Decaffeination

I was shooting for an entire month between entries but I can’t hold out. I just couldn’t stay away. I can’t quit you (no homo).

It’s been characteristically busy since my last check in. That’s becoming routine so I’ve stopped feeling surprised by work demands and my overwhelming popularity. For now I’m going to skip over Beau’s first Thanksgiving turkey, cramming 6.5 people into our wee little condo, Nugget projectile crapping in my bedroom, the purchase of my very own wedding dress, and the solid 40 man-hours I’ve devoted to crafting in the past two weeks to update you on my digestive health. Again.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I started having the same weird stomach pains I had back around Bologna’s baby shower this summer. I suffered through them for a few days before heading to the doctor who ordered blood work and other fun tests to screen for the lead suspect: an ulcer. While waiting for the results, she said to temporarily treat it like an ulcer and see if it got any better. No carbonation, no caffeine, no alcohol, no OTC pain medications. Pretty much no reason to live. I immediately began looking for pointy things to jab into my eyes.

Like 90% of red blooded Americans, I depend on caffeine to keep me going about my humdrum office life. Eliminating it resulted in a solid week of throbbing headaches, massive irritability, and mild retardation. Simple fifteen-minute tasks took an hour to complete as I tried to wrap my shriveled brain around arithmetic. I almost threw a computer at a coworker for walking too close to my desk. I couldn’t take my usual four Advil pills to counteract the epic migraine that was worse – I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY – than any hangover I’ve ever had, including the morning after Pleasure Island, the morning after St. Patty’s Day 2007, and that time I woke up in a tent in the bathroom. I was in the throes of caffeine withdrawal for seven days. That much was clear.

Sure enough, the stomach pains went away and though the tests did not reveal an ulcer, she said to continue treating it that way since it seemed to be working. How could I possibly have gotten a Ninja ulcer that hates on everything and hides from ultrasounds? The first person to suggest half a decade of the triple-punch of rumndietcokes which contain three of my delectably forbidden food groups will be eaten alive.

Bologna, who went through this ordeal in her mid-20s, advised me on the subject. Caffeine and carbonation are not a part of my future. Though I gnawed on the phone a bit when she told me that, really the worst was over. The headaches had subsided and I regained normal brain function. I still want to throw rotten fruit at my coworkers but at least Happy F left the company. That helps. And I can still drink alcohol in moderation (whatever the hell that means).

Unfortunately, as we usher out 2009, I will need to say goodbye to my long beloved rumndietcokes. In honor of them, friend, lover, soul mate, I present this tribute to be viewed while listening to “You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Farewell my little friend. I'll see you again at my bachelorette party.

Dangerous K and the Almost Zombie Apocalypse

I’ve fielded two complaints in the last few days about my lack of blog posting and that’s really all it takes to get me started again. I like to feel needed. I am a slave to my fans. My sincerest apologies to all of them (including the gaggle of Filipinos who know me better as Wak2. Listen to your cousin. He’s telling you the truth. I really do abduct young Catholic virgins from their beds at night and feast on their innards). As reparations for my inattentiveness and for the consumption of innocents, I offer you the story of Dangerous K and the Almost Zombie Apocalypse.

Maybe I mentioned before that my job closely resembles that of an office manager (I say “closely resembles” because what it more accurately resembles is a vaguely employed slacker who spends most of her days sneaking Twilight under her desk and helping the company hemorrhage it’s caffeine supply while occasionally and begrudgingly ordering paper clips). In early October, on a day when every C-level employee was in a meeting somewhere on the other side of our massive office complex, the lights suddenly went out. In the silence following a string of my belligerent curses, I heard the other lemmings shift about. I sat motionless at my desk, squinting in the dull glow of the emergency lights and the windows onto the building’s atrium, and hoping that the problem would resolve itself if I just ignored it long enough. It did not.

I rummaged around in the storage closet for flashlights but came up empty handed. By then, there were wide eyed cubicle monkeys peering around the corner looking for guidance. It occurred to me that somehow I was supposed to be holding down the fort while the big dogs were away. My one day of active duty for the month and calamity strikes. Well. Shit.

I addressed my flock, “I’m going to… uhh… go check with building management.” Yes! That is exactly what I’m going to go do! Eureka! And I promptly scuttled to the front door of our suite. Downstairs in the atrium, madness was moderately erupting. The maintenance guys with whom I’m friendly (because seriously, have you never seen Fight Club? Be nice to those guys. Plus, if you make friends with them, they visit you faster when you call them crying about leaky faucets) were unusually short with me. One of them shouted over his shoulder, “Sorry, K. We’ve got people stuck in elevators all over the building” as he ran off with what appeared to be the Jaws-of-Life. I sympathized. Our building is only three stories tall. I frequently take the elevator to my office on the second floor out of sheer slothfulness. I would be absolutely ripshit with myself, not to mention terrified, if I were one of those people.

Building management was likewise unhelpful in regards to the cause of the problem. They informed me that the power was out, but oddly enough, I was already wise to that fact. Later I learned that they had a backup generator for their suite and spent the next two hours emailing their tenants to say “the power is out.” I didn’t know that at the time because my computer runs on electricity you fucking morons.

I wandered back to my office to inform the others of the lack of updates. Instead of standing around, twiddling my thumbs, and fighting out the socializing advances of my coworkers, I decided to further make myself useful by checking on the C-level meeting in case they had no windows where they were and were currently sitting in total darkness. I knew generally where the conference room was but getting there was trickier. To access it, I need to head away from the sunny sky-light filled atrium and wander through a maze of windowless halls without a flashlight.

I turned the first corner and came face to face with a door that had never been there before. I learned later that the fire doors run on electricity and they had all automatically slammed shut when the power went down. Though it was disorienting, it wouldn’t have been a huge deal if someone had thought to put those red emergency lights in each segment created but closed doors. Instead, two segments down the hall I opened a fire door and was confronted with pitch black. I couldn’t see the tip of my nose. But I’m a clever girl, so I ran back to my desk and grabbed my cell to use a makeshift flashlight. When I got back to that door and started jabbing buttons on my phone, I could just barely see to the end of my outstretched arm, which wasn’t a bad thing because I was fairly sure this is what it looked like around me.


The red glow of the emergency light from the last segment was abruptly lost as the fire door slammed shut behind me. Within two steps, I could no longer see the door I’d just passed through. That was when it hit me. I’m that girl in a horror movie. I’m the blonde chick who goes to investigate the cause of the blackout armed with nothing but a half-charged Motorola. This is exactly why I need to keep a battle axe at my desk.

