Can we squeeze in one more blog entry before the end of the month despite having little to say? Yes we can! My site meter suggests I have fans to please and I am all about fan pleasin’. Are you pleased yet? Are you at least temporarily satiated? I know I am.
Now that I’ve set an entirely too chipper tone for this post (which I can do in my wild nihilistic way), here are some updates that actually kind of blow and also the various brilliant ways in which I plan on fixing them:
Problem: Beau and I have seen around 40 houses and haven’t found a single structurally sound home in our price range that isn’t in the ghetto or 40 miles from Boston.
Solution: We finally gave up on Sunday and started looking for condos. Apparently, our budget provides for some pretty pimpin’ places that we’d previously ignored. In exchange for a buffer zone between me and my neighbors, I might get granite countertops or a Jacuzzi to put my little toy boats in or an extraordinarily convenient location.
Problem: Obama hasn’t fixed the economy yet like FOX news promised he would. Half a dozen of my friends or family members have been laid off, taken pay cuts, or at best, had their wages frozen for the foreseeable future.
Solution: I will convince T to let us build log cabins on his family’s land in the boonies where I will have a victory garden and feed chickens and darn socks and pretend to be Daniel Day-Lewis from The Last of The Mohicans until the recession ends.
Problem: There is a disfiguring blemish on my face. I am very sure it is a herpe. Just one. Beau insists that it is a zit and not a cold sore but luckily I am a hypochondriac so I know better.
Solution: Neosporin fixes everything. I have also threatened to remove my herpe and hide it somewhere in Bologna’s house during my impending trip to the Dirty Jerz. She thinks she’ll find it, but she won’t. My herpe is stealth. It doesn’t run around waving flags and screaming. This isn’t a gay pride parade folks.
Problem: I suck at conclusions.
Solution: I will leave my readers hanging with a sentence fragment which is sure to piss some people off but I don’t give a
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Terror and Wonder of Advil PM
Disclaimer: This blog may have been written under the influence of OTC sedatives. If you are the criticizing type, I urge you to stop reading. If you are the criticizing type and continue reading, I urge you to take your complaints and shove them.
At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.
Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.
All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.
I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.
This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.
At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.
Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.
All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.
I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.
This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A Really Big Hat
Two days ago I accidentally scared poor Beau half to death. We watched Nick & Nora’s Infinite Playlist which was infinitely cute and enjoyable and incidentally put me in a terrible mood. Mostly because it was 9:30pm on a Tuesday night and I wanted to go have an adventure in which I too find Jesus at a drag show instead of putting on my big girl panties and going to my cubicle in the morning.
So I grumbled and was put to bed early and the next day I wrote Beau a lengthy email apologizing for my funk and explaining that I was fine, I just wanted to quit my job and join the Peace Corps so he shouldn’t be concerned. Leave it to Beau to worry about some innocent little comment like that.
After talking me down from my proverbial ledge in his I-Am-Diffusing-a-Bomb-and-I-Know-Better-than-to-Cut-the-Blue-Wire tone by promising me things like puppies and magical powers and bars in Key West, he told me it’s time we took a vacation. Much like a Labrador, the key to keeping me from going berserk, ripping up your favorite pillows and peeing on the carpet when you’re not home is to let me out in the backyard for a solid romp. I have to be tired out before I can be expected to sit still without causing trouble (or hung over but I’m much whinier then). So Beau is letting me off my leash for a week in May. I’M GOING ON A CRUISE BITCHES.
I will now procure a pirate’s hat. Effective immediately, I will begin referring to myself as Commodore Dangerous K and respectfully request that you do the same.
So I grumbled and was put to bed early and the next day I wrote Beau a lengthy email apologizing for my funk and explaining that I was fine, I just wanted to quit my job and join the Peace Corps so he shouldn’t be concerned. Leave it to Beau to worry about some innocent little comment like that.
After talking me down from my proverbial ledge in his I-Am-Diffusing-a-Bomb-and-I-Know-Better-than-to-Cut-the-Blue-Wire tone by promising me things like puppies and magical powers and bars in Key West, he told me it’s time we took a vacation. Much like a Labrador, the key to keeping me from going berserk, ripping up your favorite pillows and peeing on the carpet when you’re not home is to let me out in the backyard for a solid romp. I have to be tired out before I can be expected to sit still without causing trouble (or hung over but I’m much whinier then). So Beau is letting me off my leash for a week in May. I’M GOING ON A CRUISE BITCHES.
