hearted attempt at being multi-dimensional by bludgeoning his wife to death (and also later a young female military official... with the butt of her own rifle) instead of eating her internal organs.

Blah blah blah, it spreads quickly, blah blah blah, the kids get separated, blah blah blah, the kids get airlifted out by a helicopter after several scary scenes of adversity.

Thankfully, the movie ended on a high note when the foreshadowing comes full circle and Andy, a carrier like his mother, leaves the quarantined island of England for the mainland of Europe. The final shot is of zombies running around under the Eiffel Tower which would give the US a chance to make up for previous indiscretions and nuke France.

Merry Christmas and don't waste $4 on 28 Weeks Later.

Boxing Day: Bane & Fruition of My Existence

There doesn’t seem to be a rational explanation for why we’re in the office today. I haven’t done an ounce of work all morning. There’s a uselessness that descends before a long break which, for me, extends until December 26, holiest of days: Dangerous K’s birthday. The big 2-4. HA - I’m not old yet. Enjoy your active adult retirement village, Father. Actually, I’m a big fan of his town of old folks in South Carolina. I spent a few of my college vacations there and was pleased with my lack of competition in the bathing suit arena. It’s a place where self-conscious chubby girls can go to the gym and feel superior to the blonde on the next elliptical over. These things are important to me.

My birthday’s unfortunate timing has long been a sore spot. Throughout childhood, peers would distribute cupcakes or other carbohydrate laden treats to signify the arrival of their birthday. Being born the day after Christmas means school is never in session for such festivities. The horror didn’t stop after college like I’d promised myself at the tender age of 7. My friends still have the absurd notion that they should spend the holidays with their families, wherever that may be. What they don’t understand is that Boxing Day is observed only in Canada, freakish carnival that it is, so the 26th does not count as part of the official American holiday season. I welcome them to celebrate Christmas as they see fit, but it’s just selfish to include the only day of the year when the world is ordered to revolve around me.

Normally my birthday consists of opening presents from my family and then reading on a couch curled up under an afghan (the blanket, not the nationality – I don’t think I could concentrate on a book if there was a terrorist lying on top of me). This is not a reflection of my lack of social life. It’s a reflection on the quality of my friends who will not drop everything they are doing to throw me a surprise party.

For example, on my 21st birthday, banished from college to the dirty south (which my alleged friends casually referred to as an “inaccessible location”), my father and evil stepmother took me to a steakhouse called Montana’s which has since been closed for health code violations but served an excellent bison burger. Here’s the clincher: I didn’t have a single drink. I only really drink to get drunk since idly sipping margaritas adds empty calories and I’m shallow like that. The calories cease to be empty if they result in my intoxication. That’s a solid purpose in my mind.

Even worse than my absentee friends, is the type of person who takes advantage of the timing and doubles up on presents. I’ve heard the phrase “Here’s your birthday slash Christmas present” a few dozen times. Those unfortunates are no longer counted amongst my comrades. Not that I would dump a friend over something so petty! But come March when I tell them that they received their birthday present on Christmas, there seems to be a fatal disconnect and we drift our separate ways.

Though I try to pump myself up with the ol’ Second Coming of Christ shtick, I just can’t get myself worked up over my birthday. Between the noneventfulness and the occasional screwing over in the presents department, it’s just not worth the effort. Too many disappointments, too many afghans. Purportedly, Beau has planned something so this may not be a blog entry of foreshadowing prior to an anticlimactic finish. This may be the introduction to a super birthday spectacular. That now lies entirely on his shoulders. The shoulders attached to the man who has forced me to eat things from a can (like soup and in one desperate moment, peas) in his absence for the past 2 days and is again abandoning me for Christmas to see relatives in another state. No pressure though.

(In the event that Beau does feel pressured, he should know that a puppy would immediately get him out of trouble.)