Without at least a machete for protection, I knew from countless B-movies that I had between thirty seconds and four minutes to live, depending on how cruel this particular director was. My left hand curled into a fist and my heart began racing. A door cautiously swung open to my right where I wasn’t expecting it and I nearly wet myself. An elderly woman popped out to ask if the bathrooms had lights. Looks like she hadn’t gotten the memo. Probably because it was emailed to her. Too bad, because those halls weren’t safe for little old ladies. I have a heavily ingrained self defense mechanism and almost beat her to death with my shoe before I realized that she was not a) the undead b) a serial killer c) a Velociraptor.

Several minutes later I found the conference room. I burst in looking more shaken, frazzled and wild eyed than usual to find the C-levels cheerfully sitting in a room with a wall of windows. I smiled weakly, explained briefly, and returned to the hallway for the return trip. My heart rate tripled as the phone battery blinked down to one pathetic bar.

I raced down the hallways at a faster pace than before, colliding with several doors and physically assaulting an unfortunately placed potted palm tree. Wait? A palm tree? There was no palm tree on my way here. I looked at the room number next to my victim. The numbers should have been ascending, not descending. In my panic, I’d lost my way.

I back tracked, slower this time, until I picked up the scent of rum and jeans that haven’t been washed in awhile… and also the turn that I had missed. I was back to the correct path. Around the corner was a sad looking woman with an illuminated iPhone who was looking for the bathroom. I took comfort in the developing pattern that proves I am clearly not the only one with an inherent instinct to soil myself when trouble strikes. I pointed her about ten feet behind me and secretly judged the iPhone for lacking a Fucking Awesome Survival Skills app. My confidence rose as I realized it had been about fifteen minutes from my original departure. Even the most sadistic director wouldn’t drag out the dumb girl’s death for fifteen minutes. People would get bored. Except for maybe Saw but I’ve never seen that movie so I don’t count it as technically existing. I apply this same logic to Australia.

Could it be that I was the hero of this story and not just a disposable supporting actress? The protagonist always has a brush with death that appears inescapable but ends up surviving on nothing but their own cleverness, charm, and resourceful use of palm fronds that have been sharpened into a shiv. I started to recognize the offices I passed and realized I was close to my suite. Oh thank God, the denouement.

I opened the door leading out of the last pitch black segment and my smugness evaporated. At the far end, there was a dark figure lurking in edges of the red emergency light. Not moving. Just standing there. My fist tightened around the shiv as I prepared for the final battle. I squinted to ensure I was not about to attack another houseplant when the figure turned its head to look at me as I approached.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked me and my breathing returned to normal as I recognized the voice of the guy who sat at the office complex’s front desk, “There’s a black out. Didn’t you get my email?”

Also, I Behaved Myself In God’s House

Yep, I know I haven’t written about Chairsy’s wedding yet. Nope, I probably never will. I’ll add it to the list of major life events that never got proper blog representation. I just never walk out of the big things with a napkin full of notes. The ladies restroom on the other hand… usually I've mentally drafted an entry by the time I leave. I don’t want to leave you completely empty handed though.

Somewhere around the seven rumndietcoke mark when the bartenders began marveling at my ability to stand up right, we busted out the glow bracelets to rave to Sandstorm. I’m pretty sure the glow sticks can be blamed for my illuminated boobs. Or maybe I’ve finally gone radioactive from all the Splenda pooling in my liver.

My Neurosis Knows No Bounds

My bathroom and the next closest bathroom are currently occupied by custodians and my bladder is ready to burst due to a cup of soup at lunch, a glass of water, and most of a can of Diet Coke which I continue to drink because I’m TEMPTING THE GODS. To keep my mind off of my dangerously distended lower abdomen, I will now furiously relate to you the textual panic attack that I sent Bologna while she was away from the computer to change a dirty diaper (probably Nugget’s, not her own). I can’t believe how out of whack her priorities are. Can’t the kid sit in a pile of his own feces for five minutes? I HAVE A CRISIS.

Everyone knows that I have severe stage fright when it comes to peeing in the presence of others but I flat out refuse to enter a bathroom inhabited by janitors. They are the ultimate, silent enemy. There’s no Mexican Stand Off that can deter them. They will wait for you to vacate because they need to finish cleaning that room. You can’t just curl up in the fetal position on the toilet, put your fingers in your ears and hum gently to yourself because it’s not a personal thing for them – it’s professional. They are professional Mexican Stand Offers. They’re paid to wait for you to move your ass so they can scrub the toilet under it.

As I have just demonstrated, waiting is not an option. I could just go in there are pee but the last time I did that, I imagined the custodian polishing the sink faucets, shaking her head and thinking “Seriously?! I JUST cleaned that and now I have to fucking do it again.” Except for the recleaning she’d have to scrub a freshly soiled toilet with loose urine particles still hanging in the air. And GOD FORBID the seat still be warm when she goes back to reclean it. I would not be able to live with the knowledge that there was a transfer of ass heat.

Anyway, after that played through my head last time I had to wash my hands while standing next to her, full of shame for my own biological insufficiencies. I almost apologized. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sprint across the building to find a safe haven before I follow Nugget’s example.

When We Last Left Our Hero

First of all, I turned my squash into soup and I want you to know that it was fan-freakin-tastic so I’ve actually purchased another butternut squash to pulverize into liquid for tonight’s dinner. Second, wow. It’s been two and a half weeks? A lot happened. A lot. Oodles. I will now summarize for any interested parties who may or may not have attacked my Facebook wall with wails of rage over my lack of blog attention due to brides-slave duties and also doing someone else’s project at work. The only thing I’ll leave out is when I was almost attacked by zombies. That’s a story for another time.

So where did I leave off? Ah yes. The two-foot inflatable penis. It was implemented as it should have been. Meaning shortly before the bachelorette party guests began arriving at my hotel room to pregame, I sat around in my underwear watching Food Network and blowing it up. Then we posed with it and repeatedly tossed it at our token gay guy. Much joviality was had by all. After polishing off a bottle of vodka, all sixteen of us piled into the rickety old elevator (because it looked like a REALLY good idea at the time) and had a collective panic attack when it started jerking a bit and showing other signs of strain.

We stormed Sissy K’s (which will put you on the guest list, waive the cover charge, and let you skip ahead of the line if you call ahead for a bachelorette party reservation) and did all the things good little single ladies should do: threw back test tube shots, asked young gentlemen for their underwear for a scavenger hunt, danced so much our legs hurt for the next two days and handed out mardi gras beads. Oh. And I also may have almost gotten into a fist fight when some bitch shoved Chairsy, the bride, on the dance floor. But Chairsy is made of sugar and spice and everything nice so she didn’t even realize the girl had shoved her on purpose. She just kept on smiling and bopping along to the music while I got up in the chick’s face with that wide-armed you-messed-with-the-wrong-brides-maid stance but the bitch ran away so I didn’t get to throw punches after all.

