The time has come to explain what I meant when I elusively mentioned in my last post not getting a job until October. I’d like to preface this explanation by saying that I had to completely rewrite this post because it turned into an incoherent three page diatribe ending in a poorly constructed metaphor involving colonialism in early America, so, please be aware that this is the calmer, friendlier, 50% less bitter version.
In short, I have determined that work sucks. I don’t want to overwhelm you with my wisdom so why don’t you take a minute to let that sink in.
Specifically, I’ve come to abhor office work. I’m resentful of every minute I fritter away in front of a computer under fluorescent lights in a room with no windows. Less than three years into the work force and I’m already sick of office politics. I realized earlier this month that if one more customer/superior/random neff they pulled off the street gives me an attitude, insults my intelligence, or is just generally nasty because they’re constipated, I might actually just walk out on my job. Like literally. Take my purse and leave this place and never come back because this doesn’t feel like the way to really live one’s life.
Instead, I’ve luckily had a quiet month of training my replacement and saying my farewells. Originally, I quit in anticipation of starting grad school in the fall. After weeks of agonizing (both in my head and out loud to everyone I know… thanks guys), I deferred my acceptance for two main reasons:
1) I have no idea what I want to do with my life and I’m finally comfortable with that. I’m not prepared to waste $30,000+ figuring it out. I highly doubt sitting in a classroom will lead to existential resolution anyway. So, if I go back for more education, I’m going to be damn sure I’m going to use it. Without that assurance, I don’t think it’s not a good investment. And no, I don’t believe graduate programs are generally beneficial in landing a fulfilling career. For those stalwart proponents, I suggest reading Barbara Ehnrenreich and Penelope Trunk and then polling the cashiers at Barnes and Noble and baristas at Starbucks to find out how many have PhDs in English.
2) Any graduate program I’m both qualified for and interested in will launch me directly back into an office environment which, as we’ve already discussed, I find loathsome and soul-sucking. The thought of paying someone so that I can come right back to the same general thing under a fancier guise is downright horrifying to me.
I fully respect those who do office work. Working outside of one can be tough – I know, I’ve been there. I understand that we need someone to staff the organizations that make the world go round. I’m aware that my humble efforts photocopying play a role, albeit a minor one, in keeping these giants afloat. I get that you’ve got to start at the bottom where the work is boring and unrewarding and work your way into a more stimulating position. My understanding of the way the world works does not change my reluctance to participate in it. And yes, I am five minutes from following Thoreau’s lead and building a house in the woods. Preferably on someone else’s property (hey Bologna, how’s the new house search going? Still looking at that one with a few acres of forest that you won’t be able to easily monitor?)
As such, I’ve given myself a break in September, both to goof off and also pursue projects of my own interest. It’s entirely possible I won’t be able to support myself in my freelance endeavors (which I assure you are farfetched and completely unstable means of earning a living) but I owe it to myself to try before resigning myself to a means of existence that I personally find distasteful.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wanted: Sketchy White Van & Large Bag of Beggin' Strips
“Tail at two o’clock” is the first thing I said when we got to the park last night as I craned my neck to watch a black lab run through the forest to our right. Beau thinks we’ve been taking walks for exercise but really, it’s just a cheap excuse to ogle puppies and use my secret dog weapon, a “misdirected” Frisbee, to cop a scratch behind their ears. Frisbees are to dogs what Huffies are to children. Lately the dog lust has gotten worse. I spent 15 minutes chatting up my landlord in the hall last night because his adorable mutt was alternately sniffing me and going through my laundry basket. I am the construction worker of the animal kingdom. I shout obscene things at your pets and they secretly feel flattered.
Luckily, they have places for people like me. Institutions that use our sickness in a constructive way: animal shelters. So, between my September sabbatical (Did I mention that? Yeah, I’m not getting a job until October. More on that later) and my willingness to be a free walking pooper-scooper, I’ve decided to volunteer a few days a week at the local animal rescue. Tonight is my second orientation. I’ll be touring the facility and getting a lesson in proper dog walking form which I believe involves triple sow cows but I’m not entirely sure.