I will now procure a pirate’s hat. Effective immediately, I will begin referring to myself as Commodore Dangerous K and respectfully request that you do the same.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Speaking of Which, Has Anyone Had A Positive Experience With OxiClean?
There have been recent developments in the ever continuing saga of When-The-Fuck-Did-I-Gain-1/3-of-a-Person, namely me once again attempting to lose the extra 1/3. Did you like how last time I just kind of quietly let it peter out without drawing attention to it? I was all “Hey, look over there! A unicorn!” and you didn’t even notice I was busy eating all the peanut butter.
Now I have a plethora of motivators pushing me towards actual commitment (2 weddings this year, 6-mile charity walk in April that I would prefer to finish without using my inhaler, my own stinginess preventing me from buying new clothes, bathing suit season… shudder). I’ve already massively overhauled my eating habits and curbed my drinking. Thanks to those changes, I’ve dropped almost 10 pounds since the start of the year but my weight loss has tapered off and I’ve been getting frustrated. Jen Lancaster’s latest book, Such a Pretty Fat, reminded me that laying around whining about my weight (albeit while eating carrot sticks instead of cake) is probably less effective than just getting up and moving around.
Much to Beau’s amusement, I’ve began doing aerobics after work using some of the On-Demand Exercise TV videos. I find the biggest problem is not the actual exercise itself, but getting started. When I get home from work, a glass of wine and a log of cheese look much more appealing than this:
Now I have a plethora of motivators pushing me towards actual commitment (2 weddings this year, 6-mile charity walk in April that I would prefer to finish without using my inhaler, my own stinginess preventing me from buying new clothes, bathing suit season… shudder). I’ve already massively overhauled my eating habits and curbed my drinking. Thanks to those changes, I’ve dropped almost 10 pounds since the start of the year but my weight loss has tapered off and I’ve been getting frustrated. Jen Lancaster’s latest book, Such a Pretty Fat, reminded me that laying around whining about my weight (albeit while eating carrot sticks instead of cake) is probably less effective than just getting up and moving around.
Much to Beau’s amusement, I’ve began doing aerobics after work using some of the On-Demand Exercise TV videos. I find the biggest problem is not the actual exercise itself, but getting started. When I get home from work, a glass of wine and a log of cheese look much more appealing than this:
As such, I could really use is an automated email reminder sent to me 15 minutes before I leave for home suggesting that I work out. I scouted out a few available options, but was only able to find your standard weekly newsletters with such painfully cheerful ideas as “Crunches are super fun when you use an exercise ball!” That is not helpful. That just makes me want to give dirty looks at the skinny girls in my office and drown my sorrows in mozzarella sticks.
I need something a little less subtle. Maybe something like, “If you don’t go home and exercise, you will have to shop in the fat chick store for the rest of your life” or, “Work out so you won’t eventually need firemen to knock down a wall of your house in order to get you out because you don’t fit through the doorway anymore.” Or even just a picture of Jaba the Hut with BBQ sauce down the front of his favorite JCrew hoody. Not that I would completely relate to that or anything.
I need something a little less subtle. Maybe something like, “If you don’t go home and exercise, you will have to shop in the fat chick store for the rest of your life” or, “Work out so you won’t eventually need firemen to knock down a wall of your house in order to get you out because you don’t fit through the doorway anymore.” Or even just a picture of Jaba the Hut with BBQ sauce down the front of his favorite JCrew hoody. Not that I would completely relate to that or anything.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Castle Update
Not so much my castle anymore. Here’s a list of fun discoveries we made on Saturday during the building inspection:
- The house has a termite problem which was previously undisclosed by the listing agent.
- The house had 2 crawl spaces under it that the owner attempted to hide. They were not properly treated for moisture, so you can pretty much imagine what they looked like.
- Since the last time we visited, they sealed the ceiling panel leading to the attic (which we were unable to get into the last time because no one had a ladder).
- After busting through the ceiling panel to the attic, we found it had also not been treated for moisture and was full of fuzzy white mold which I am horrifically allergic to.
- (My personal favorite) The roof was being supported by a log. A LOG. The building inspector said people stopped doing that in the mid-1800s so the house was definitely not built in 1926 like the listing agent told us.
