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.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
FYI: The Liquor Boxes Are Labeled “Anal Depilatory Cream”
We’ve been busy little beavers this week unlike this guy:
Good Example FAIL There’s been some serious packing going on at Chez Dangerous K. Mama Beau thieved packing materials from the hospital where she works. That means some of my moving boxes have big ominous labels that read “Surgical Underpads” which may lead the casual onlooker to assume I have an incontinence problem of epic proportion but on the bright side, it also means I felt secure leaving those boxes in the back of my car yesterday while parked in front of my office where there’s been a rash of recent break ins. Office BFF suggested that I label the unmarked boxes with equally terrifying words. Like “tampons.”
In addition to boxes that once contained phenomenally gross materials, she also provided us with blue cushiony wrapping that she swears is used solely for packaging sterilized equipment and not putting under dead bodies. It smells of band aids nonetheless. Big six foot square band aids. That’s what’s wrapped around the contents of my precious liquor cabinet … which may have exceeded two large boxes … with some straggler bottles that I insist on finishing before we move next Saturday. What?! I refuse to move five bottles of two fingers of scotch each. It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to the scotch.
Last night we brought the first shipment of things-nobody-wanted-to-steal-from-my-car over to the condo and had our very first camp out – complete with a picnic on the charmingly 80s linoleum floor, discovery of a leaky showerhead, and removal of marbleized contact paper which was stuck to every shelf in the kitchen (to complete the Miami Vice ambience, I assume).
We’re off to the Cape tonight for a viewing of She-ra’s wedding band and tomorrow, Cape Gods willing, the postponed yard sale. Next week I’ll be posting a ton of pictures (one craft project and several thousand new purchases).
Monday, June 15, 2009
Wampum
I can speak English again now that I have caffeine in my system. My early morning was spent grunting and scowling at the refrigerator which went on strike while we were down the Cape this weekend, thereby spoiling my olives, cheese, and most importantly, the milk for my morning coffee. Really, I should appreciate the fridge’s effort to push me out the door faster because I wasn’t already desperate to move into our condo in the quiet, sunny, affluent suburbs when I won’t hear motorcycles ripping past my house at midnight, my landlord’s wailing baby or the lilting tune of Flo Rida from the Section 8 housing down by the train station. I really needed someone to light a fire under my ass.
That said we spent a few hours on Sunday packing our worldly belongings without making a noticeable dent on the apartment. When did I accumulate so much stuff? As previously discussed, I spent a good portion of my post college years drifting about, living with whatever I could fit in a midsized sedan that I could pack up in an hour if I needed to flee. Now I have… things. I own Christmas plates. And decorative tchotchkes for my bookshelves. And bookshelves.
I was supposed to host a yard sale on Sunday but it was rained out, preventing me from selling off a motley assortment of my aforementioned possessions. It doesn’t help that I inherited a Stair Master from Beau’s cousin which was meant as a contribution to the yard sale and is now a delightfully retro contribution to my new home gym that I will use while wearing leg warmers and blasting Pat Benetar. I may have also gone to a few yard sales on Saturday morning and purchased an Augusten Burroughs memoir and a 2 foot strand of faux pearls. Those are my weaknesses. I totally understand why the Native Americans sold the island of Manhattan for beads. They will be accepted currency at my belated yard sale as well.
That said we spent a few hours on Sunday packing our worldly belongings without making a noticeable dent on the apartment. When did I accumulate so much stuff? As previously discussed, I spent a good portion of my post college years drifting about, living with whatever I could fit in a midsized sedan that I could pack up in an hour if I needed to flee. Now I have… things. I own Christmas plates. And decorative tchotchkes for my bookshelves. And bookshelves.
I was supposed to host a yard sale on Sunday but it was rained out, preventing me from selling off a motley assortment of my aforementioned possessions. It doesn’t help that I inherited a Stair Master from Beau’s cousin which was meant as a contribution to the yard sale and is now a delightfully retro contribution to my new home gym that I will use while wearing leg warmers and blasting Pat Benetar. I may have also gone to a few yard sales on Saturday morning and purchased an Augusten Burroughs memoir and a 2 foot strand of faux pearls. Those are my weaknesses. I totally understand why the Native Americans sold the island of Manhattan for beads. They will be accepted currency at my belated yard sale as well.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Moving Day(s)
I was bitching with Office BFF this morning about moving out of my third floor apartment (in a house on a hill… so there’s actually another staircase outside). After she mentioned that she’s been making yearly moves since leaving college, I counted up how many times I’ve moved in that time frame and came to the realization that this will be my ninth relocation since December 2005. The first seven occurred in the year and a half span after graduation, much to the frustration of Bologna and T who helped 63% of the time. Here’s a not-so-brief outline of my travels:
1) Hilton Head, SC (Dec 2005 – Jan 2006)
I left my dorm room and moved roughly 1000 miles south to my father’s retirement village. By car. I stayed there for under a month. Shortly after a rousing New Years Eve of drinking Bacardi on his couch while watching Amelie and then attempting to play it off as drowsiness when he came home early from his Old People Party, I hopped on a London-bound plane with one suitcase to reclaim the alcoholic genuinely-Irish boyfriend that I procured during my stint at Oxford the previous summer.