Next we stumbled, skipped, and piggy backed over to the Grand Canal where we had another connection that allowed us to jump the line for free. Once inside we realized it was a pseudo classy bar which we were adulterating with our boisterous shouting and Chairsy’s loud complaints that the bartender didn’t know how to make a blow job shot. Then the night got fuzzy and I think I made friends with a hooker in the ladies’ bathroom. She looked like Bret Michaels in a gold lame mini dress and she was using the hand dryer to make her hair bigger. Love at first sight.

Eventually, the night wound down and our drunken bride began demanding her comfy shoes so we shuffled back to the parking garage to retrieve her Uggs from the trunk of her car but the thing about parking garages? Really tricky to get into when you’re drunk. The security guard yelled at us when we attempted to hoof it down the ramp meant for incoming vehicles. Finally we found a staircase which took us to the right place but the second we emerged from the stairwell, the door slammed shut and an ominous sign said “No Readmittance” which wouldn’t have stopped us except it also had the audacity to lock. Once Chairsy had appropriated the preferred footwear, we found an operating elevator and cheered and high fived all the way to the floor marked with a star. That floor ended up being the grand marble-clad lobby of 75 State Street where a gaggle of drunk girls wearing matching neon pink shirts look ever so slightly conspicuous at two in the morning. We certainly weren’t returning to the creepy depths of Mordor though, so instead, we attempted the front door which was locked and guarded by two police officers behind a line of yellow tape. So, um. I knocked. Politely. And then a little bit more insistently.

Eventually they overcame their surprise and opened the doors to yell at us as we scampered outside. After 10 or 15 seconds of trying to respectfully explain the stairwell situation to calm their belligerent scolding, we grew bored and Chairsy started to wander so I closed the conversation by yelling “Well, we’re outside now, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it, officer?” and followed the entourage down the street.

Shortly after, we parted ways so the bride could attack a McDonalds on the way to her own hotel. Apparently I know Boston better than I previously assumed because I found my way back to my hotel without incident and in celebration, purchased a large bag of snacks from the 711 next door. I then proceeded to stand on the street corner eating Combos from my purse while texting Beau.

I woke up relatively early the next morning in relatively good shape. I pulled down streamers and popped about thirty balloons with a pen to avoid getting charged for trashing the room before smuggling all of the remaining penis accoutrement in the bag that Chairsy left with me for safe keeping. Including a deflated two-foot wang.

Your Own. Personal. Jesus.

I currently have a butternut squash and a two-foot-long inflatable penis in my car and they are, in some strange way, related thanks to Chairsy’s upcoming wedding. The wiener is one of many inappropriate objects destined for her bachelorette party this Saturday. The produce. Well.

As you may remember, I was incorrectly measured for my bridesmaids dress. I have since learned that it was ordered a full THREE sizes too small. I’d lost a size by the time it was delivered so by the time I was hopping up and down trying to squeeze into it, it was only TWO sizes too small. Only. After briefly exercising in an attempt to shed 30 pounds in 2 months, I came to the conclusion that I much prefer drinking vodka alone at my kitchen counter to sweating. She-Ra recommended I go to the uber-Italian seamstress who altered her wedding gown, proclaiming her a bonafide miracle worker. She works (and apparently lives) in the basement of her big, beautiful house, I assume because Italians have a strict no-touch policy when it comes to having nice things (thus the plastic couch covers so prevalent in popular movies). I’m used to this because my aunt in Long Island has a white couch in her mirrored front parlor guarded by a porcelain jaguar. In a quarter of a century, I have NEVER seen anyone sit on that couch. Anyway, that’s why the basement thing didn’t weird me out.

Last month, after a bit of prodding and yanking on the zipper, the seamstress asked for more fabric to complete the sash around the middle of the dress. I ordered a yard of it from China which was finally delivered last weekend. I didn’t make it to the seamstress until today because I’m having a REALLY hectic week month year. I forgot the fabric at home on Tuesday, postponed my fitting till Wednesday, forgot the shoes on Wednesday, postponed the fitting till today and finally made it to her house basement, flustered, red-faced, and extremely apologetic.

I wiggled into the dress which already fit thanks to her wizardry and wobbled out to the pedestal where she spun me around in circles while marking the hem and patiently listening to my outpouring of gratitude for fixing a dress that previously had a 4-inch gap to overcome via its zipper. I paused for breath at one point and she calmly said while holding pins between her lips, “That’s life. Nothing to get upset over. Don’t you worry. This is nothing.” It made me pause mid-hyperventilation and reevaluate my entire life. Wow. So what if I came inches (4 to be exact) from walking down a church aisle at one of my best friend’s weddings with a gapping hole in the back of my dress? It’s not the end of the world. No biggy. She fixed it. Just like that. I wanted to take her with me to say it over and over again the next time I’m stuck in traffic thinking about following a tailgater home so I can egg their house and key their car.

While I stood there dumbstruck by my existential epiphany, her husband wandered through the studio to ask about lunch. They exchanged a few words in Italian and he smiled and said to me, “I still have to ask her how to cook everything.” I smiled. Then he asked “You like these?” and pointed to the squash in his hand. I answered “Of course!” He could have been holding a pound of rancid meat and I would have said yes at that moment. “Then I give you one before you go.” True to his word after I’d changed clothes again, he took me to the garage to display his garden’s bumper crop and insisted I pick out a butternut squash for dinner. I almost hugged the seamstress when she walked me to the door. We’ve shared philosophy and squash. In the Italian culture, that practically makes us family now.

Even Bigger Yawns

Christ almighty. I’m now getting over round THREE of the ailment that will not die and now work refuses to settle down. Turns out I have a real job. Weird… good thing I don’t show up hung over anymore. Well, except the day after Nugget was born but that was situational intoxication. I was innocently drinking red wine at a dinner party when suddenly Bologna sent me a picture of him and I was SO excited to a) be an aunt and b) figure out how to open a picture text that I may have accidentally gotten into the bottle of rum. Half the bottle of rum. Anyway. As I was saying: Nug.

via Flutter Productions

While we were in the Jerz, a photographer stopped by to take some family portraits. I’m pumped to see the rest of her set because in addition to the usual formal pictures, there's also a series of about 50 shots of Nugget crapping his pants while sitting on T’s knee. You would not believe the faces that this kid pulls. First it’s a look of consternation, followed by effort, then relief, utter shock, disgust, confusion, and finally delight. I’m going to make it into a flip book and show his girlfriends when he’s a teenager.