So, yeah, we didn’t buy a house this weekend. Even though I was pretty in love with the place before, I’m very over it now. The aforementioned list plus a number of other problems plus the BITCH of a listing agent we had to deal with was enough to turn me off completely. It’s like finding out the hot guy you’ve been dating for a month hasn’t showered in the past year. Maybe you wonder “How the hell did you not notice that he wasn’t showering in the first place?” Axe. That’s how. This house was the real estate equivalent of a whore’s bath.
Though I’m not heartbroken that we rescinded our offer, I’m getting frustrated by 2 months of fruitless searching. Add that to the gloomy, nasty New England weather we’re having today and you’ve got a recipe for a solid funk.
Friday, March 6, 2009
But My Brilliance Cannot Be Contained
I spent a portion of this week reminiscing with Notorious about our good ol’ college days and how we’re now boring people that get excited whenever something remotely interesting happens to us because then it gives us something to blog about. Personally, I’m boring now because I’m too much of a pansy to deal with the consequential hangover from a night of drunken adventure. For example last weekend’s party:
As a result of my own weakness – or maybe the unnaturally fast aging of my liver – my binge drinking has reduced from a daily habit in Oxford to a weekly ritual in Brighton to a monthly treat at my own home. (I like throwing parties at my apartment. It almost guarantees I’ll make it back to my bed before passing out.) Drinking more often even for the sake of a good blog or two is no longer an option. Much sadness. Tear.
But my conversations with Notorious this week reminded me that I have plenty of old amusing exploits to share that the Interweb has not yet heard. They inspired me to reach deep into my iffy memories of an era long past when I could down a liter of Jack and still be up for class at 9am. Let’s start with this one from circa Fall 2005 when one day, I missed the bus.
It wasn’t just any bus that I missed. In the dead of night, I missed the last bus leaving from the densely student-populated apartments just north of campus. With a bottle of Sauza in me, I determined that the walk home could not possibly be worse than spending the night huddled on the sticky floor of a bachelor pad inhabited by 3 foul males while unsuccessfully trying to ignore the inevitable sounds of fornication on the couch across the room. “Hey,” I thought, “a walk might even be refreshing.”
Google insists that refreshing walk is 1.7 miles which may not sound like much to the able-bodied or energetic amongst you, but to a drunk, lazy college student with “put the lime in the coconut” looping through her head, it's almost enough to deter such a quest. One last look at my other option was enough to send me out the door. By the time I reached campus, I had remembered a short cut which I estimated would shave entire minutes from my walk. WHOLE MINUTES that I could spend curled up in the fetal position next to the toilet instead of walking uphill. Here is a map that illustrates my genius:
As a result of my own weakness – or maybe the unnaturally fast aging of my liver – my binge drinking has reduced from a daily habit in Oxford to a weekly ritual in Brighton to a monthly treat at my own home. (I like throwing parties at my apartment. It almost guarantees I’ll make it back to my bed before passing out.) Drinking more often even for the sake of a good blog or two is no longer an option. Much sadness. Tear.
But my conversations with Notorious this week reminded me that I have plenty of old amusing exploits to share that the Interweb has not yet heard. They inspired me to reach deep into my iffy memories of an era long past when I could down a liter of Jack and still be up for class at 9am. Let’s start with this one from circa Fall 2005 when one day, I missed the bus.
It wasn’t just any bus that I missed. In the dead of night, I missed the last bus leaving from the densely student-populated apartments just north of campus. With a bottle of Sauza in me, I determined that the walk home could not possibly be worse than spending the night huddled on the sticky floor of a bachelor pad inhabited by 3 foul males while unsuccessfully trying to ignore the inevitable sounds of fornication on the couch across the room. “Hey,” I thought, “a walk might even be refreshing.”
Google insists that refreshing walk is 1.7 miles which may not sound like much to the able-bodied or energetic amongst you, but to a drunk, lazy college student with “put the lime in the coconut” looping through her head, it's almost enough to deter such a quest. One last look at my other option was enough to send me out the door. By the time I reached campus, I had remembered a short cut which I estimated would shave entire minutes from my walk. WHOLE MINUTES that I could spend curled up in the fetal position next to the toilet instead of walking uphill. Here is a map that illustrates my genius:
You’ll note that the red line represents the Google-suggested way home along major thoroughfares and that the blue line represents my hypothesized shortcut along a footpath in the woods. The pink dotted line is where the trouble began. As I paused to catch my breath at the intersection of pink and blue, I caught sight of my dorm through the trees and determined I would forsake the footpath for a beeline.