2) Brixton, London, UK (Jan – March 2006)
Turns out there was very little worth reclaiming. He was still Irish and an alcoholic, but spent a good portion of my three month sojourn unemployed and not paying his share of the rent. We lived in the ghetto of Brixton (of the Clash’s “Guns of Brixton”) above an Indian bodega on a street where they frequently posted sandwich signs advertising unsolved crimes (for example, “Please be advised there may be a serial rapist on the loose in the general vicinity”). I worked as an illegal nanny to the director of American movies in the Marble Arch area. I regret not spending more of my time sightseeing by myself and wandering the city instead of wallowing in the misery that was my personal life. After a particularly bad row, I hopped on a plane back to the States with my one suitcase… and one very large bag of souvenirs.
3) Central NJ (April – May 2006)
St. Bologna greeted me at Newark Airport and brought me home where she deposited me (and my luggage) on her couch in central New Jersey. My father brought the rest of my belongings from South Carolina and they began piling up around Bologna’s condo. This was around the time that T developed a nervous twitch.
4) Weehawken, NJ (May 2006)
After getting my first big girl job in Manhattan in April, I moved to Weehawken just across the river from NYC. I had a beautiful view of the city skyline from my bedroom window and three incredibly creepy roommates who I caught congregating outside my room listening to one of my phone conversations. When Bologna prompted me with “Do you want to leave this place?” after a baseball game, I packed up my entire life in about an hour and threw it in the back of their pick up truck. T’s tick became inescapably noticeable.
5) Central NJ… again (May – June 2006)
We formed a neat little family unit back in the old condo. Just me, Bologna, T, and T’s head jerking. I crashed in their guest room for another month or so until selecting…
6) New Brunswick, NJ (June – Oct 2006)
1) Hilton Head, SC (Dec 2005 – Jan 2006)
I left my dorm room and moved roughly 1000 miles south to my father’s retirement village. By car. I stayed there for under a month. Shortly after a rousing New Years Eve of drinking Bacardi on his couch while watching Amelie and then attempting to play it off as drowsiness when he came home early from his Old People Party, I hopped on a London-bound plane with one suitcase to reclaim the alcoholic genuinely-Irish boyfriend that I procured during my stint at Oxford the previous summer.
2) Brixton, London, UK (Jan – March 2006)
Turns out there was very little worth reclaiming. He was still Irish and an alcoholic, but spent a good portion of my three month sojourn unemployed and not paying his share of the rent. We lived in the ghetto of Brixton (of the Clash’s “Guns of Brixton”) above an Indian bodega on a street where they frequently posted sandwich signs advertising unsolved crimes (for example, “Please be advised there may be a serial rapist on the loose in the general vicinity”). I worked as an illegal nanny to the director of American movies in the Marble Arch area. I regret not spending more of my time sightseeing by myself and wandering the city instead of wallowing in the misery that was my personal life. After a particularly bad row, I hopped on a plane back to the States with my one suitcase… and one very large bag of souvenirs.
3) Central NJ (April – May 2006)
St. Bologna greeted me at Newark Airport and brought me home where she deposited me (and my luggage) on her couch in central New Jersey. My father brought the rest of my belongings from South Carolina and they began piling up around Bologna’s condo. This was around the time that T developed a nervous twitch.4) Weehawken, NJ (May 2006)
After getting my first big girl job in Manhattan in April, I moved to Weehawken just across the river from NYC. I had a beautiful view of the city skyline from my bedroom window and three incredibly creepy roommates who I caught congregating outside my room listening to one of my phone conversations. When Bologna prompted me with “Do you want to leave this place?” after a baseball game, I packed up my entire life in about an hour and threw it in the back of their pick up truck. T’s tick became inescapably noticeable.
5) Central NJ… again (May – June 2006)
We formed a neat little family unit back in the old condo. Just me, Bologna, T, and T’s head jerking. I crashed in their guest room for another month or so until selecting…
6) New Brunswick, NJ (June – Oct 2006)
...another slum! But this apartment was also conveniently located a full mile from the train station. I like an extra challenge when I’m running for my life down dark alleys past gold toothed whistling Mexican men. This one also required furniture. So, me, my luggage, and my brand new furniture were all neatly deposited on the 18th floor of a high rise by the ever patient Bologna, T and T’s hopeless shaking.