Great Big Yawns

I’m back from round two of the cold that will not die. Lounging this past weekend probably would have been a better option than drinking in the city, shopping at the new Dedham mall, catching a late showing of Julie & Julia, cleaning the entire house , and then hiking and picnicking in the Blue Hills but at least I’ve committed myself to slothfulness this coming weekend to teach myself a lesson.

I realize that I’ve neglected to go into any amount of detail concerning the events of the past few weeks, but instead of chronicling every moment of madness, I thought I’d just drop some pictures and brief explanations over the next few days. Is good? Yes? Does anyone even read this thing? Good, then I can do whatever I want instead of catering to my imaginary fans. Starting tomorrow.

A Mexican Standoff of Epic Proportions

Maybe you’ve noticed I avoid discussing work these days. I know I’m flattering myself but it’s because I’m afraid that should my real name ever get out, I’ll get fired for online snarkiness and since I have no marketable skills, I will remained unemployed for many moon while my savings wither away. But the following story? This I must share with you.

To preface this, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had about six hours of sleep in the past two days. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because that busyness is exhausting me and when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in my narcotic of choice, Advil PM. I haven’t gotten there yet since it’s only been two nights of insomnia. I’m still firmly planted in the phase that oscillates between crankiness and glazed-over, vacant staring.

So, when I entered the ladies room earlier today and saw that my favorite stall was occupied, I got a little ornery. I was forced to take the handicapped stall at the end to provide a buffer. Hate that stall. My feet swing because my legs are short. Grumble grumble.

Normally I would just wiz and leave but because I’m a LITTLE ON EDGE RIGHT NOW I SO CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE SOME FUCKING PRIVACY WHILE I URINATE, I waited. Seconds crept by. The other occupant shuffled and fidgeted a bit. She pulled some paper from the roll and deafeningly wadded it into a ball. I tapped my foot. She made a second toilet paper wad. I sighed. By then I had passed the Awkwardness Barrier which requires that you perform within 20 seconds of seating yourself in a public bathroom when only one other stranger is present. Whether those 20 seconds pass due to stage fright or choice, after that time period it is absolutely prohibited to do your business until the other occupant has vacated. Why is this a rule? I don’t know. Maybe this is how my OCD brain keeps me from tapping things as I walk by them like my father does. Maybe I just can’t stand the sound of pure silence unexpectedly interrupted by the piercing cry of pee on water. Regardless, after this period of time, you enter into a Mexican Stand Off with your opponent. Only one can remain and I was prepared to wait another half an hour or so to prove my point.

I was pulled from my dazed reverie by a cough. With a heavy heart, I recognized it. It was a particular coworker of mine who consistently makes my eye tick. She’s foreign. Even her cough has a thick accent. She’s also the office talker: get caught at the sink with her and you will need to discuss for 15 minutes how you are both in the restroom at the same time and isn’t that SUCH a coincidence. Any slim consideration of getting on with my business vanished. She was going to fucking leave and I was going to get my fucking privacy and oh my god, I think I just burst a blood vessel in my eye.

Please allow me to expand on my vehemence. Office B and I have nicknamed this woman “Happy F” because after her first week here she wished us all a very happy Friday. Each one of us. Individually. And then next week it was “Happy Monday!” and “Happy Tuesday!” etc. etc. until my nails were digging into my palms to keep me from flying at her in a fit of desperate rage. You want more? She has taken it upon herself to be our personal welcome wagon and hug new employees on their first day. HUG. As in full body contact. She asks a series of questions that would be better directed at Google to anyone who demonstrates the slightest shred of competence in a topic. I despise watering the plant next to her desk because inevitably, she prairie dogs out of her cubicle and starts asking me about sun exposure, speckles on foliage, and botanical terminology and I have to stand there and not say, “I’m just watering the fucking plant” which takes immense restraint on my part. She makes me order random office supplies. In one instance, she decided she didn’t like the footstool I got her (footstool – who needs a footstool?!) , she hid it in the storage closet and buried it under other things as if I eventually wouldn’t think, “hmm, I don’t remember leaving all of these previously neatly stacked items in one heap on the floor.” She once told people gathered around the coffee machine that she heard on NPR that laughing has health benefits so if you live alone, they recommend practicing on inanimate objects. Like tea cups. Then she demonstrated. Now I can’t erase the depressing mental image of her standing alone in a tattered bathrobe giggling at her morning cup of tea in an otherwise deserted studio apartment.

So, that’s Happy F. Imagine my relief when she gave up and flushed. Another minute or two and I would be clear to evacuate the three cups of coffee that were keeping my sleep deprived brain semi-useful. She washed her hands. I stared at my boots and imagined that I was somewhere else. Then I heard the sound that will echo through future nightmares. The unmistakable zing of a make-up bag zipper sliding open.

For the next eternity, I sat in silence as she brushed her teeth, rinsed, brushed a few spots she had missed, and rinsed again. I sighed loudly. She flossed. I counted ceiling tiles. She gargled with mouth wash, and rinsed. In a dramatic gesture, I rested my forehead on my right arm which I had stretched out along the metal support bar on the wall. She patted her hands with a paper towel, brushed her hair, wiped down the counter, adjusted her clothing and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. By the end, I had resigned myself to die alone in the handicapped stall and was preparing to scrawl my last will and testament across the wall. I leave my DVDs to Lulu, the condo to Beau, my collection of strangers’ grocery lists to Bologna. But to Happy F, I leave NOTHING.

My head jerked up when the door swung open and another woman entered. I had dozed off somewhere near the end of Happy F’s grooming session and didn’t notice when she left. I finished my business and returned to my desk, having proven my point by spending my entire lunch break in the restroom.

Weekend Highlights: Coming Up For Air

I’ve finally caught up with enough work to even consider sneaking off to the internet for a little blog action. These past two weeks? Madness. Absolute insanity. Tonight? I’ll be sitting behind the dugout at the Sox game spilling beer on innocent bystanders just to fit in with the crowd. Tomorrow? Taking Notorious out for a belated birthday dinner. Friday? Mistress’ birthday party in the city. MADNESS.

These past few weeks will probably need to be cordoned off into multiple segments to cover the many layers and levels of lunacy that I experienced. I will now diligently begin writing about them and glaring at the banana that I bought last night for my breakfast this morning that I haven’t eaten yet because as much as I don’t want to admit it, I really hate bananas.

