Museum of Bars with Magical Powers

Bologna briefly visited me over this weekend. I say briefly because she left my home approximately 36 hours after arriving. Since I was asleep for about 13 of those hours and drunk for another 9 of them, that left only 14 hours of actual visiting time. In all fairness, she was in town on business and squeezed in a side trip. Despite time constraints, good times were had. Oh. We had those good times. They were had in the most possessive way possible because I have photographic evidence. See, here’s some now:

In order to capture that picture, I stuffed Bologna into a corner between two display cases and shoved a camera in her hand. That can be tricky to do because she often fights back which is troublesome when you're in a room filled with things made of glass and money and oldness. We must also applaud her for allowing me to do deviant things in the kiddy area as well. For example, there’s a display that encourages patrons to “make their own museum” by perusing a bin of junk and selecting things that bear some vague resemblance to each other. We viewed Timmy’s Museum of Red Hexagons and Samantha’s Museum of Bits of String. Then we made our own:

It was short lived like so many other cultural exhibits. I blame lack of funding. I also blame Bologna, who had an attack of the conscience and made me disassemble it. I saved my real rambunctiousness for Grasshoppah’s birthday extravaganza at Jake Ivory’s Dueling Piano Bar where many rumndiets were consumed, many strangers were square-danced with, and I’m inclined to think many stages might have been invaded with Notorious in tow. We had no choice but to infiltrate because we were not invited to come up and air guitar like Grasshoppah was:

Though the events may be foggy I thankfully, long ago, trained myself to get home while drunk. In my brain, high blood-alcohol content is solidly linked with directing a cabbie to my suburb through the circuitous, confusing roads of Boston. I can’t help it now. It’s an automatic response. Offered a warm couch to crash on, I will instinctively bolt for the door screaming “TAKE A LEFT AT THE END OF THIS STREET! NOW A RIGHT! THANK YOU VERY MUCH HAVE A GOOD EVENING.” Having accomplished that, I woke up in my own bed around 8 am when Beau was (trying) to drive Bologna to the train station. Instead, it became apparent that I had performed one of my favorite college tricks and no one could leave: I woke up drunk. Not just a little drunk. Fail-a-breathalyzer drunk. They escaped shortly after I demanded to be spooned. Since my sleep had been disturbed, I decided the best thing to do would be to head off the hangover while I still could. I proceeded to consume a gallon of water and everything in my refrigerator. Satiated, I crawled back into bed.

Around 2 pm, I woke to a car alarm which would normally have caused me to slink under the bed in a fit of nausea and head-pounding pain. Instead I sat up. I stretched. I wiggled my toes. I looked around the room. Something was very wrong indeed. I wasn’t hung over. Despite forgetting my own name the night before, I was somehow, unhungover. Could it be? Had I cured a hangover with my excessive eating and water guzzling? Later that day, the girls corroborated on their apparent states of hydration and well being as well. In a moment of what can only be described as religious epiphany, I realized that it was Jake Ivory’s who had cured me.

All bow before ye mighty bar that giveth the booze and taketh away thy hangover. Amen.

Teaching Old Coworkers New Tricks

I’m actually quite good at handling the serious problems that life throws my way. It’s not long ago that I was an unemployed, narcotics-dabbling nomad with a serious attitude problem. And look how well I’ve turned out? No, it’s the daily trivial irritations that drive me absolutely nuts. For example, I almost advised a woman on the train last night to close her mouth while chewing her gum to avoid making that smack smack smack noise. I’ve gone completely ape shit crazy on commuters for not signaling properly in traffic. I’ve worked myself up in a foamy lather over someone sitting in my favorite lunch spot.

Another of my pet peeves includes the inability of certain individuals to place a dirty dish in the dishwasher instead of the sink. I’m often ruffled by what I can’t understand, and this is outside my realm of logic. Why it is so difficult to extend the arm two feet in the other direction, open the machine, and place the item inside? Is it laziness? Unconscientiousness? Out and out defiance? Whatever causes the behavior, it bothers me because in the end, I must transfer them myself, usually after scraping at crust-covered surfaces and transferring food sludge to my carefully selected ensemble.