Luckily, they have places for people like me. Institutions that use our sickness in a constructive way: animal shelters. So, between my September sabbatical (Did I mention that? Yeah, I’m not getting a job until October. More on that later) and my willingness to be a free walking pooper-scooper, I’ve decided to volunteer a few days a week at the local animal rescue. Tonight is my second orientation. I’ll be touring the facility and getting a lesson in proper dog walking form which I believe involves triple sow cows but I’m not entirely sure.
Monday, August 18, 2008
God, Gin, and Something Trippy
This Saturday found me in a vaguely familiar place: church. I haven’t been to one of those since Christmas 2006 when Beau’s family dragged me to a midnight mass despite the fact that most of us were half in the wrapper. But this weekend wasn’t a holiday. It was a wedding. That means I stopped hissing at statues of saints long enough to quietly sit through a ceremony.
Let me preface this by saying that I was raised Catholic. I went to church every week in my childhood. I sat through Sunday school classes where I was scolded for asking questions, not understanding the concept of blind faith, and drawing fancy hats on Jesus in my work book (and then further reprimanded when I called my teacher an idolater for putting so much emphasis on a pictorial representation of Christ). I’ve studied the Bible more in depth than most Christians. That said, I am now an enthusiastic atheist. If that or blaspheming bothers you, now might be a good time to stop reading.
Anyway, I can be respectful when needs be, so I behaved. We were seated too far back in the church to hear or see what went on up front which was a pity because friends of ours were getting hitched somewhere up there. After a quarter of an hour of straining my neck and failing to catch anything, my mind started to wander. For awhile I watched everyone around me kneel and sit and chant and make elaborate hand gestures all the while thinking that truly, mass must count as cardio. I abstained from the general hocus-pocus except the standing bits (because my ass was falling asleep) and the hand shaking (because I like smiling and saying nice things to people on occasion). For the remainder of the time I admired the interior of the church with its marble columns and painted murals and wondered how much money could have been donated to charity instead of pimping God’s crib. Of course, studies show that God is between 17 and 30 feet tall so they had no choice but to vault the ceiling that high, but the rest is a bit much.
Eventually, the ceremony was over and we moved to the reception hall where I visibly relaxed and unclenched because there was an open bar and that is a religion I can wholeheartedly believe it. In my magnanimous way, I grabbed a few scotches for the boys before asking for my rumndietcoke. The bartender shook his head. I spoke louder as if he were hard of hearing, “RUM AND DIET COKE.”
He gestured behind him at the sparse array of bottles and said, “This is what we have.” No rum. Fuck, I thought, God is pissed at my sacrilege. The bartender suggested I try something else and handed me something blue and fruity. I was dumbstruck. Defeated, I took my blue cocktail back to the table and sat pouting while Beau laughed at me.
Five minutes later I returned to the bar with a friend all the while lamenting the plight of the rumless. She told me her drink of choice was gin and Sprite but she couldn’t have too much because it gets her into trouble. Trouble you say? I ordered a round for us.
An hour later, I was dangerously flirting with Tanqueray, sending texts to Bologna about this delicious mistress. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur of gin, baby quiches, and holding my new friends’ hair back while she vomited on the sidewalk. I spent the majority of the time dancing to Polish techno with a dozen accountants. At one point I paused to wonder how I came to be spinning with my arms above my head, surrounded by stupefied bean counters but then someone told me it was time for the second dinner and this one included meatballs and I lost my train of thought.
In conclusion, gin gives you a crisper feeling hangover than rum, don’t eat a bowlful of sauerkraut when you’re drunk, and God may or may not shop in the big’n’tall men’s department of Macys.
Let me preface this by saying that I was raised Catholic. I went to church every week in my childhood. I sat through Sunday school classes where I was scolded for asking questions, not understanding the concept of blind faith, and drawing fancy hats on Jesus in my work book (and then further reprimanded when I called my teacher an idolater for putting so much emphasis on a pictorial representation of Christ). I’ve studied the Bible more in depth than most Christians. That said, I am now an enthusiastic atheist. If that or blaspheming bothers you, now might be a good time to stop reading.