Business and Busyness

Never in my life have I been this busy. One time in college I signed up for two whole extracurricular activities and found that attending weekly meetings was too demanding for my lifestyle. My Monday and Wednesday schedules could not handle the loss of a couple hours of sitting my dorm room playing Air’s Talisman on loop while drawing caricatures of people I didn’t like. After just a couple weeks, I dropped out of the student government to pursue illegally downloaded reruns of Family Guy because that’s more my speed.

That is no longer an option in life because despite my constant yowling and notarized demands, my friends and family have refused to space out their major life events in a way that is more convenient to me. This brings us to the busiest two weeks EVER. I’m possibly busier than Oprah but frankly, I just don’t have time to personally correspond with her anymore so I don’t know for certain. Sorry O.

Does this all sound like pissing and moaning? I didn’t mean it to. It may be the caffeine WHICH I’VE BEEN DRINKING IN HIGH ENOUGH QUANTITIES TO MAKE MY HAIR TINGLE causing another bout of verbal diarrhea. Here’s the thing: turns out that I am a completely different person from the blue haired girl I was in college. I'm digging on this nonstop chaos. Last week I learned how to cram 40 hours of work into about 24 hours while planning a bachelorette party and throwing the big company picnic so that I could take a 4-day weekend at the Bologna estate with the family and the newly born Nugget who is officially the cutest baby EVER and if you’re not comfortable with that magnitude of a hyperbole then please send me a picture of the infant that you think is cuter for a side by side comparison. Or just save your stamps because I can already confidently say your kid would only rank about a 4 on the scale from 1 to Nugget.

I challenge you to be cuter

So, yeah, Nugget already rocks harder than anyone I know and he’s only up to crapping his tiny little pants and emitting wails of rage. Really cute wails of rage that will eventually make me do things like pat him on the head and pinch his cheeks when I’m finally allowed to touch him. Anyway, most of the weekend was spent cooking, cleaning, errand-running and staring at him while he slept. There was also one incident of backyard mojitos.

Beau and I drove back from Wu Jersey on Monday and I’ve been banging out work ever since. Even now I’m simultaneously typing this entry, licking the remnants of my lunch from a Lean Cuisine tray, and hollering at a vendor. This is an unprecedented level of multitasking for me. Why? Because this is another 3-day work week. Thursday night I’m leaving for the Cape where She-Ra is getting married in a multiday bonanza of festivities.

Until probably mid next week, this is Dangerous K signing off. Stay classy, Internet.

Weekend Highlights: I Interrupt This Belated Post

I took a dozen pictures of an ominous sky this weekend but the much-hyped Hurricane Bill passed by without much more excitement. Allegedly, there was rain but I slept through it. Awful convenient.

I snuck away from the office yesterday to interview for an awesome position but never made it there because I spent an hour getting lost on the south shore. Even if I got the directions down, I’d never manage to commute so far on a daily basis. From the parking lot of gas station, I cancelled while choking back tears and spent the rest of the day being a sad little rock. I’d seen the light at the end of the work tunnel and just as quickly had it ripped away. WHY?? Is this because I doubted the power and majesty of Hurricane Bill?!

Now, I could care less and it has absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine sitting in my kitchen. I got a call while catching up with work this morning. It was Bologna. At 5:00 am, she sprung (sprang? spranged? springed?) a leak and by the time I sat down to my morning coffee, she was on her way to the hospital. The majority of my day was spent in true bipolar fashion, alternately shrieking at vendors and pestering Bologna for updates. At last check, they estimated Nugget would be birthed tomorrow.

Which means, my sister made a human. Seriously. She hasn’t been faking it this entire time like we all suspected. She made an entire person and science suggests that that person will one day grow a personality and perhaps even roll his eyes at me. Also, T may have been involved.

In Which I Identify With Hollywood’s Finest

I’ve been trying to blog for the past day and a half, but every time I try, I end up sitting and staring at my site for 15 minutes. In my characteristically fickle way, I’ve decided I’m not in love with my new design. It’s just not me and I might be PMSing so this is suddenly very important. It’s blocking my creative juices. And also maybe my chi. Do I have a chi or is that just for Asians?

Anyway, I think the design is absolutely adorable. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just too adorable. There’s too much lady and not enough sailor visually represented here. I wear stilettos and skirts every day but I also usually have soy sauce on my blouse and I freely flip people off behind their backs when they don’t hold the door for me. Those are equally important sides of my personality. As I explained to Bologna earlier, long hair is fine as long as you tie it back during bar fights. There’s just too much loose hair around here and I’m beginning to compensate with crazy. And we don’t want the crazy to bubble up. Nobody wants that.

So, we’ve identified the problem, but the solution is trickier. My designer just had a baby a week or so ago. I sent a tentative email requesting help but she’s understandably busy caring for a new life form and not tending to my whininess. I’m going to wait till the end of the month to give myself ample time to think this over but I’d kind of like to scrap the frou frou thing, take it back down to the bare bones, and let it return to a more natural state.

Oh God. I think I just got why Britney shaved her head.

Weekend Highlights: Second One (Booya!)

I’m back to reality after another lovely weekend spent down the Cape. I thrifted again…

Hoarded glassware for eventual center pieces (the candles will eventually be white or blue)

…except this time, the elderly cashier accidentally put an extra item in my bag: a horrible decorating book printed in the late 90s. After thumbing through it, Mama Beau nodded her head and declared the designs “grounds for divorce.” One project suggested I hang pink tulle from my bedroom windows. Shudder. So, now I’m terrified that I’m going to be banned from my favorite thrift store as a shoplifter all for a crappy book that I would never have shoplifted in the first place. He couldn’t have inadvertently thrown in a trashy romance novel instead?

Saturday night we watched beach fireworks from the comfort of the yacht club. I may finally be getting the hang of using my new camera.

Most of Sunday was spent tethered to a boat playing with my favorite floaty.


Everyone else prefers the adult sized tubes and rafts but I adore my $1 children’s toy from the Tree. Sometimes I stand on it, sometimes I sit on it, sometimes I see how long I can balance in a dhanurasana pose before ever so gracefully flopping into the water. The balancing effort is an ab workout and it keeps me pseudo-treading water for hours. Or at least until the big, bad red jellyfish start showing up in droves. We counted almost a dozen in the span of an hour.

Now back to work which is increasingly annoying. More so than a normal Monday. This ranks as at least a Tuesday in my book.

Shopping Extravaganza

Sometimes I go weeks without spending more than I need to on food and bills. Then I check my bank account, see a surplus of funds, and feel the need to buy completely random items that make me happy.

