Just Like “House of 1000 Corpses” Except with Fewer Corpses and More Humiliation

It was only a matter of time before I got into trouble here at my new office. Three blissful weeks of uninterrupted professionalism and sobriety were just too much for me to ask of the Universe. I’ve been waiting patiently to do something dreadfully embarrassing like flip a driver off in traffic only to find out in the parking lot that it was my boss. That’s why today, day 13 of my new job, I was not surprised when all that waiting came to an end.

I was lost in thought this morning on a routine trip to the lady’s room, probably pondering the supreme existential questions of mankind like where on the unattractiveness spectrum does ugliness end and deformity begin. Still deep in contemplation, I entered the restroom and approached my favorite stall. My reverie was cruelly disrupted when I saw before me a toilet with a lifted seat and urine spatters along the raw, exposed rim. Huh, I thought, here’s one I haven’t seen before. Some women are real freaks I guess.

My eyes widened in panic as it occurred to me that that may not be the case. A more reasonable explanation presented itself. I might have overshot the girl’s room by one door. As a result of my own spaciness and a case of massive autopilot failure, I might instead be in the men’s room. Like, for males only. Coincidentally, the gender of the CEO, President, and Vice President of my new company. All of whom were getting out of a breakfast meeting any minute and were no doubt, full to the brim with coffee.

These disturbing mental images flashed through my mind as I stood just inside the stall, completely frozen. Then the main door to the bathroom opened and I slammed the stall door closed behind me and attempted to shrink to an eighth my normal size while cowering next to a sullied toilet that despite more serious prevailing concerns, continued to noticeably skeeve me out.

Instead of the click-clacking of stilettos across the tiled floor, I heard the soft padding of flat shoes. Like the scene in a slasher movie just before a stupid blonde is murdered, the footsteps moved casually past the sinks, excruciatingly slowly past the crack in the door jam that I was desperately trying not to watch, and finally into a neighboring stall. With my heart pounding in my ears, I ripped open the door and flew out of the restroom.

As I paused for breath directly outside like the complete and utter moron that I am, the President appeared in the hallway before me. My face fell into a look of abject horror to have been caught exiting the men’s room. Thankfully, like all good senior staff members, he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice that I appeared to have just soiled myself in his presence. He smiled benevolently before passing me and entering a door to my left.

I spun around and saw that I had been in the women’s room after all. My trustworthy autopilot had not failed. Shaking, I double checked the skirted symbol on the door and reentered, making sure to avoid the tainted stall of terror which I may never be able to use again.

Where's Waldo? Let Me Show You.

Ya know what pisses me off, Interweb? When your next door neighbors go away for two weeks at the end of December and turn off their wireless router so that you are bereft of Interweb access for HALF A BLOODY MONTH. And then they come back and lock the network so that you can't mooch off of it anymore. How uncharitable is that at this time of year? Seriously, my neighbors are the opposite of philanthropy. You can blame them for me not blogging much recently.

I suppose you could also blame my new rockin' job which keeps me super busy during the day but I would prefer if you didn't come down too hard on them. Granted I've only been working for two weeks but I absolutely adore the new gig. The days fly by since I'm not just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, I get to commute by car in my new pimpin mid-90s whip, the office is filled with girls my age who invite me to lunch every day to discuss our favorite available-only-on-TV merchandise, and there is free Diet Coke available in the fridge. If I can figure out how to sneak Bacardi onto the office supply ordering list, I'll absolutely be in 9-5 heaven.

In addition to Interweb issues and working for a living, Beau and I are now house hunting in earnest. The morning after our Christmas party Evil Landlord politely asked us to vacate by March instead of staying till the end of our lease in June. He insisted it wasn't because we were blasting Bette Midler until 3:00 am but instead because his sperminated wife will be spawning in the early spring and they'd like to move her mother into our apartment. While this is a massive inconvenience for us, I don't particularly want to live one thin layer of floorboards above a screaming baby. Plus, I imagine our landlord's life is about to suck big time if his mother-in-law will be living in the house. I take some twisted comfort in that. But, don't worry. We're not being evicted and we haven't put anything in writing. We're just trying our damndest to get out of here before the Seed of Evil Landlord is birthed.

At any rate, Beau bought us our very own Interweb connection so I'm free to babble to my heart's content. And now that I'm done with what was intended as a quick introduction to get you up to speed on my enormously interesting life, I see that it has actually evolved into a fairly lengthy entry unto itself so instead of launching into further revelations, I will instead say goodbye for now and promise to post again within the week.

Not So Dangerous

While most normal people are quick to blame their mistakes and appalling behavior on an Evil Twin, I long ago accepted that this was not an option for me. This is mainly because if I had a twin, I would invariably be the bad one. I've had a colorful past (some of which I illustrated for you at this time last year). When I sat down to compile a similar entry to conclude 2008 though, I wracked my brain and found the pickings to be much slimmer. Sure, I climbed out a window at a party last weekend, and yes, granted, I fell out of a chair later that same evening, but overall, there are fewer wild stories to choose from. Now, I'm more likely to curl up in my pajamas with a book on a Wednesday night than be chased out of a parking lot by the cops for public urination. Could it be? Have I… matured?

At the very least, my Good Twin has been rearing her un-hungover pretty little head with greater frequency. Beau has already taken the liberty of naming her "Cautious K" and shames me with the moniker every time I cross-stitch or turn down a fifth rumndietcoke or drive with my hands at 10 and 2 or gently suggest he maintain a speed of 35 mph. Maybe it was the four months of penny-pinching unemployment, maybe it was the increasingly nasty hangovers. Whatever the cause, the damage is irreparable. We're facing a kinder, gentler Dangerous K. One who drinks decaffeinated tea, has a gym membership and soon, a mortgage. One who gets tipsy off a bottle of wine and serenades her DD with an a capella rendition of Elton John's greatest hits. For that matter, one with hobbies other than drinking.

Did those past two paragraphs lose me my entire readership (who I assume is bent on hearing stories about me skin my knees outside a bar in Fenway)? I don't mean to suggest in any way, shape, or form that I have become an overnight teetotaler. On the contrary, I fully expect a number of shenanigans in the future, but I have to admit that the past year has been the tamest I've seen since 2001. It's time to pass the torch onto the younger pups like Mistress who tossed her cookies in a diner bathroom and then cheerfully rejoined the breakfast table last weekend. Ah, the good ol' days may have passed, but there are some things I just won't miss.