Anyway, I can be respectful when needs be, so I behaved. We were seated too far back in the church to hear or see what went on up front which was a pity because friends of ours were getting hitched somewhere up there. After a quarter of an hour of straining my neck and failing to catch anything, my mind started to wander. For awhile I watched everyone around me kneel and sit and chant and make elaborate hand gestures all the while thinking that truly, mass must count as cardio. I abstained from the general hocus-pocus except the standing bits (because my ass was falling asleep) and the hand shaking (because I like smiling and saying nice things to people on occasion). For the remainder of the time I admired the interior of the church with its marble columns and painted murals and wondered how much money could have been donated to charity instead of pimping God’s crib. Of course, studies show that God is between 17 and 30 feet tall so they had no choice but to vault the ceiling that high, but the rest is a bit much.
Eventually, the ceremony was over and we moved to the reception hall where I visibly relaxed and unclenched because there was an open bar and that is a religion I can wholeheartedly believe it. In my magnanimous way, I grabbed a few scotches for the boys before asking for my rumndietcoke. The bartender shook his head. I spoke louder as if he were hard of hearing, “RUM AND DIET COKE.”
He gestured behind him at the sparse array of bottles and said, “This is what we have.” No rum. Fuck, I thought, God is pissed at my sacrilege. The bartender suggested I try something else and handed me something blue and fruity. I was dumbstruck. Defeated, I took my blue cocktail back to the table and sat pouting while Beau laughed at me.
Five minutes later I returned to the bar with a friend all the while lamenting the plight of the rumless. She told me her drink of choice was gin and Sprite but she couldn’t have too much because it gets her into trouble. Trouble you say? I ordered a round for us.
An hour later, I was dangerously flirting with Tanqueray, sending texts to Bologna about this delicious mistress. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur of gin, baby quiches, and holding my new friends’ hair back while she vomited on the sidewalk. I spent the majority of the time dancing to Polish techno with a dozen accountants. At one point I paused to wonder how I came to be spinning with my arms above my head, surrounded by stupefied bean counters but then someone told me it was time for the second dinner and this one included meatballs and I lost my train of thought.
In conclusion, gin gives you a crisper feeling hangover than rum, don’t eat a bowlful of sauerkraut when you’re drunk, and God may or may not shop in the big’n’tall men’s department of Macys.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The Show Down
When I weighed myself this morning I was a full 2.5 lbs heavier than I was yesterday, though to the best of my knowledge, I did not eat an additional 2.5 lbs of food yesterday. This is the first time in my life that I’ve religiously applied to a scale for a sense of my own self worth. If I had even casually monitored my weight in the past year, I would probably not be in this situation. I would have seen the numbers climbing and made appropriate adjustments. Instead, I scorned owning a scale in favor of owning an additional 30 lbs of woman-flesh adhered delicately to my abdomen.
I rampaged around the house taking my fury out on everything in sight: Beau for trying to drink the last of the coffee, Beau for putting his shoes up on the coffee table, Beau for not agreeing to come home early to make me dinner… mostly just Beau. I finally calmed down and conjectured that it could be either a combination of the rum cake from last night and part of Grasshoppah’s buffalo chicken wrap from yesterday’s lunch or water weight. Beau offered that perhaps I just had to take a massive pooh.
Since his idea was the only one I had any control over, I began chugging coffee as soon as I got to work to, ya know, speed things up. Finally the time came and I bustled off to my favorite bathroom stall. Mid-ya know, someone walked in: my new arch nemesis, Amy Wineouses’ Doppelganger. In Bertha’s wake, I was left with this over-kempt girl of twenty-something who appears to pull her wardrobe directly from the pages of Cosmopolitan. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just be aware that wearing a snug vest over a long white button-down with a pencil skirt and 5-inch stilettos, pancake makeup, a jet-black bouffant, and a perpetual pout of disdain will cause me to judge you. Harshly. And on the internet.