There are two bathrooms on the second floor of the new condo. Our master bath has a claustrophobically small shower stall which I refuse to enter and our cavernous guest bathroom has a bathtub. I’m currently taking it over with my girly stuff – hair products, tampons, sentimental poetry to read on the shitter. To further mark my territory, I’m decorating it to suit my own tastes. My tastes involve prints of animals in fancy hats.

"Hippo Queen" by Poordogfarm

Then today during my morning ritual of coffee, reading blog updates, and avoiding work related tasks, I saw these cuties on one of my favorite wedding blogs, Snippet & Ink.

Sseko Designs

Not only are they made by a group of Ugandan women who use the proceeds to further their educations, but Snippet & Ink readers get a discount. I ordered a pair and opted for interchangeable brown, red and black ribbons.

In a similar vein, Beau and I decided where to register for the wedding. First, Bed, Bath, and Beyond which, yes, is kind of overdone, but we have really basic tastes in housewares (apart from decorative hippos) and don’t want people to spend a fortune on us. And this is a step up from our original thought of registering at Ikea. Second, Home Depot. Didn’t know they had a registry, didja? I didn’t either until a coworker of mine told me that’s what she did for her wedding a few years ago. We don’t really need a gilded toilet scrubber or fancy plates. We need power tools and gift certificates for renovation supplies so we can continue pimping the condo.

Now I just need to make it through the rest of the work day before heading out to the Cape. Have a good weekend!

My Bridesmaids

The Jalapeno

**PARENTAL ADVISORY: consider yourself warned**

Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.

Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.

Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”

“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).

He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.

I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”

“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.

I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”

“It’s on my bunghole.”

There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.

But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.

Presents

The first of my wedding crafts went into the mail last Friday and today I heard that the last of them had safely arrived at its destination.

Due to geographical inconveniences (like Connecticut's existence along the north east corridor) I had to ask the majority of my bridesmaids via phone, email, or IM if they would be part of the wedding party.

Since that’s not the most charming way to pop the question, I also sent follow up notes introducing them to each other and providing information about the big day.

Elise Blaha was the inspiration behind this project. Visit her blog for the adorable originals!

Weekend Highlights

My weekends are always packed with fun tidbits to share but come Monday, I’m usually too busy at work to post, so they get lost in the melee. So, instead of a lengthy recitation of every time I scratched my ass this weekend, I’m going to start posting a few highlights (I’m formally declaring a new project – that’s like a death warrant for it. Let’s see if I even make it through the first one).

Per usual, we went down the Cape where I started pillaging thrift stores for wedding centerpieces. I’m planning on candle gardens of mismatched glassware with a few big blooms similar to the ones below. Yes, I’m ambitious enough to attempt cross stitching all the table numbers as well.

Via Snippet & Ink

Grasshoppah came out to visit looking like a cast member of Twilight thanks to a no-sun policy and a new hair color. We ate lunch at the BBC in Hyannis, dropped by the yacht club where Beau and I will be married next June, and took an evening cruise on the boat.

Friday night I made it through 14 innings of the Sox-Yankees game that would not die thanks in large part to rum’s newest rival, Firefly, a sweet tea infused vodka that pairs deliciously with lemonade to make a spiked Arnold Palmer.

Booya! Made it to the end. No promises for next week, but we’ll see.

Don't Trust A Computer

Me and you, we’ve discussed how I have trouble with screen shots, right? Once again, I’ve experienced technical difficulties with that seemingly simple function. This morning I sent a routine email about an error message I saw. Now, here’s a game for you to play: spot the horribly mortifying mistake in the following screen shot that I sent to the vendor.

Need a hint? Did you check what I last googled?

WHY AM I SO AWKWARD?!?!?

Now there’s a herd of techies sitting in Texas who are either a) pointing north and laughing or b) convinced that I am a jilted lesbian. In my own defense, I googled it in the first place after reading a facebook status update from Notorious:

Being the playful type, I had planned on responding with lyrics that describe my innermost feelings… but couldn’t remember what came before “woo ooh” in the song. And then I got distracted with error messages and screen shots and emails and the whole thing just kind of spiraled out of control until I was sitting at my desk slamming my forehead into the keyboard and exchanging brief emails with the vendor which are COMPLETELY USELESS WHEN ATTEMPTING TO READ SOMEONE’S TONE AND DETECT LAUGHTER AND POINTING.

So, I now present this to you, sweet Internet, as further evidence that I am the reincarnation of Lucille Ball. Much like recounting a nightmare involving zombie cucumbers chasing you out of the produce aisle to whoever will listen, sharing the embarrassing details of my day makes me feel a little better about them.

I Got Some 'Splainin To Do

A few months ago, the ladies of Chairsy’s bridal party ventured to Rhode Island for our initial dress fitting. As the least shy amongst the group, I was led into the dressing room first to strip before my mimosa had fully kicked in. The wedding consultant took my measurements and then sat quietly for a few moments, furiously scribbling mathematical equations on her notebook and eyeing me warily. Finally, she explained (in that tone that you use with your dog when you’re trying to coax out from under a bed during a thunderstorm) that bridal couture runs small. VERY small. Always. Fact of life. Even congress can’t change it. I nodded patiently and smiled in a good-natured way. She told me not to feel personally affronted by the size she was about to suggest for me. I acknowledged that it was just a number and that I was not the type to determine self worth based on clothes tags.

Still, she flinched as she told me I was on the cusp between a size 16 and 18. An 18 would need to be taken in, a 16 would need to be let out. I considered her statement for a moment and explained that I’d lost almost a dress size in the past few months and that I was planning to continue with that diet plan. So, I picked the smaller size with the best of logical intentions… and also the slightest distaste for the number 18 which feels large and cumbersome even when you just say it out loud. Eighteen. Look how terrible it is written out!

Last week, I picked up the dress and two days ago, I finally had time to try it on. I was expecting it to be an extremely tight fit that would need to be let out. I was not expecting a one and a half inch gap circa my rib cage.

Bitch LIED to me.

I shrieked for Beau’s help. After a few earnest tugs he shook his head. I began muttering soothingly, “That’s OK. I’m still losing weight. I just need to keep going. I’ll have it let out as much as possible. Yes. And then it’ll fit just fine. Everything’s going to be OK.” Beau backed away slowly while I wiggled out of the dress and began a Jillian Michael’s video.

I later asked Beau what it’s like to be engaged to the modern equivalent of Lucille Ball. Considering my track record of attempting to kidnap dogs, getting locked in stairwells, convincing myself I was in the men’s room at my new office, and breaking my ass while trying on Spanx, I don’t think the comparison is a far cry. Really, who gets themselves into these situations on a regular basis?!

He shrugged and said I make his life “entertaining.” Which is exactly what I think losing one and a half inches from my ribcage in just over two months will be like.