This plan was going well until I came upon a mystifying chain link fence in my way. I sniffled quietly to myself, clinging to the fence like one of those depressing refugees on the commercials. After a few failed attempts at scaling it, the obstruction proved to be insurmountable in my inebriated state. I sniffled again and turned around to head back to the path.
Once about-faced, I was confronted with a large house looming ominously in front of me. I scratched my head wondering who put a big lovely house here and why I’d never noticed it before. It was a sobering moment when it dawned on me that I had seen the house before from the front on my way to classes. Somehow, I was standing in the Chancellor’s fenced backyard. Several more panicked attempts were made at scaling the fence, but eventually I was forced to follow it out of the gloom and onto his well lit drive way where I ran as I have never run before.
Though my confinement lasts a mere two paragraphs here, in reality, it lasted an excruciating quarter of an hour. When I finally got back to my room, I was visibly shaken with twigs in my hair and scratches on my arms. My roommate, having lived with me for some time and witnessed the M&M incident, didn’t ask a single question.
This plan was going well until I came upon a mystifying chain link fence in my way. I sniffled quietly to myself, clinging to the fence like one of those depressing refugees on the commercials. After a few failed attempts at scaling it, the obstruction proved to be insurmountable in my inebriated state. I sniffled again and turned around to head back to the path.
Once about-faced, I was confronted with a large house looming ominously in front of me. I scratched my head wondering who put a big lovely house here and why I’d never noticed it before. It was a sobering moment when it dawned on me that I had seen the house before from the front on my way to classes. Somehow, I was standing in the Chancellor’s fenced backyard. Several more panicked attempts were made at scaling the fence, but eventually I was forced to follow it out of the gloom and onto his well lit drive way where I ran as I have never run before.
Though my confinement lasts a mere two paragraphs here, in reality, it lasted an excruciating quarter of an hour. When I finally got back to my room, I was visibly shaken with twigs in my hair and scratches on my arms. My roommate, having lived with me for some time and witnessed the M&M incident, didn’t ask a single question.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Zen Master
It’s safe to say Bologna has always been a little… on edge. I mean, you won’t get knifed if you make a sudden movement around her but if she catches you improperly folding a bed sheet, she might go ballistic and start screaming.
Lots of things serve as irritants to Bologna but that’s just because she is a sensitive soul, unlike your beloved Dangerous K who once ate an M&M from behind her college roommates’ desk even after realizing that that particular candy had not been brought into the room in the 2 years of cohabitation. But it was a brown one and I really like the brown ones because I’m always afraid they’ll be the next to be discontinued after the tan ones so we should enjoy them while we have them. Or maybe the shell had eroded and I was looking at raw chocolate innards. Whatever. It was delicious. Anyway.
Now that Bologna is pregnant (read: engorged with hormones) she is slightly more sensitive than usual (read: a fucking whack job that WILL knife you). So her husband T and I have formed a sort of unspoken 24-hour patrol – he takes the in-person night shift from 6pm to 7am and I have the day shift via AIM from 8am to 5pm. We spend her unsupervised travel time in between our shifts praying for the safety of other commuters.
So this afternoon I was not surprised to hear her ask for a dose of Zen to sooth an apoplectic fit induced by a lazy secretary in her office. In my most calming typing tone, I talked my sister down from a ledge. Deep breath in…. and release that big guy back into the wild. Very good everyone! I’m seeing progress here.
But if there is one thing I am learning from this whole fetus-incubating-sister thing, it is that logic means nothing to the impregnated masses. There are no rules. This IS ‘Nam, Smokey. And if Bologna says turkey bacon on a bagel she MEANS turkey bacon on a bagel and GOD HELP YOU IF YOU BRING HER A PLAIN ONE (Hi T! Remember that time you brought her a plain bagel? That was fun). Meltdowns will ensue. Since things like reason can no longer be counted on to pacify Bologna, I find the best option is distraction. My best method of distraction is apparently humor. So when my conversational tactics failed today, I turned to whale noises which top scientists say are very soothing in their OOOOoooooOOO’y kind of way. I detected giggling (I can detect these things through a computer). I pushed on, idly threatening to call her office and sing Enya to her if she didn’t immediately get happy.
Don’t threaten pregnant ladies. Just don’t. Because they will in turn refuse to become happy until you call them and sing Enya. They won’t be swayed by excuses like “I forgot my cell phone at home” and “I can’t sing to you from my cubicle – everyone in the office will hear me” or even “But I’m the new girl and I still have them mostly convinced that I’m normal!” Why not? Because TURKEY BACON NOW.