Last night's thinly veiled holiday party at the office

Mind you, it was in no way a Christmas party. Boss-Lady pointed this out last week as I balanced precariously on a swivel chair to wrap lights around one of our two non-holiday-specific trees complete with non-holiday-specific red stockings dangling from their branches. This directly followed the ceremonial steaming of a non-holiday-specific Santa costume to make it smell less like beer from last year's party. And it directly preceded my sojourn into the empty corner office where I wrapped 20 children's presents in non-holiday-specific red and green paper. But hey, that office! Windows! Daylight! Come to think of it, that was probably the best part of last week despite ending the day with stiff, gnarled fingers covered in more paper cuts that the Massive Envelope Stuffing Incident of late October.

Our efforts to conceal the true purpose of the party were not in vain. My office is particularly sensitive to issues of social inclusion considering the staff is predominately white, male, and Christian and thus easily blamed for all manner of societal problems. We have our token black temp and Jewish editor (for whom we had one lame blue, tinsel-covered Star of David hung above the photocopier) but who doesn't?

At 4:15 yesterday, lured by the sweet smells of catering and the hope of booze, Bell (one of my dozen or so managers) and I wandered into the kitchen to find that Wish #419 on My Official List of Wishes had been granted: the wine had been uncorked and we were permitted to begin drinking before 5 on a workday. But, offended by the tiny plastic cups designated for alcohol consumption, Bell found her way into the kitchen cupboards and produced honest to goodness wine glasses. Mighty big wine glasses. I was determined not to repeat what happened the last time I drank at a company event (i.e. have a heart-to-heart with the VP on the patio of a local bar, fall on my way to the bathroom, and then take a $35 cab ride around Cambridge when I forget where I live). And I don't mean that in an "I'm only having 5 rumanddietcokes tonight" way. This was fo' real. So after my first gigantic glass of wine, I excused myself to the ladies' room where I did that thing where you look at yourself really hard in the mirror and try to convince yourself that you don't feel it. Then you splash water on your face because they do it in the movies but afterwards your cheeks are still flushed, just moister.

When I was a teenager, Bologna got me drunk at our cousin's wedding and told me that I would know that I was drunk when I sat down in the bathroom and began thinking very normal thoughts like "Hey, look at the graffiti" or "There are 2 rolls of toilet paper in here. That's nice." I found this to be helpful advice after my third glass of wine last night. Perched on the toilet, wiggling my toes, and thinking "My shoes are pointy" is dangerous territory when there are superiors running about.

I had switched to soda by the time Beau arrived in his dapper little black and gray getup (of which I am clearly a big fan). We continued to socialize even after Bell made a raunchy joke about hand cuffs and I blushed in front of the COO. The final degradation came when Boss-Lady told me that our non-holiday-specific Santa couldn't carry all the presents that I had lovingly wrapped for the kiddies. She then slapped a Santa hat on my head and herded me toward the corner office where You-Know-Who was sprawled on the couch, looking a little more sauced than he should have been. It was with my head held high that I marched him back to the kitchen, plopped him in a chair and then escaped to Beau, who was giggling in a corner with a plate of shrimp. Sometime after that, the Editor in Chief was overheard saying "Merry Christmas" at which point the charade collapsed around us in a frenzy of well wishing and politically inappropriate relief. We joined in the bedlam and Merry Christmased our way right out the door before the clean up started.

In completely unrelated news, Beau left today for Florida. He'll be there on business until Saturday because he works for an evil, evil corporation that doesn't care that it's the weekend before Christmas. If his company was a chick, I'd punch her right in the face. Incidentally this means I will be left to my own devices for the next two days. Stay tuned for reports of building blanket forts in my sitting room and attempting to feed myself in his absence.

Ghosts Don’t Pay Rent - Unless You Count the Price of Your Immortal Soul

Before beginning this most spectacular story, we must set the stage. The stage is my super cute lofty apartment with vaulted mile high ceilings, tons of skylights, and adorable French doors leading to the bedroom. If it was located in Boston proper, we’d never be able to afford it, which is why we live in the outskirts of Suburbia. Please enjoy the included grainy photo that appears to have been taken using a low budget security camera at a 7-11.