In early October, sick of getting cat calls on my walk home, I shouted back at a car full of large black men something to the effect of, “Does this ever work for you? Have you ever had success picking up a female using that kind of language?” They parked around the corner and menacingly began following me. I was then very grateful for my troop of lurking Hispanic guys and my ten years of Spanish lessons because I was able to ask them for help in their own language. They formed a blockade on the side walk behind me as I high tailed it. Apparently they didn’t take kindly to others intruding on their sexual harassment turf. To my knowledge, that was the only racial riot that my ghetto booty has incited.
During this time period, I’d also begun talking to Beau more and more frequently and ultimately decided to move up to Boston for him since he seemed unwilling to move to Yankee territory.
7) Boston, MA (Sept 2006 – June 2007)
Once again, Bologna, T, and T’s violent quaking packed me into a U-Haul and put me on the road. I unloaded in record time in Boston with the help of Beau and my three new roomies who were completely unconcerned that I had no job or marketable skill base. That Christmas, after it became clear that I was indeed settling in one location, T presented me with a gigantic bottle of tequila and lovely card noting that he had almost fully recovered from the persistent convulsions that I must have noticed when I was retired to his couch.
8) Outskirts of Boston, MA (June 2007 – June 2009)
In early October, sick of getting cat calls on my walk home, I shouted back at a car full of large black men something to the effect of, “Does this ever work for you? Have you ever had success picking up a female using that kind of language?” They parked around the corner and menacingly began following me. I was then very grateful for my troop of lurking Hispanic guys and my ten years of Spanish lessons because I was able to ask them for help in their own language. They formed a blockade on the side walk behind me as I high tailed it. Apparently they didn’t take kindly to others intruding on their sexual harassment turf. To my knowledge, that was the only racial riot that my ghetto booty has incited.
During this time period, I’d also begun talking to Beau more and more frequently and ultimately decided to move up to Boston for him since he seemed unwilling to move to Yankee territory.
7) Boston, MA (Sept 2006 – June 2007)
Once again, Bologna, T, and T’s violent quaking packed me into a U-Haul and put me on the road. I unloaded in record time in Boston with the help of Beau and my three new roomies who were completely unconcerned that I had no job or marketable skill base. That Christmas, after it became clear that I was indeed settling in one location, T presented me with a gigantic bottle of tequila and lovely card noting that he had almost fully recovered from the persistent convulsions that I must have noticed when I was retired to his couch.
8) Outskirts of Boston, MA (June 2007 – June 2009)
After moving in with Beau, I stayed in the same apartment for an unprecedented two years. Now we’re finally leaving for our very own purchased home with our very own adult couch for T to crash on, should his malady ever return.
This concludes the Nomadic Adventures of Dangerous K. On a side note, I’ve decided to continue blogging even if that means subjecting my loved ones to pictures of my wardrobe choices and gushing over frilly things with pink bows once in awhile. More news to follow after the closing on Thursday!
This concludes the Nomadic Adventures of Dangerous K. On a side note, I’ve decided to continue blogging even if that means subjecting my loved ones to pictures of my wardrobe choices and gushing over frilly things with pink bows once in awhile. More news to follow after the closing on Thursday!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Should I Stay Or Should I Go?
I sporadically keep a private journal in addition to my blog. Usually I cover 30 pages before either growing bored of it, feeling embarrassed by my own emo ramblings, or deciding that i just don't like the general direction or tone that I've established. I'm preparing to throw yet another one in the trash and I couldn't help but notice that I'm having the same issues in keeping up with my blog. This site was founded in my rum-soaked, binge-drinking, trouble-causing days. The stories focused predominately on barhopping and my subsequent hangovers. So, how am I supposed to turn around now and tell you that on vacation, I actually didn't get drunk? Or that my new favorite blogger is an 18-year-old British chick who likes pink things and polka dots? Or that I now like pink things and polka dots?
Call it maturity, call it a soft liver, but I think my wild oats are officially sown. That brings us to the actual problem which I find similar to my issues with regular personal journals. I find it off-putting to continue on in the same place but with a complete reinvention of tone. Damn you English degree for making me care about continuity.
I'm trying to decide if I want to continue writing here about my tamer exploits and interests, start a Dangerous K 2.0 blog, or just scrap the whole damn thing entirely.
If anyone actually has an opinion, please share!
Call it maturity, call it a soft liver, but I think my wild oats are officially sown. That brings us to the actual problem which I find similar to my issues with regular personal journals. I find it off-putting to continue on in the same place but with a complete reinvention of tone. Damn you English degree for making me care about continuity.
I'm trying to decide if I want to continue writing here about my tamer exploits and interests, start a Dangerous K 2.0 blog, or just scrap the whole damn thing entirely.
If anyone actually has an opinion, please share!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Don't Worry - I Wasn't Eaten By A Shark
...but I've been playing catch up at work and trying to plan a wedding at home so I haven't had time to write about my fabulous vacation yet. I will though, even if it means doing it by hand this weekend while I'm sitting on Beau's boat. Until then, please enjoy this picture of me making out with a vat of rum at the Cruzan Rum Factory in St. Croix.
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