So I peaked over my cubicle wall, ascertained that the desks nearest to me were empty, dialed with shaking hands and as soon as the phone was answered, began softly crooning “storms in Africaaaaaa.” Giggles from the other end. Bologna was appeased. I stopped. Bologna was no longer appeased. I made a thunder/tribal drum noise. Giggling continued. I hissed, “I’m sorry, that is all I have time for” while attempting to contain a guffaw that would surely be heard in the executive offices.
As I was hanging up and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, one of my coworkers appeared with a quizzical look on her face. She had been in a conference room around the corner from my desk, easily within earshot. I smiled my best I-am-SO-not-certifiable smile. She asked if I was OK. She’d heard a disturbance and now there appeared to be tears on my face. In order to save my reputation, I gave her the abridged version of this blog and explained that they were tears of laughter, not pain.
But they would have been tears of pain had I not called Bologna and sung Enya in my most humbling and self-mortifying way. Because she would have knifed me. And don’t you forget that.
Lots of things serve as irritants to Bologna but that’s just because she is a sensitive soul, unlike your beloved Dangerous K who once ate an M&M from behind her college roommates’ desk even after realizing that that particular candy had not been brought into the room in the 2 years of cohabitation. But it was a brown one and I really like the brown ones because I’m always afraid they’ll be the next to be discontinued after the tan ones so we should enjoy them while we have them. Or maybe the shell had eroded and I was looking at raw chocolate innards. Whatever. It was delicious. Anyway.
Now that Bologna is pregnant (read: engorged with hormones) she is slightly more sensitive than usual (read: a fucking whack job that WILL knife you). So her husband T and I have formed a sort of unspoken 24-hour patrol – he takes the in-person night shift from 6pm to 7am and I have the day shift via AIM from 8am to 5pm. We spend her unsupervised travel time in between our shifts praying for the safety of other commuters.
So this afternoon I was not surprised to hear her ask for a dose of Zen to sooth an apoplectic fit induced by a lazy secretary in her office. In my most calming typing tone, I talked my sister down from a ledge. Deep breath in…. and release that big guy back into the wild. Very good everyone! I’m seeing progress here.
But if there is one thing I am learning from this whole fetus-incubating-sister thing, it is that logic means nothing to the impregnated masses. There are no rules. This IS ‘Nam, Smokey. And if Bologna says turkey bacon on a bagel she MEANS turkey bacon on a bagel and GOD HELP YOU IF YOU BRING HER A PLAIN ONE (Hi T! Remember that time you brought her a plain bagel? That was fun). Meltdowns will ensue. Since things like reason can no longer be counted on to pacify Bologna, I find the best option is distraction. My best method of distraction is apparently humor. So when my conversational tactics failed today, I turned to whale noises which top scientists say are very soothing in their OOOOoooooOOO’y kind of way. I detected giggling (I can detect these things through a computer). I pushed on, idly threatening to call her office and sing Enya to her if she didn’t immediately get happy.
Don’t threaten pregnant ladies. Just don’t. Because they will in turn refuse to become happy until you call them and sing Enya. They won’t be swayed by excuses like “I forgot my cell phone at home” and “I can’t sing to you from my cubicle – everyone in the office will hear me” or even “But I’m the new girl and I still have them mostly convinced that I’m normal!” Why not? Because TURKEY BACON NOW.
So I peaked over my cubicle wall, ascertained that the desks nearest to me were empty, dialed with shaking hands and as soon as the phone was answered, began softly crooning “storms in Africaaaaaa.” Giggles from the other end. Bologna was appeased. I stopped. Bologna was no longer appeased. I made a thunder/tribal drum noise. Giggling continued. I hissed, “I’m sorry, that is all I have time for” while attempting to contain a guffaw that would surely be heard in the executive offices.
As I was hanging up and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, one of my coworkers appeared with a quizzical look on her face. She had been in a conference room around the corner from my desk, easily within earshot. I smiled my best I-am-SO-not-certifiable smile. She asked if I was OK. She’d heard a disturbance and now there appeared to be tears on my face. In order to save my reputation, I gave her the abridged version of this blog and explained that they were tears of laughter, not pain.
But they would have been tears of pain had I not called Bologna and sung Enya in my most humbling and self-mortifying way. Because she would have knifed me. And don’t you forget that.
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