Last night, circa 3 am, I snuffled awake from my golden slumber and instead of rolling over, burrowing, and going back to sleep, I was distracted by the large overhead light shining through my adorable French doors. Two things appeared out of place:

1) The light. In my eyes. When I should be sleeping.
2) The absence of Beau sleeping next to me.

In my usual fashion, I assumed that there had been a massive emergency and that Beau had fled the house in his Knight in Shining Armor fashion to save the day (like the time he rescued my sister from sleeping on a bench at Logan airport). I then ran around in little circles calling “Beauuuu!” and panicking mostly because I was confused not only by the situation but also by my lack of vision. My glasses weren’t where they should have been and I’m nearly blind without them.

I ran from couch to bathroom to hallway and finally to 2nd bedroom where I found Beau curled up in a cute little ball on the bed.

Dangerous: What are you doing in here?

Beau: I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning and didn’t want to wake you up.

Dangerous: Well, thanks, but did you have to turn on all the lights to come in here?

Beau: I didn’t turn on any lights.

For a split second we looked at each other before slowly craning our necks to peer out the doorway into the blazing daylight of the sitting room. This is when I whimpered and Beau flew out the door to look in the closets for ax murderers and boogey men. Strangely enough, the doors were all secured, there were no serial killers hiding in the laundry basket, and the windows appeared intact (besides, we’re on the 3rd floor and the house is covered in ice. Ain’t nobody climbing up there).

What else could we do but turn off the light and the ominously rotating fan and go back to bed. In the same room obviously. With the bedroom door tightly shut. And the bureau in front of it.

This morning we dragged ourselves from bed and spent several minutes attempting to debunk the light/fan phenomena ala the Ghost Hunters (if you haven’t seen this SciFi show, you should immediately go watch it in a dark room by yourself and get all spooked). We concluded from our research that the fan and light are irrevocably controlled by two separate switches. There is no way to press one of these buttons to control the entire mechanism. In addition, Beau was not half asleep when he moved from one room to the other. Being the clever girl that I am, I accused him of turning on the light in a sleepy stupor. He reminded me of what he had said on the Night of the Incident which was that he was wide awake and tossing. Thus the leaving the room for another bed.

Shortly after making this discovery we sojourned to the bedroom where I selected today’s mediocre ensemble (I really have nothing to wear) and Beau made faces at the mirror. We were discussing our findings when something crashed in the bathroom. I assumed it was the cheap suction cup hook that holds my shower poof. Upon further investigation I found that it was actually a low flat container of body butter (mmm mmm Body Shop). Physics says this shouldn’t have lost its balance and fallen off my sink, but the ever rebellious Body Shop apparently defies gravity.

Or, much more likely, we have a ghost. A ghost who turns on lights, throws lotion, and steals glasses. If it were a dog, I would have rubbed its nose in the mess by now.

Why I Need a Therapist (In 500 words or less)

When I graduated from college, my father said, “Pre-med majors become doctors. Pre-law majors became lawyers. English majors become… well, you must be an English.” Spot on, Dad. Here I am, launched from the safety of school with my fancy BA in Worthless, a giggly bucketful of dreams, rainbows, and pixie-farts and not a bloody clue what to do next. I have an inkling that I am not alone.

Know what happens when you slam on the breaks of a car going 90 mph? The car spins out. It’s scary and disorienting and more often than not, induces a panic attack that persists even after the vehicle has come to rest. Same thing here. We graduate with 16 years of educational momentum at our backs and nothing to do with it. Add to that the pressing need to pursue a career path that will determine the trajectory of our Mortal Lives or, more precisely, which advanced degree to dump our minimal earnings into so as to ENTER the career path that will determine the yadda yadda yadda.

Well, gee, that’s a little depressing. Maybe we should all go read The Bell Jar a few more times and cry into our pillows until Dr. Phil pops out of the TV like that creepy chick from The Ring. Except Dr. Phil would make everything right whereas Creepy Chick from The Ring made everything so very wrong.