So, it was fairly easy to identify Doppelganger when she tottered into the room in stilts and planted herself in front of the mirror where she proceeded to apply cosmetics, and, I assume, feed the raging goblins that dwell within with a mixture of heroin and Chiclets. Next, armed with a wet paper towel (yes, this much I ascertained from vigilant listening and also looking through the door gap) she seated herself in a stall somewhere to my left. Then the furious sounds of reams of toilet paper being pulled from the roll. Enough to wrap a small child in. Then silence. Then more silence.
I sat there patiently waiting for her absence in order to resume activity since there is nothing worse than a prolonged bathroom silence interrupted by a deafening plop. If you are the type of person to do this, then I must ask you to stop reading my blog and never come back. That one thing is perhaps the only thing that I find truly offensive. Pooping in a quiet room of strangers. Shudder. But I digress.
Finally, it became apparent that she was also waiting for my absence. Oh Doppelganger, don’t try to outwait me, I thought. I am a receptionist. I spend all day waiting for something to happen. If I need to spend that time waiting in a bathroom stall instead of at my desk, so be it. More to the point, I was there first and frankly, I was in the middle of something important.
Happily, she did her thing and vacated. I won. With just 10 days left at this job, I have finally triumphed in a bathroom that was a battleground for a year and a half: coworkers trying to discuss paperwork while we were both otherwise occupied, creepy Indian ladies trespassing in the buffer stall, Bertha’s digestive stench. Today, 2 weeks from my permanent departure, I am victorious. I am also probably 2.5 pounds lighter.
I rampaged around the house taking my fury out on everything in sight: Beau for trying to drink the last of the coffee, Beau for putting his shoes up on the coffee table, Beau for not agreeing to come home early to make me dinner… mostly just Beau. I finally calmed down and conjectured that it could be either a combination of the rum cake from last night and part of Grasshoppah’s buffalo chicken wrap from yesterday’s lunch or water weight. Beau offered that perhaps I just had to take a massive pooh.
Since his idea was the only one I had any control over, I began chugging coffee as soon as I got to work to, ya know, speed things up. Finally the time came and I bustled off to my favorite bathroom stall. Mid-ya know, someone walked in: my new arch nemesis, Amy Wineouses’ Doppelganger. In Bertha’s wake, I was left with this over-kempt girl of twenty-something who appears to pull her wardrobe directly from the pages of Cosmopolitan. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just be aware that wearing a snug vest over a long white button-down with a pencil skirt and 5-inch stilettos, pancake makeup, a jet-black bouffant, and a perpetual pout of disdain will cause me to judge you. Harshly. And on the internet.
So, it was fairly easy to identify Doppelganger when she tottered into the room in stilts and planted herself in front of the mirror where she proceeded to apply cosmetics, and, I assume, feed the raging goblins that dwell within with a mixture of heroin and Chiclets. Next, armed with a wet paper towel (yes, this much I ascertained from vigilant listening and also looking through the door gap) she seated herself in a stall somewhere to my left. Then the furious sounds of reams of toilet paper being pulled from the roll. Enough to wrap a small child in. Then silence. Then more silence.
I sat there patiently waiting for her absence in order to resume activity since there is nothing worse than a prolonged bathroom silence interrupted by a deafening plop. If you are the type of person to do this, then I must ask you to stop reading my blog and never come back. That one thing is perhaps the only thing that I find truly offensive. Pooping in a quiet room of strangers. Shudder. But I digress.
Finally, it became apparent that she was also waiting for my absence. Oh Doppelganger, don’t try to outwait me, I thought. I am a receptionist. I spend all day waiting for something to happen. If I need to spend that time waiting in a bathroom stall instead of at my desk, so be it. More to the point, I was there first and frankly, I was in the middle of something important.