Several months ago, while enacting this cherished ritual, an unidentifiable piece of food shrapnel landed on my shoe. MY SHOE. My very favorite pair of yellow Steve Madden peep toe heels. Is nothing sacred?! So, I snapped. In a PMS-induced temper tantrum, I manifested my rage in a series of highly passive-aggressive notes that I taped around the kitchen.

Exhibit A (located above the sink)

Exhibit B (located on the counter to the right of the sink)

Exhibit C (located on the front of the elusive dishwasher itself)

Say what you will about the use of passive-aggressive notes, but I find them to be a valuable means of communicating what would otherwise go completely unresolved because it simply can not be transmitted in any other way. The trick to successful use is to keep your notes lighthearted enough so as to give others a chuckle. This will divert them from seeing directly into your black, withered soul which is secretly wishing horrible things about them. Case in point: my signs worked. On occasion, a stray butter knife covered in jam is abandoned in the sink, but for the most part, I’ve cured the office of their dishwasherophobia. Next, I will begin to train Beau.

Flace’s Bedgling Flog! Bace’s Bleggling Flodge! Lace’s Gangling Bog!

Face’s fledgling blog appeared on the interweb today! You can visit it to hear even more stories of 20-something mischief. Or alternately, to hear some of the same stories but from a slightly different perspective. Or alternately, to fill in the blanks for times that I black out and can’t remember what happened at the bar. Or alternately, to cheat on my blog. Or alternately, to feel superior to others by translating and then learning to pronounce the title which is in fact, in French.

At any rate, congrats to Face on the birth of her new blog. If I had a bottle of champagne, I would smash it on the hull and slurp the contents off of your new baby.

Pressing Matters

There's something poking my boob from inside my bra.

I suspect it’s a cracker crumb. It’s usually a cracker crumb. I mean it’s not a persistent issue but yes, it's been known to happen from time to time. One poor choice this morning, and I’m wearing a shift dress with no easy access to the boobal region. There’s no convenient, sly way to get in there and poke around. My laziness prevents me from journeying to the bathroom for a proper frisking.

Instead, I've been playing Russian roulette for the past hour, shifting around and jabbing a finger down the front of my dress, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along and I'm once again that weird receptionist who puts her hands in her clothing.

Tapas: Ur Doin It Wrong

In the general vein of trying activities other than drinking, Beau and I went ventured into the city on Saturday to meet one of his friends for dinner at Bar Lola, a trendy tapas restaurant in Back Bay. For those living under a rock, “tapas” is a Spanish word roughly translating to “shnacks” or “nachos during happy hour” but much fancier. Much fancier. And much more pretentious.

What should been a 30-minute car ride turned into an hour long ride because half of downtown Boston was already closed for Monday’s marathon. Could someone explain this to me? Is it because I’m from Jersey? 20,000-some-odd people gather together in a herd and … run? All day? For no prize? With no bulls or zombies chasing them? I’ve come to terms with joggers (solitary or in small packs of a dozen or so), but I’m not alright with several thousand people shutting down the streets on what would otherwise have been a perfectly good shopping day. Get a treadmill. But I digress.

Beau dropped me off out front to before parking the car and instructed me to find his friend at the bar area. Immediately, I was aware this place was bad news bears – the dim lighting, the size 2 girls, the hand bags worth a small fortune. When I couldn’t find her, I stopped by the front desk to ask the host if she’d checked in. I waited for several minutes until a frantic looking young gentleman ran by and stopped long enough to tell me yes, she had checked in; no, he didn’t know where she was; no, I couldn’t have a table until my entire party arrived.

I understand table-withholding when a place is packed and/or you don’t have a reservation but neither applied. Actually, it appeared our reservation was totally unnecessary considering how empty the place was. I’m still not sure why the host was hysterically running around and seemed too busy to pay attention to me, a paying customer. Perhaps he was training for the marathon.

Beau sauntered in with his friend in tow a few moments later but by then it was too late. Bad first impressions are hard to shake. The host agreed to seat us after I flagged him down from his frenzied scurrying. We were given a table about the size of a night stand and handed one pint glass ¾ full of warm tap water.