Or alternately, we could start by succinctly defining these rambling paragraphs of run-on sentences as:

Post-college doldrums (n): (1) The period of early-20s existential crisis in which one flounders about in a series of unfulfilling entry-level jobs whilst picking a legitimate, stimulating career path so as to become a contributing member of society and not let one’s parents down (2) Alcoholism

This may sound very petulant to some of you (if there ARE any of you reading this). I’ll be the first to admit that I have lived a much more privileged life than many but despite that, I think the post-college doldrums is a much wider epidemic than is currently recognized. Is it the most pressing issue? No. Does it affect the lives and mental wellbeing of many of my peers? I think so.

Ok. Shake it out. I won’t end a posting on an emo note and since slapstick routines don’t translate via blog, I will reveal the correct answer to the symphony puzzle. The correct answer is 5. I shit you not. This woman had a red top hat on and seemed totally nonchalant about it. Beau thought Abe Lincoln was haunting the place. I had to hold him down so he wouldn’t run away. Seriously.

A night of grown up fun. Plus burritos!

Beau and I are very into the holiday spirit. We have the tree (decorated in tasteful neutrals plus one pickle ornament which is supposedly a German tradition), and the garland on the bannister (which makes it hard for me to climb the stairs without destroying it), and we spend most evenings on the couch watching Christmas specials. On Friday, we ventured from our splendidly decorated home for the ultimate in Christmas treats: a trip to see Handel's Messiah at Boston's Symphony Hall. This also fills my requirement to have at least one night a month of good adult entertainment without drinking something rum-based and wrestling Mistress at a party in Quincy. Not that that happened the following night or anything.

After explaining at work that I was wearing a dress instead of my usual Friday jeans because I actually had real plans and not an interview elsewhere, we trotted over to the Prudential Center for some pre-performance snacks. It was less trotting and more geisha-stepping because I was wearing my fantastic 4-inch Tahari heels which are surprisingly comfortable, but for those uncoordinated types, slightly difficult to walk in. I don't care though because I spend most of the day on my butt and I like to look dashing when I get up to make my photocopies.

In all our finery we sat in the food court and ate burritos instead of a fancy dinner. I do not feel the need to justify this choice. Several have scorned my decision to pass up a chance for my boyfriend to spend money on me. To them I say, burritos are worth all the steak-house dinners in the city. I love a good burrito.

Fast forward 10 minutes later when we arrived at Symphony Hall where the ticket taker immediately confiscated Beau's coffee. We arranged ourselves in the designated lower balcony section and began the obligatory commentary on the naked statues, naked cherubs, and authentically old fashioned wooden seats. At first, the authenticity was appreciated. Who needs plush upholstered seats? We're tough like the pilgrims. We sit in wooden seats and we LIKE IT. We like it until my broken tail bone begins to pipe up about 15 minutes into the performance. Then we don't like it so much because I begin fidgeting like a 6-year-old during Sunday Mass.

Despite having about 10 years worth of training on a classical instrument and having sat through several million orchestral performances, I just plain don't have the vocabulary or pretentiousness to properly critique what I saw. So instead we will play one of my favorite games using an artist's rendering of the people seated in the balcony across from us and the phrase "Which one of these things does not belong?":




Leave your answers in the comments section below. Especially you, Face. I know you read my blog. Stay tuned for the exciting answer coming soon!

The Harrowing Story of Beau & the Night I Almost Peed Myself

For full pictographic details of my recent "vacation" to Florida, please refer to the link to my flickr account located at stage right. Generally, there are very few details worth reliving or relating to others, so instead I will tell you this much more interesting tale.

This past Monday was a lousy day in the life of Dangerous K due to a previous unforeseeable event this past Sunday in which I drank approximately all the rum on Pleasure Island. This immediately led to (possibly) the worst hangover of the year in which I was confined to my bed except for brief sessions of vomiting and spaghetti consumption. All this instead of going to Epcot on Monday as planned.

