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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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 cuterSo, 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.
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.
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