Boudoir

Before

After
Pre

Post

Formerly

Currently

Welcome to Dangerous K 2.0

Sexy, eh?

This is my way of saying I plan to continue blogging despite my evolution into a slightly less drunken waste of space. Thank you to my loving friends and family who assured me that I am not becoming a boring old lady just because I can no longer consume a fifth of Jack Daniels and remain vertical. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the house-holdy posts have been increasing and the I-threw-up-on-a-man-on-the-subway posts have been decreasing. This is a trend that’s here to stay, I fear, though, that said, Beau and I will be celebrating the best work week ever this evening. I got a raise and mini-promotion (no new title, but extra work which includes spending company money on limos and booze) and Beau got a surprise bonus out of the blue. So, that whole sobriety thing is subject to change. I’ll be back from the Cape on Monday with – I swear on all that is holy – with pictures of my first wedding craft and the final bedroom pictures.

A special thanks to Marina at Penny Lane Designs who is responsible for this face lift. I’d recommend her for anyone else considering a bit of freshening up.

Sneak Peak

Oh yes. I painted the master bedroom a particularly vibrant shade of "are you fucking crazy?" blue.

And now I'm wondering where to find a good online tutorial for my Nikon S710 because it's a wonderful little camera and I'm not doing it justice with my lack of photography skills. Also, I would like to avoid having to crop my pictures so close to hide the shame of an obvious flash on window pane glass.

Floral Motif Thug

Every year I buy a planner and every year it falls apart from the rough and tumble nature of life in my purse where it is forced to cohabit with stilettos, half eaten muffins, and the occasional leaking water bottle that I refuse to throw in the garbage when recycling will eventually be available. It’s the handbag equivalent of Compton.

This year I bought my pocket calendar from Posy Paper Co.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that their Etsy shop is operational anymore which is a shame because this little guy has taken a serious beating for the past six months and is still in fantastic condition. Hopefully 2010 will not see a return to my old organizational system of blanketing my desk in a complex series of color coded Post-Its.

Who Needs Free Time?

Pfft. Not me. I’m beginning to get used to the nonstop roller coaster of home-owning, wedding-planning, and family-event-juggling. This time last year, my favorite pastimes included waking up at noon with a hangover and lazing about on the couch but I haven’t done either in ages and I can’t honestly say I miss them. There’s just not enough time to loudly moan for Beau to bring me Tums. If I need Tums now, it goes on my to-do list and gets checked off just like the others.

Friday afternoon I trekked further into the city by car than I’ve ever been before to attend a friend’s 30th anniversary party at my old office. It was relatively uneventful, but merits mention because I actually got into and out of the city during Friday rush hour without crashing or crying or ending up in Maine.

Saturday morning we drove down to Connecticut where we caught the ferry for Long Island for the yearly Dangerous Family Reunion. As usual, I brought my camera with the best of intentions and then promptly abandoned it in favor of cracking dirty jokes at the kids table with Beau, Bologna, T, and my favorite cousin, Hazardous (so called because while I may be Dangerous, she’s downright trouble) and her husband. My family lived up to its reputation as the Italian version of the family in My Big Fat Greek Wedding by asking five minutes into the party when we planned on breeding.

On Sunday we raided Home Depot and held a second Ikea siege. For the remainder of the day I repotted sick plants that I definitely didn’t overwater by leaving on the back porch during Boston monsoon season and painted the bedroom. There should be some stellar before and after pictures by the end of the week.

Meanwhile, we’ve finally scrapped the idea of a pseudo-elopement to Bermuda with our 50 closest family and friends and are steaming forward with plans for a full-fledged Cape Cod wedding next June. Since I’ve learned nothing from watching She-Ra craft oodles of time-consuming goodies for her wedding this September, I already have two craft projects of my own planned, not to mention my own Etsy shop to be launched by the end of the summer.

So, that is how I came to cherish my lunchtime blogging sessions in solitude though it may make me look slightly sociopathic to my coworkers who all eat lunch together in the break room.

PS You may have noticed my blog has its own official home at www.dangerousk.net now. The damn squatters at www.dangerousk.com have been sitting on that domain for well over a year without budging or developing it, so I gave in and bought the alternative. Keep an eye out here for another of my pet projects coming soon: an overhaul of the blog design. Happy I-Don't-Spend-All-My-Money-On-Tequila-Shots-Anymore Day to me!

Domestic Adventures (Not the Chris Brown Type)

I am loving on domesticity so hard right now. There has been a veritable bonanza of householdy stuff going on and I’ve gotten very squealy and arm-flappy and new-word-makey-uppy to convey the full scope of my delight. My delight is so much bigger than you understand right now. So much bigger.

After She-Ra’s bridal shower this weekend (which was lovely and very cute and gave me the chance to make sober introductions to other Beau family members that I don’t already know, but which I can’t talk about in more detail before I get to Bologna’s baby shower because in the Great Shower Caste System, Bologna’s shower wins by virtue of happening first, being planned by me, and being thrown for a blood-relation. So, in short, I will get to Bologna’s baby shower soon… ish) Beau and I came home early to finally get to work on the condo. First on our to-do list was pillaging Ikea for furniture since the place is cavernous. And beige. Maybe I mentioned that it is beige before.

Our Ikea raid was extremely successful. We walked away with more Swedish accoutrement than one can reasonably expect to fit in a sedan even if said sedan is of the Italian Grandfather variety. But we are not reasonable people. We want our Stefan and Grevbäck and several hundred other small items that we cannot live without like these place mats and that garbage can and OH! these skirt hangers are only $0.99 each? Grab like 20. Also that dust ruffle. And that thing. Yes that thing. What is it? Its $1.50 – put it in the cart. I’ll figure out what it does later.

It became clearer that the situation was challenging at best when we returned to the car with a greater volume of stuff than available interior space. Specifically, the bed which was in a big flat box of a length suitable for use as a life raft and was wider than the car. But Beau, being of the male persuasion, knew exactly how to transport this item home. He began by launching it on top of my car.

For the next 10 minutes, Beau ran around with flimsy Swedish twine while making brow-furrowing faces to show his concentration and hide his delight with the project. Eventually, my Lillesand was “securely” tied to the roof. Beau hopped into the driver’s seat and I hopped into the seat behind him as the front passenger’s seat was fully reclined to accommodate a bookshelf.

We began our journey of under 10 miles home at 30mph, avoiding highways and making LOTS of new friends along the way who were all so excited to see us limping along that they followed us almost close enough to push us up the hills. I waved and smiled and pointed at the giant cardboard slab. When I do things like that, my family often tells strangers that I’m touched in the head. Then I just wave and smile at them some more.