Happily, she did her thing and vacated. I won. With just 10 days left at this job, I have finally triumphed in a bathroom that was a battleground for a year and a half: coworkers trying to discuss paperwork while we were both otherwise occupied, creepy Indian ladies trespassing in the buffer stall, Bertha’s digestive stench. Today, 2 weeks from my permanent departure, I am victorious. I am also probably 2.5 pounds lighter.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Logic of the Year Award
Scene: AIM conversation during business hours
Unspecified Friend: I'm sleepy
Dangerous K: are you stoned again?
Unspecified Friend: nope, I've stopped smoking!
Dangerous K: like on principle or because you ran out of weed?
Unspecified Friend: weeeeeeeell...both
Unspecified Friend: I'm sleepy
Dangerous K: are you stoned again?
Unspecified Friend: nope, I've stopped smoking!
Dangerous K: like on principle or because you ran out of weed?
Unspecified Friend: weeeeeeeell...both
Her Bags Are Packed, She's Ready To Go
Three years ago while studying abroad in Oxford I met Notorious, Face, and Grasshoppah. Since then, we’ve referred to ourselves as The Quatro (yes, we named our foursome and shame on Carrie Bradshaw for not doing the same). Those three years have seen more action than a Denny’s parking lot. There have been parties, bars, street corners, gutters, fights, make ups, hugs, heart-to-hearts, laughs, and, maybe the worst of it, moves. Actually, it seems we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together since the good ol’ Oxford days. England and Arkansas robbed us of Notorious for years, London and Jersey stole me away for a time, but finally we all collected in and around Boston for a second coming of the golden age, though granted, a far tamer, more gentle version. Alas, once again, a member is moving on: Grasshoppah leaves us on Saturday for western Massachusetts. In homage to our wise, advice-giving, ever patient, understanding, and empathetic friend, I give you a pictorial representation of Grasshoppah through the years (we'll miss you hon!):
Me, Face, and Grasshoppah on New Year's Eve 2008
Grasshoppah playing drunken Jenga with the German
Grasshoppah and Notorious talking in the gardens at Oxford
Face, Notorious, and Grasshoppah clubbing in England
The Quatro in Scotland
Grasshoppah and me, showing the love at our favorite bar
Me, Face, and Grasshoppah on New Year's Eve 2008
Grasshoppah playing drunken Jenga with the German
Grasshoppah and Notorious talking in the gardens at Oxford
Face, Notorious, and Grasshoppah clubbing in England
The Quatro in ScotlandGrasshoppah and me, showing the love at our favorite bar'Hoppah, consider it a going away present that I didn't post the innumerable pictures that I have of you passed out on various bar stools, kitchen counters, sofas, and assorted ditches. Now go get into trouble where we can't keep an eye on you and come back soon!
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
There’s One in Every Neighborhood
I was not pleased at 7:30 this morning when my doorbell rang. First of all, I have a doorbell? Second, I was halfway through an iced coffee watching the morning news in my pajamas. Third, Beau was in the shower still so I couldn’t send him downstairs to answer it.
Since the butler was busy, I trounced down two flights of stairs picking at the wedgie my booty shorts were giving me (I only wear them in the privacy of my own home and that is my prerogative), hoping to God that this wasn’t a religious official trying to convert me when I was still braless and thereby, at my most defensive. Through the glass in the front door, I saw a very shabbily dressed older gentleman. I cracked the door and said, “Can I help you?” in a tone that best conveyed my intended message “Get the fuck off my porch.”
As he opened his bearded face to explain exactly why he was still standing on my landlord’s New York Times, I was overwhelmed with the smell of festering garbage and unwashed human. I ascertained he was homeless and come to beg tuppence of me. I was about to shut the door in his face when he said “Do you own a sports car?”
Don’t nobody threaten my baby’s convertible.
In an unprecedented move, I skipped from the usual Jersey attitude directly to the tone and demeanor of Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. It was something angry, feral, bestial, JURASSIC even and probably had a lot to do with my Cheerios getting soggy as I stood there talking to a man that appeared to have slept in a dumpster.
I cracked the door farther and barked “Yeah.” He then asked (quite politely considering my general bearing) if I could move said sports car so that they could remove a dumpster from my neighbor-across-the-street’s driveway. The car was in the way of the truck. Apparently he didn’t sleep in a dumpster, he just worked with one.