A waitress appeared moments later (granted with more water) to take our drink order which turned out to be mojitos and sangria. The sangria arrived but we were told the bar had no mint. Nope, no mojitos available in this Spanish sham. At which time I said “Fuck it” and got a rumndietcoke.

When it came time to order, we each put in for 3 dishes knowing full well that each one would be itsy-bitsy. As previously mentioned, tapas are really more of a light meal meant to eaten in early evening because the Spanish eat a full dinner around 9 or 10. If you’re going to make tapas into an actual meal instead of a snack, you need to order quite a few.

What we didn’t expect was to have the wait staff act so incredibly disdainful and offended that we would dare order so much. They seemed truly irritated each time they stopped by with a different dish. We even caught a couple of snide remarks. Ew. Don't judge me!

Again, if it had been a particularly busy night, I would be more understanding of there grumpiness and complete inability to smile, but considering the place was near empty, my sympathy runs low. The dates wrapped in bacon were divine, but the attitudes were such a turn off, I don’t think I would ever go back.

Note to wait staff at Bar Lola: Life is short and your dishes are small. Dislodge the tapa from your rectum and attempt to enjoy yourself.

Dangerous K Goes On A Field Trip: The Exciting Conclusion

When we last left our heroes…

Grasshoppah was a responsible girl and went to all her appointments with nifty specialists who ran more tests on her (I assume things like holding a crucifix up to her face and checking to see if she had a reflection). Amongst the doctors she visited was one who diagnosed her with a minor condition that explains all of her bizarre symptoms (repeated sinus infections, severe migraines that cause nausea, muscle spasms in the head and other parts of the body, head spinning, projectile vomiting, climbing down stairs backwards): TMJ.

And (good times!) it can be easily fixed with a mouth guard worn while she sleeps… for the modest price of $500. Jigga what?! $500?! Yes. I can’t really fathom spending so much money on something I put in my mouth. Not including my rum budget. Even better? Her insurance won’t cover it.

Luckily, Master Debater in his wisdom suggested she try the cheap CVS version before splurging on something that costs practically an entire month’s rent. That one costs around $30 which is an amount of cash I can easily imagine covering in saliva without much regret. Now, Grasshoppah could go purchase this much more reasonable device out of pocket, or, for the sake of being supportive (and making a scene in public) I suggest an alternative: The TMJ Awareness Walk 2008. I will personally pack a picnic lunch and donate t-shirts for anyone willing to pitch in a few bucks and take a walk down the Charles River with me screaming “T-M-J! GO-A-WAY!” and other such encouraging slogans.

I am completely serious. Tentative date: Sunday, May 4 around noon. Anyone willing to tackle this terrible affliction with me, please leave a note in the comments section.

Free picnic and t-shirts for any who join.

Dangerous K Goes On A Field Trip

Have you ever reached that state of boredom where nothing sounds appealing anymore? Not drinking, not crafting, not blogging, not standing on your head in the corner in a blanket fort of your own making? Well, that’s where I’ve been for the past few weeks especially at work where I’ve been forgoing all manner of activity in favor of staring blankly ahead with a slightly cross-eyed glaze. Of course, that doesn’t include the Thursday before last when Grasshoppah decided to shake things up for us…

It started like any other work day. I was slightly hung over, pounding an iced coffee, and silently cursing the inventor of overhead florescent lighting when Face IM’ed me to say, “Something’s wrong with Grasshoppah. Golden Delicious is on her way home from work to check on her.” [*New Character Alert*: Golden Delicious is the other roommate living with Grasshoppah and Face. She’s cute as a button but don’t let that fool you. She’s scrappier than a cornered possum]. Proceeding this news, I’d been taunting Grasshoppah for staying home from work with a Hangover of Unusual Proportions. For some perspective on the situation, consider that she and I used to pre-game during college with an entire bottle of whiskey. Since she hadn’t consumed anywhere near such epic quantities the night before, I felt justified in poking fun and saying phrases such as “Oh how the mighty are fallen.” And also, I’m an asshole with very little empathy.