ANYWAY, we compensated by going to both Sea World and Epcot on Wednesday in a super-doubleheader which made everyone else go to bed as soon as we got back to the condo. Except for me because Family Guy was on and its like heroin.
But even the wacky antics of Peter Griffin couldn't keep me up past 11:30 when I too headed to sleep. As previously discussed, my bladder is itsy-bitsy so as a general rule, I make time to empty it before bedtime.

I flicked on the bathroom light and immediately froze in the doorway. Looking back at me from a distance of 5 feet was a gigantore 3-inch cockroach sitting on my previously clean bathmat. He looked like this (yes I took a picture):

Maybe you would like a closer close-up, yes?:

So, there we were: me, now desperately in need of a potty break and it, a 6-foot tall, slobbering Beelzebug with a semi-automatic weapon. After several minutes of intense eye contact with a creature that I've heard could outlive me in nuclear winter, it dared to wiggle a leg at me, giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and also helping me to determine that despite my righteous feminist ideals and stubborn independence, now was a time to go crying to my boyfriend because there was NO way to kill this thing with a flip flop.

I slowly backed out of the room and headed for Beau who was peacefully snoring in the next room.

Beau: SNOREEE

Dangerous: Beau? (poke, poke) Are you asleep?

Beau: Snore, gurgle.

Dangerous: Baby (poking becomes more urgent) I need you... [*Beau's interjection "Beau wakes up with the hope of late night nookie - not to kill a mutant"]

Beau: Gurgle (half rolls over)

Dangerous: Baby, there's a bug... it's in the bathroom... it's like really big.

Beau: (nodding, sitting up, silently going into bathroom)

DRAMATIC PAUSE

Beau: Holy fuck.

Dangerous: SEE! It's a very big bug!

Beau: I, uh, I think I need to get fully dressed for this.

Beau then armored up like knights of yore and went courageously into battle while I cowered in the fetal position on the bed. Eventually I emerged to find my hero coming in the front door:

Dangerous: It's gone?

Beau: It's gone.

Dangerous: I can pee now?

Beau: You can pee now.

Dangerous: Where did the bathmat go?

Beau: It's outside... there was no saving the bathmat.

You see, like a good Italian In Training, Beau made a clean hit and then rolled the body in a rug for easy disposal. He made me very proud.

It wasn't until the following morning that I discovered that Bologna and her husband, T, had similar experiences. We spent the remaining days very drunk and with all the lights on.

And now, I seek the ultimate retribution by publicly denouncing ON THE INTERWEB that the

Liki Tiki has cockroaches of unusual size and if your family offers you a free condo there, you should say "Good day!" and then hang up the phone or slam the door in their face, whichever is most convenient to your particular situation.

Bathroom Etiquette 101: What Not To Do

That game you play at work? The one where you sit alone in your cubicle drinking bottle after bottle of water so that eventually you'll have an excuse to hide in the bathroom for 5 gloriously free minutes? Yeah, you're not alone. Everyone does that.

This safe haven shouldn't be abused though and in my office building it certainly is. Not by my coworkers, but by the freaks at the company across the hall (heretofore known simply as "the Freaks"). In particular, by 2 individuals whose restroom behavior continues to fascinate and horrify me, much like a Discovery channel documentary of a lion eating a gazelle. Regardless of the entrails dripping from Mufasa's mouth and my own humanity puddling on the floor at my feet, I continue to watch. I continue to watch with my mouth slightly ajar and my head cocked to one side. This is similar to my expression whilst guarding the restroom.

First, there's Bertha. Bertha is a girthy woman with a distinct odor (as her carefully chosen pseudonym might suggest). By "girthy" I mean she's the type of person who makes me put the extra cookie back in the jar and immediately start doing abdominal exercises at my desk. By "distinct odor" I mean one of my coworkers once reported to management that something must have died in the ventilation system.

Besides her moderately unsavory appearance, she spends a great deal of time violating our restroom... physically as well as vocally. Very vocally. And sometimes while eating chips.