I rolled my eyes in a way I haven’t done since I was 15-years-old and gave him one last “Yeah” before slamming the door. But since I can’t drive stick, I had to run upstairs and scream to Beau (who was just getting out of the shower) that he needed to move his car because some construction guy told me so. Hell hath no fury like a Beau bothered before 8 am. I immediately started eating my Cheerios in front of the window to see if Beau ran someone over.
When he returned, I described to him the sheer grossness of the construction worker who rang our door bell. “That wasn’t part of the construction crew,” Beau responded, “That was our neighbor.” The same neighbor who left a nasty gram on the car this past winter causing me to call down the fury of coyote poop on his backyard. The same neighbor who actually confronted Beau in person once about our car being parked in front of his house instead of our house (even though at the time there were clearly no spot available on our side of the street). Yes, that neighbor has now asked that we not park in front of our own house either. And also he smells bad.
Since the butler was busy, I trounced down two flights of stairs picking at the wedgie my booty shorts were giving me (I only wear them in the privacy of my own home and that is my prerogative), hoping to God that this wasn’t a religious official trying to convert me when I was still braless and thereby, at my most defensive. Through the glass in the front door, I saw a very shabbily dressed older gentleman. I cracked the door and said, “Can I help you?” in a tone that best conveyed my intended message “Get the fuck off my porch.”
As he opened his bearded face to explain exactly why he was still standing on my landlord’s New York Times, I was overwhelmed with the smell of festering garbage and unwashed human. I ascertained he was homeless and come to beg tuppence of me. I was about to shut the door in his face when he said “Do you own a sports car?”
Don’t nobody threaten my baby’s convertible.
In an unprecedented move, I skipped from the usual Jersey attitude directly to the tone and demeanor of Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. It was something angry, feral, bestial, JURASSIC even and probably had a lot to do with my Cheerios getting soggy as I stood there talking to a man that appeared to have slept in a dumpster.
I cracked the door farther and barked “Yeah.” He then asked (quite politely considering my general bearing) if I could move said sports car so that they could remove a dumpster from my neighbor-across-the-street’s driveway. The car was in the way of the truck. Apparently he didn’t sleep in a dumpster, he just worked with one.
I rolled my eyes in a way I haven’t done since I was 15-years-old and gave him one last “Yeah” before slamming the door. But since I can’t drive stick, I had to run upstairs and scream to Beau (who was just getting out of the shower) that he needed to move his car because some construction guy told me so. Hell hath no fury like a Beau bothered before 8 am. I immediately started eating my Cheerios in front of the window to see if Beau ran someone over.
When he returned, I described to him the sheer grossness of the construction worker who rang our door bell. “That wasn’t part of the construction crew,” Beau responded, “That was our neighbor.” The same neighbor who left a nasty gram on the car this past winter causing me to call down the fury of coyote poop on his backyard. The same neighbor who actually confronted Beau in person once about our car being parked in front of his house instead of our house (even though at the time there were clearly no spot available on our side of the street). Yes, that neighbor has now asked that we not park in front of our own house either. And also he smells bad.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Grumble Grumble Grumble
I find it monstrously unfair that though I stayed in last night doing laundry and reading instead of imbibing my usual Thirsty Thursday quota, I have a headache. I don’t get non-hangover-induced headaches. Doesn’t happen to me. When I’m not hung over, my brain is so grateful not to be drained of all hydration that it behaves itself. Until today when it suddenly became a whiner. Shape up buddy or I’ll really give you something to cry about. It’s Friday. I’ll do it. Don’t mess around with me, Brain. I have an override button that allows me to put rumndietcokes into my mouth with or without your help as evidenced by so many previous black outs.
Really, I should probably blame Neck and not Brain because that’s where this trouble started. I have a crick from reading last night with my head in Beau’s lap. I don’t know how to threaten a neck, but I’m open to suggestions unless they involve a guillotine. That’s the only neck punishment I could think of, but it doesn’t seem fair to take disciplinary action against Shoulders and Pretty Little Face both of whom I’m sure would be marred as a result. Back to the drawing board, readers.