Face continued with updates involving increasingly scary words such as “seizure” which killed my fun and made me immediately jump on the Concerned Friend Train. Around noon, unable to wait for more updates, I called Golden Delicious and found that they were no longer in the apartment. They were in the Emergency Room. That’s when I jumped off the Concerned Friend Train and quite literally into the Panicking Friend Taxi. I hauled ass out to the hospital where I was told they were running tests on her elsewhere in the building and that I would be alerted when she returned to her room at the ER.

I waited patiently for upwards of 6 minutes but at 7 minutes, I forgot how to control myself in front of strangers, returned to the Front Desk Girl and demanded to see Grasshoppah. My commendations go to Front Desk Girl for handling the situation with such calm and poise even after I said thing like, “Well, what tests is she undergoing? Blood tests or something else? What do you mean you don’t know? WELL IT MUST BE WRITTEN DOWN SOMEWHERE, RIGHT?!”

After my hissy fit, I returned to my seat in the waiting room until Golden Delicious popped out of a back room and ushered me in to see the patient who was lying in bed looking pale. The doctors came and went without giving any definitive answers which was incredibly frustrating but at least they generally assured us that she was in no immediate danger. On one visit, they ran some neurological tests which looked remarkably like the DUI tests they perform on Cops. Golden Delicious and I were eager to participate since we knew the right answers to questions like “Can you remember this list of words?” (YES!) Inspired by the demonstration we invented a few tests of our own, though she cut me off when I asked her to pull my finger.

Mostly, Grasshoppah just needed some moral support and amusing distraction, which we were more than happy to provide especially once I started looting the supply closet and finding containers labeled “E-Z Lube” and “Tourniquets.” There was also the obligatory Blowing-Up-A-Plastic-Glove-And-Giving-Everyone-The-Finger. Eventually though, we grew weary of my childish antics and began pondering what could be the trouble with Grasshoppah. She rattled off the symptoms again and I epiphanied right there while everyone was watching. It was so simple even the doctors had missed it. Grasshoppah was possessed by the devil. She was an unwilling host to an evil spirit that was preying on her soul and making her have uncontrolled body movements. NOT ON MY WATCH, BITCH. Unfortunately, the supply closet did not contain holy water, a Bible, or a priest and I knew she’d be pissed if I sprayed her with E-Z Lube and shouted “The power of Christ compels you!”

She was released a short while later and lined up a string of doctors visits for the following week, one of which came up with a promising explanation for her bizarre condition. An explanation even simpler than possession by the devil.

To Be Continued…

This Speaks To Me On A Personal Level

The Richter’n’DietCoke Scale

Wednesday night is quickly becoming Girls’ Night Out. So, following precedent, we ate at Fajitas & ’Ritas last night which features an extensive tequila menu, pitchers of flavored margaritas, and a table that you can write on. All speak in favor of the restaurant, but to be honest, I prefer Chili’s food and presentation. My quesadillas came to the table slapped on a plate with a pathetic lettuce leaf holding my guac and sour cream. And as Master Debater pointed out, the salsa was of the “gallon” variety [*New Character Alert* Master Debater is Face’s boyfriend. He’s very nice and tall, but made the fatal error of making fun of me for having been in the high school marching band after telling me he was on the debate team. Let this be a lesson to all those out there that they should be nice to me lest I give them mean pseudonyms]. But at under $10 an entrée, who’s really going to complain?

3 pitchers of frozen margaritas later, we decided to nix the idea of putting me on the (very reasonable) 8:10 train home and go to a dive bar instead. Face led us around the corner to what she claimed was one of her favorite pubs in Boston. Behold, The Tam, where we immediately found seats, Grasshoppah attacked the juke box, and there was much merriment all around.

So, the drinks. Let’s get something straight if it isn’t already. I am a rumndietcoke connoisseur. If there’s anything that I know inside and out, it’s rumndietcokes. As such, I’ve generated a general scale to assess the quality/quantity of my drinks:

Fuckin’ Dixie Cup: An overpriced tiny cup of diet coke with a splash of rum; available at my least favorite bar in Boston, The Liquor Store.

Meh, Tumbler: A decent size drink for the price but nothing to really write home about; probably the most common variety.