Then there's Freak #2 who I once called security on. Freak #2 likes to stand in the bathroom stall thusly:



Mind you, in this illustration, I was there first. I came into an empty bathroom. She came in and of the 4 available stalls (all to my right) picked THAT one thereby completely eliminating the concept of the BUFFER stall and launching an aggressive assault on my personal space. When such an event occurs, I am left with no choice but the inevitable Stage Fright. I cannot urinate whilst preparing for a physical attack on my being. Furthermore, having identified herself as a freak, she cannot no longer be trusted to fall into the category of safe assumptions. Included in this category, the safe assumption that people don't just go into the restroom to listen to you pee. Awesome. Now I (maybe) have an audience who's (maybe) staring at the wall to her left instead of looking politely ahead. I could (maybe) feel her eyes boring through the thin wall as she attempted to see me with her xray vision. All bets are off and I just had a Venti iced coffee. Queue tilted walnut bladder's uncontrollable whimpering.

Wait. Stop. I'm getting way ahead of myself. You've gotten me all worked up. This event happened several weeks after my original encounter in which I called security. In said original encounter I went into the bathroom to find what appeared to be a person standing so close to the stall door that a pair of actively wiggling shoes were sticking out into the surrounding room. And the shoes were large and masculine. So, I pulled Trick #460 from the Ol' Rule Book and faux-blew my nose before running away... running away and calling security:

Dangerous: Hello?? Security??

Security Girl: Hi.

Dangerous: Security Girl, it's Dangerous from upstairs.

Security Girl: Oh hey, what's up? Time to go home yet? Haha.

Dangerous: SECURITY GIRL! Do not joke about home. There is a MAN in my bathroom. You must come immediately to arrest him.

Security Girl: Seriously?

Dangerous: I'm very sure of it.

Security Girl: I'm so there.

Until Security Girl made her way up the elevator, I jumped into my Concerned Citizen gear and ran to the hallway where I concealed myself in the trash area to watch the only entrance to the Ladies' Room for the serial killer to make his exit at which time I would pepper spray him and finally get on the 5:00 News.

Much to my dismay, the only occupant emerged: a squirrely woman I recognized from the office across the way. And oh boy was she surprised to see me hiding behind a recycling bin. I went back to my desk with my head hanging low to wait for Security Girl to laugh at me... again.

So while you enjoy the serenity of a quiet, deserted bathroom for extended stays of near 20 minutes, I am forced to reduce my visits to unclockable speeds lest another encounter with the Freak side ensue. I am bereft of refuge in this sea of cubicles. I am chained to my desk, unable even to urinate my way into safety. If anyone needs me, I will be in the trash area, sitting in the corner and eating wet cigarette butts.

The inside of my face smells like feet and I haven't peed in hours

I blame this all on Grasshoppah, the evil temptress of pubs who lured me away from an innocent ed2010 event where I would have behaved and had a maximum of 2 glasses of wine. Instead we had wonderfully greasy turkey reubens (and I do truly mean that as a positive statement) around the corner at the Cask & Flagon. After finishing dinner we relocated to bar stools where I could rest my tired eyes from the 17 TV screens behind Grasshoppah's head which were very distracting and also starting to give me seizures.

Sometime between discovering that all the bartenders were UMass-Amherst grads and drowning my impending feeling of doom in 2 gigantore bottles of Magners (I don't care what you say - Magners is practically beer), the Whore showed up. Then Grasshoppah told us about Superman coming into her eye glass shop and screaming because of an old back injury that acts up sometimes... the punchline of which I did not get until just now. Shame on you, Impostor Superman, for imitating poor Christopher Reeves and shrieking in Grasshoppah's eye glass shop. Shame.