Really, I should probably blame Neck and not Brain because that’s where this trouble started. I have a crick from reading last night with my head in Beau’s lap. I don’t know how to threaten a neck, but I’m open to suggestions unless they involve a guillotine. That’s the only neck punishment I could think of, but it doesn’t seem fair to take disciplinary action against Shoulders and Pretty Little Face both of whom I’m sure would be marred as a result. Back to the drawing board, readers.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Speaking of Lessons Learned
As I leaned against the kitchen wall just now, fixing myself a cup of coffee and swallowing my second helping of Advil to counter my early afternoon hangover, I thought to myself, when will I learn? When will I learn that staying out half the night drinking ends the same way EVERY TIME? A small voice in my head ventured never. I may NEVER learn to curb my thirst in the interest of not feeling like pond scum the following day. I’m sure we’ve all sworn after a particularly bad night that we were never drinking again (see St. Patty’s Day 2007). I certainly have no intention of following through to a state of teetotalism but a little restraint might go a long way. Developing the ability to say “I’d love to go to another bar for more drinks after dinner, but it’s a weeknight and I’m broke” instead of “Hells fuckin’ YEAH I want a shot of tequila” would be advantageous at this juncture of my life.
Instead, here I am squinting under fluorescent lights thinking of how that plate of nachos from the Cask & Flagon circa 10 pm will manifest. Perhaps as another dimple on my already ample bottom? A third chin to keep the other two company? A pooh that waits until my commute home to try to leave the mother ship? It is a mystery.
Besides the weight gain and the hangovers, my wallet runs dry as my poor, desiccated bladder (something to keep in mind since I’ll be officially unemployed as of September 1). Yet this trifecta of reasons NOT to get drunk enough to pinky-swear that I will reread Wuthering Heights is somehow not enough to sink into my brain.
Lately, I’ve actually grown bored of the boozing lifestyle but you wouldn’t know it, would you? I whine that I want to go out for a nice adult dinner but then I’m the first one to order a rumndietcoke… or seven. I make plans for innocent day trips but then cancel on account of a hangover. If I wasn’t too lazy to go out most nights, I’d be an alcoholic by now. Apparently, sloth is my saving grace.
So, I returned to my desk with my coffee and my obstinate refusal to learn from my mistakes. And also the memory of Grasshoppah buying a steak and cheese sandwich for a homeless guy sitting outside the 7-11.
Instead, here I am squinting under fluorescent lights thinking of how that plate of nachos from the Cask & Flagon circa 10 pm will manifest. Perhaps as another dimple on my already ample bottom? A third chin to keep the other two company? A pooh that waits until my commute home to try to leave the mother ship? It is a mystery.
Besides the weight gain and the hangovers, my wallet runs dry as my poor, desiccated bladder (something to keep in mind since I’ll be officially unemployed as of September 1). Yet this trifecta of reasons NOT to get drunk enough to pinky-swear that I will reread Wuthering Heights is somehow not enough to sink into my brain.
Lately, I’ve actually grown bored of the boozing lifestyle but you wouldn’t know it, would you? I whine that I want to go out for a nice adult dinner but then I’m the first one to order a rumndietcoke… or seven. I make plans for innocent day trips but then cancel on account of a hangover. If I wasn’t too lazy to go out most nights, I’d be an alcoholic by now. Apparently, sloth is my saving grace.
So, I returned to my desk with my coffee and my obstinate refusal to learn from my mistakes. And also the memory of Grasshoppah buying a steak and cheese sandwich for a homeless guy sitting outside the 7-11.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
And I Haven't Learned a Damn Thing Since
Without going into any further detail, I would like to share with you a remarkable cure for the hiccups: hold onto the hiccuper’s nose until the afflication has ended. Keep a firm hold despite their attempts to shake you off, wipe snot on your hand, or get their drink back up to their mouth. For example:
Thanks, Mistress!
Thanks, Mistress!
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