Eyebrow-Flick Tumbler: A “Meh, Tumbler” that has been vastly improved by a nice bartender who is a little more generous with the liquor; available at our usual hangout, The Cellar, in Cambridge.

Big Girl Drink: A glorious pintful of deliciousness; first found at the greatest bar in America, The Spoke, of Amherst, MA; also available upon request at many other fine dives.

The Lethal: A medium size glass filled 3/4 of the way with rum and topped off with Diet Coke; the exact opposite of a Fuckin’ Dixie Cup; first experienced at The Tam which has already won a place in my heart.

I had 2 lethals last night and I’m paying the price via my brain. I also paid the price via my wallet after the girls dropped me off at South Station to catch the 10:10 train home… which turned out to be the 10:30 train home… and at 9:40 I was too drunkenly impatient to wait that long so I hit the ATM and headed for the taxi queue only to be waylaid by a polite limo driver who offered me a ride home for a flat rate (which exceeded my usual fare by about $15). And you know how I like to ride in style when I’m tanked. So I said yes… with my lunch money. I’ll be stuck eating a homemade wrap today but I’ll still have the memory of my drunken bottom being carted home on a leather seat last night instead of in the back of a smelly cab. And no one can take that away from me.

Ain’t No Friend of Mine

In one of my manic fits, spurred by boredom at work and an unsafe amount of iced coffee, I joined a random online social network for bloggers in what I was quite sure was a brilliant scheme to increase my site traffic thereby disseminating my Incredibly Important Drivel to the masses. But what group to choose? Which category do I belong to? Do I fall into a category? In high school, I was part of the misfit group which is actually another phrase for “miscellaneous.” It just happens we were all miscellaneously awesome and all hated the cheerleaders. And smoked a lot of pot. Maybe I was a pothead and not a misfit?

After several tense minutes of serious contemplation I decided I should belong to a group called “Seriously Awesome Twenty-Something Female Bloggers with No Career Aspirations but a Strong Inclination Towards Rum, Fuzzy Animals, Trouble Making and Books.” Unable to find such a group, I slowly eliminated key words until I was left with Twenty-Something Bloggers. I joined it and waited for fame to erupt and Houghton-Mifflin to offer me a book deal while apologizing for rejecting me five times for their editorial assistant positions.

That didn’t so much happen. A day in, I was slammed with friend-requests from cute blond 21-year-old college kids (and I could very well be alienating them right now if any of them actually read this but in all fairness, Princess, you are a 21-year-old blond college girl) with no discernable commonalities other than our gender and general age group. I poked around on some of the members’ blogs and, granted, found a few that I would consider admitting to my imaginary club, but for the most part they appeared to be slightly older versions of the high school crowd that I despised. What in God’s name was I doing in the girl’s locker room after cheerleading practice let out?? I should be out back smoking a joint!

With chagrin, I realized I’d fallen into the same social network trap I’d neatly avoided on AIM and Facebook: granting friendship status to complete strangers for the sake of having more “friends.” It’s nothing new. It predates online social networks by decades, centuries even, if you consider what the life of a courtier in medieval Europe was like. Just back in high school, the tendency was evident in the types portrayed by Melissa Joan Heart in Can’t Hardly Wait who must, must, MUST have everyone in the school sign her yearbook. Online networks have just made it more obvious, what with the email notifications filling up your inbox and the pictures of people you’ve never heard of displayed under a banner reading “My Friends.” The visual queues certainly brought it to MY attention if no one else’s.

The original point of these networks, diluted as that purpose may be, was to stay in touch with those you know, maybe pick up a few new buddies along the way, but either way to form some sort of genuine albeit shallow connection to another human. Not to gather an immense bundle of names to display as evidence of your own self-importance and popularity.

I’m moderately embarrassed to admit I joined for the same reason I assume many others did: to shamelessly advertise my blog while barely glancing at the others. So, unlike my AIM and Facebook accounts (both of which I routinely purge to eliminate those who I am not, in fact, friends with), I went ahead and canceled the whole damn thing. So, sorry for being a cock tease, Twenty-Something Bloggers. You’ll have to enjoy the pep rally without me.