We then abruptly finished our drinks and left the bar. I don't understand why drunks feel the need to change locations. I don't understand pub crawls. I don't understand why anyone would give up a warm bar stool for going out of doors and into a freezing cold night which is indicative of the IMMINENT FROZEN HELL THAT IS WINTER IN MASSACHUSETTS. Bar stools are often hard to come by, so I find there are few excusable reasons to abandon one. I will enumerate said reasons now because I like to make lists:

1. You need to pee. I have a tilted walnut bladder so this excuse is valid for most any occasion that I can think of.
2. What you thought was a nice sports bar is suddenly overrun by girls with beat faces who are compensating by wearing indecently short skirts. No bar stool is worth feeling the gyrations of the coupling masses closing in on your personal space.
3. You're being escorted from the premises. Though personally, I've only been bounced from a few errant toy stores, my good friend Notorious was ejected from the Purple Turtle, Oxford's seediest night club and incidentally where we spend the majority of our time and funds while abroad. In England, it is considered inappropriate to projectile vomit on a bouncer. This is called the "language barrier".
4. You're falling off of your seat. At this time it is best to call a cab.

For no other reason should one abandon a perfectly good bar stool yet against my better judgement, I allowed Whore to direct us to a new pub which was ALLEGEDLY 7 minutes away. An hour later, we were still crossing highways in our exodus from Fenway to somewhere that resembled Beacon Hill. The Whore will deny that this walk took longer than 7 minutes (or at best, concede that it took longer than projected because Grasshoppah and I move like slugs) but that is because he had pants on. Yes. Pants, the absence of which create a sort of space time continuum where mere moments out in the cold feel like an eternity.

Gentle reader, last night I had no pants. Instead I had a cheaply made shift dress from a company that will remain nameless but had BETTER get their act together before I go to the mall and throw a hissy fit at the cash register. I know this dress was cheaply made because circa 8 pm on a trip to the ladies' room (see Reason #1) I discovered that the zipper had suffered a fatal malfunction, leaving my side exposed and my underthings visible. Despite my efforts to cover up, the wind cut through and it cut deep. I was cold.

This was all forgiven once I entered the Little Irish Pub That Could and immediately fell in love with their dart boards, drunks in camo pants, and $5 rumndietcokes. This is the place where I found myself in the wee hours of the night as Grasshoppah played crappy jazz music which made the pub people angered but not angered enough to exclude us from their dart game. It was the point where I met an aging intoxicated barfly who ALSO graduated from UMass-Amherst that I decided to go home. Or maybe it was because Grasshoppah couldn't stand up anymore and when she gets like that we don't like her around sharp objects. Or maybe I was tired? It's a gray area.

Regardless, I beat my previous record of a $20 cab ride from the city to the burbs by $5 which was exciting since that meant I could afford lunch today. Beau was asleep and very confused when I got in the shower at 2 am. But I had to. I anticipated what I would smell like this morning and could not allow myself to marinate in it all night. It didn't really matter though because I woke up "smelling like a distillery" as my charming boyfriend puts it. I'm glad I smell like rum though instead of whatever that smell is inside my head. Because in here it smells kind of like my little red shoes that I accidentally stepped in a puddle with and never dried properly.

Dieting = Concussion

I'm back on solid foods but am being punished for making fun of mine and Beau's collective chins, of which there are several more than should be allotted for 2 individuals. He shamed me last night by going for a run in the cold, dark night while I watched "Family Guy" and ate leftover Chinese food. To make amends, I exchanged my normal post-lunch snack of Something-From-The-Vending-Machine-But-Specifically-A3-Which-Is-Doritos for an apple... with a reasonable amount of cheese. GIVE ME A BREAK. Anyway, I was very proud of myself until about 5 minutes ago when a small enclave of gnats figured out there's a fruit core in my garbage can. Now I will spend the rest of the day engaged in battle which is unfortunate. The last time this happened, my boss walked over at the exact moment I was scaling a filing cabinet in a pencil skirt in order to whack a fly with a newspaper. At least the trash is on the floor so I have a shorter distance to fall this time.

In which I eat some Percocet and start a blog

I'm bad at introductions so I thought I'd skip that and launch straight into why they actually GAVE me pain medicine. Almost for free!

About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.

I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.

True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.

On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.

That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.

Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:

- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.

Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.

As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.

Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?

I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.

Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!