What’s interested about Ikea twine is that it seems to be made of Lycra because when the wind got under the parcel, the string would stretch and the box would levitate ever so slightly forcing us to drive with our arms out the window in an attempt to maintain stability and keep the car from lifting off. We got home without going airborne and pulled everything into the condo where Beau contently began piecing things together and countering my offers for help.

Since then, we’ve also invested in a washer/dryer set which gave me hours of amusement last night (no, seriously, I’ve never been so happy to wash laundry. Mostly because my basement isn’t covered in midcentury grime or infested with hippies like my last two) and I’ve also purchased my very first sewing machine with which I will alternately hem skirts and mangle clothing patterns. Tonight we’re heading to Home Depot for paint and such to revamp the bedroom, so I may have a few before and after pictures sometime this century.

The Grand Tour: First Floor

We’re preparing to overhaul the condo which we got for a steal thanks to the lack of updates made since it was built 25 years ago. And, of course, thanks to the economy being in the crapper (thanks economy!) Before beginning work, I snapped a few pictures to compare with the end results:

Here’s our eat-in-kitchen which features glamorous linoleum floors and a light fixture from the early 1980s Italian-American era of etched glass and shame. Note the Miami Vice pink walls. They are a running theme. In the entire house.

This part of the kitchen won’t be tackled until next year when our free money shows up. Until then, I will accept the overarching beige-ness and continue feeling like Buffalo Bill is my interior decorator.

Besides the couch and Beau who’s preparing to hang curtains over our sliding glass door, the living room is still predominantly empty. What seemed like an excessive amount of furniture in our tiny apartment barely fills the room here. I think the area behind the couch will eventually house a line of bookshelves reminiscent of the library in my childhood home. Also, possibly a liquor cabinet.

Here we have my very own fireplace in which I will burn wood, confidential papers, and any dissenters who think I should switch to a gas-burning fireplace. I’m proud of my little magazine-inspired display though Beau is skeptical. Yes, the long sign on the left says “Help Wanted. No Irish Need Apply.” I bought it after dumping the Evil Irish Bartender and I refuse to get rid of it just because I’m engaged to yet another mick. Anyone who objects will be thrown on the fire with the potatoes.

And lastly, a teaser shot of my staircase leading to the second floor which is too messy to conscionably photograph and post on the Internet. I have some standards. Those standards involve not taking pictures of my unmade bed.

Until then, look closely at the photos above. In one of them, I might be stark naked leaning against a flesh colored wall. That should keep you busy until I get around to making my bed.

Let’s Do the Time Warp Again

I can’t believe it’s been almost three weeks since my last post. No, I won’t believe it. I refuse. You must be mistaken. I’m pretty sure I wrote something further down the page and you just missed it. You should appreciate those other posts that you clearly overlooked because it’s been a busy month and my brain is slightly more frazzled than usual. I:

• Finished packing the apartment and jumped up and down to piss off the Evil Landlord
• Moved into the new condo thanks to my crew of six
• Finished unpacking (well, 90% there)
• Skipped town for a long Independence Day weekend
• Formed the Lobster Liberation Front; campaigned against cruel and unusual punishment on the 4th of July; was outwitted by Beau’s uncle who claimed to be a Wiccan who sacrifices crustaceans to the Mother Earth; was told I was infringing on his religious rights which was thoroughly un-American of me
• Developed a weird stomach complaint that made it difficult to eat for an entire week; saw doctor; was told it was probably stress; scoffed at diagnosis
• Put the finishing touches on Bologna’s baby shower
• Drove to the Jerz and got lost near my old hometown
• Cooked for 30 people with Beau and Lulu
• Attended Bologna’s baby shower
• Came home
• Realized my stomach had been better since the day before the shower; started believing that maybe it was stress

But here I am, returning to some semblance of Zen. More stories and details to come now that I’m not clutching my abdomen in pain or throwing baby related items at the computer and hissing through clenched teeth.

Weakness of the Flesh

Upton Sinclair made me a vegetarian when I was 15. Or, more specifically, that terrible scene in The Jungle did. The socialist content went completely over my head but the thought of people-meat being mixed in with my sausage products was too much for me to handle. I went down to dinner that night, looked at the freshly carved chicken on the counter and announced, “I think I’m not going to eat meat anymore” to which my father called from the next room over, “There’s peanut butter in the cabinet.”

That carried on for a few years until one particularly grueling day in Disney World when I ordered a taco salad sans beef and was presented with a taco salad WITH beef. I knew it would take longer to get a fresh one than it would to wait for a gun license in New Hampshire (around 20 minutes) (which was unacceptable in my famished state) so I sat down with the intention of pushing the offensive substance to the side and consuming the slightly tainted lettuce beneath. Several minutes later, I came up for air with my face covered in delicious beef and then proceeded to sample a meat product at each country in Epcot. Now I own that shirt made famous by Heather Armstrong that says “Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.”

Still, I have a soft spot for animals. I cut six-pack rings before recycling to save the dolphins. I incessantly try to rescue lost dogs. I cry during those horrific animal abuse commercials with the Sarah McLachlan music in the background. So, when Beau told me that Father’s Day dinner would involve fresh lobsters, I may have panicked a little.

When it came time to cook them, I remained in the kitchen. For solidarity. Like how William Wallace’s friends came to his execution. The little troopers emerged from their refrigerated bag, kicking and futilely flailing their bound fists of fury. They continued struggling until they were lulled into a false sense of security with back pets though I’m quite sure I heard one of them whisper, “No. It will numb my wits, and I must have them all. For if I'm senseless or if I wail, then Longshanks will have broken me.” Just before being lowered into the Pot of Death, one of them looked me directly in the eye and I was forced to run into the next room. They died gracefully without the alleged screams I had been led to expect.

At dinner I choked down the steak that Beau’s mother had thoughtfully made for me in lieu of lobster, all the while thinking, “I will courteously eat this animal carcass and then I will remain steadfastly vegetarian for the foreseeable future.” I spent the rest of the evening in bed, nauseated by what I had seen.

Come morning, I woke late and had a bowl of soggy cereal, stewing in my self righteousness at the breakfast table. Because I was determined to carry on the Good Fight for which my comrades had so valiantly perished. I would not let those martyrs be forgotten by the barbarians who slew them for their savory innards. Oh no. I WOULD NOT LET THEM GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT. WHO’S WITH ME?!

Then Beau’s family showed me the two crisp, succulent strips of bacon that they had saved specifically for me. As it turns out, the foreseeable future is less than 18 hours.