I’ve been working here for just over a month now. By my count, this is my 30th business day at Save De Puppehs Inc. Let’s say each day I visit the rest room approximately four times. I realize that is a conservative estimate considering that I daily drink between 72 and 90 oz of water. Each visit lasts an average of four minutes including seating, pep talking, action, flushing, hand washing, hair primping and checking my teeth for bits of food. So, by the end of today, I will have spent a grand total so far of 480 minutes, eight working hours or one business day in the ladies room, a world of unwritten rules and never-ending scandal.
Every restroom has its share of villainous characters. In the past, you’ve heard about Bertha, Amy Winehouses’ doppelganger and Happy Friday. Now I’d like to introduce you to my new arch nemesis, The Phantom Menace, whose crime is possibly the worst one possible in a girls’ room: she has left many a stall looking like a murder scene. Even I won’t describe the gory details of the things I’ve seen lately. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t clean up after herself.
I’ve always wondered what goes through the minds of these exhibitionists. Why leave it all there for the world to see? If you’re so proud of it, take a goddamn picture and hang it up on your refrigerator at home. We (the collective WE of the rest of the building) are not so interested.
The collective WE made this known by complaining to every office and building manager who would listen until they 1) sent an awkward email around about cleanliness 2) taped the email up around the bathroom and 3) when the notices were ripped down and EVERY SINGLE one of our four stalls was systematically violated in retaliation, posted the message in protective Plexiglas sign holders on the inside of every stall door at eye level.
It wasn’t until I was scanning the memo for the n-millionth time this morning that I locked on a certain phrase: “Management has been receiving numerous complaints for several weeks now.” Several weeks. Not “countless” and not “a few.” Several. I’ve been working here several weeks. OH GOD! DOES EVERYONE THINK IT’S ME!?!
Now, I know it’s not me perpetrating these acts of egregious toilet violence, but in my egocentric, hypochondriac mind, I now assume that others have made the same connection in time period with a different conclusion. This is currently my worst fear in life next to zombies, sharks and serial killers all of whom might be hiding under my bed at any given moment.
To make matters worse, I only feel guilty about something when I HAVEN’T done anything wrong. I can look a man in the eye and tell the most shameful lies on the planet without a flicker of the truth passing across my face. But if I’m telling the truth, I will look like the guiltiest suspect in the lineup. I felt personally at fault for the oil spill in the Gulf. The same thing happens when I take a sick day at work. If I’m really under the weather, I spend all day feeling like I’m not ill enough to stay home and thinking I’m a bad person for not going to the office. If I’m playing hooky, I don’t give it a second thought. Yes, this is all ludicrous. Does not change the fact that I look and feel responsible when I’m not to blame.
So, how do I unsully my good name and keep the others from potentially pointing the finger at me? I could just stand on my desk and loudly proclaim it’s not me or I could send a mass email to the same effect. Either way, people might want to pursue the topic in conversation and I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from looking guilty so that option’s out. I could offer to have a security guard follow me to the girls’ room and check my stall after I’ve completed my business. But I get such bad stage fright that I would sooner wait till the end of the day to use the lavatory. Maybe I could just stop drinking water during the day!
The possibilities are limitless. I’ve brainstormed around 50 and stopped myself before the spiral of irrational thought got out of control. But I won’t be the victim here. For once though, I intend on staying in a job for more than 15 minutes. Time is on my side for a change. I’ll be right here, Ms. Menace. I’ll be watching out the crack in my stall and running out after you if I don’t hear a flush when you leave. Your secret is no longer safe. I will find you. You’ve irked the wrong neurotic observer of strict bathroom etiquette.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
When You Assume...
Everyone at my new job is super friendly, even the people from the other company on our floor. I’m getting used to smiling at people in the hallway instead of turning my body sideways to avoid coming in contact with the air they’ve been breathing. The next time I visit my Dad in South Carolina, I’m SO not going to freak out when a stranger greets me in the street.
So, I was pretty surprised when I said good morning to an unfamiliar face coming out of our shared kitchen and she just gave me one of those contemptuous why-are-you-talking-to-me smiles. I brought it up to my coworkers at lunch later that day and they laughed and told me there’s a deaf girl in the next office over and said it was probably her.
(The following isn’t really relevant to the story as I’m just using this scenario to introduce how I came to find out about the deaf girl but I have to share it anyway. The lunch conversation continued and my description of the unfriendly stranger with a short black bob didn’t match the description of the purported deaf girl with long light brown hair usually worn in a high ponytail. I saw the bobbed girl later. She’s an intern in my office WHO CAN HEAR PERFECTLY FINE. BITCH.)
Regardless, I bumped into the REAL deaf girl coming out of the ladies’ room last week. This time I knew it was actually her because when she opened the door and almost hit me in the face, she said sorry but kind of in that Helen Keller voice like “sah-reh.” After thinking that, I immediately ran into a stall to berate myself for my insensitivity and make up for it by mentally complimenting how cute her dress was. It really was. I’m not just making that up. Then I started wondering if dressing particularly cute was some sort of visual overcompensation and I had to change the topic in my head because I don’t even MEAN to think these things. They just happen whether I want them to or not and I frequently feel bad about them.
A few days ago, she was in front of me walking into the bathroom in yet another adorable dress – a pink one with big Hawaiian flowers. We seated ourselves and she immediately ripped ass. Instead of panicking and leaving the room like I usually would, I realized that despite our rocky start, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. For once, I could (and DID) take a wiz without the stage fright of someone listening in and judging the quantity of my wiz or audible speed of release. I even contributed a little gas of my own and there we were, tooting along in our own little bathroom jamboree while I imagined a movie montage of us laughing while drinking coffee on a park bench and window shopping for really cute dresses on our lunch break. Amidst my reverie, she left the bathroom and I was sadly left to wash my hands alone.
I walked back down the hallway to my office still lost in my own personal thoughts when who should appear out of the kitchen with a cup of water but my new office BFF! She smiled in return to my greeting and we parted ways. It wasn’t until I was back at my cube before I realized that when she was leaving the kitchen, she was wearing a blue toile dress. Not a pink one. I’d mistaken someone else’s ponytail for her signature look and got so caught up thinking about her wardrobe that I didn't even look at her face.
And this is why I have such a hard time making new friends.
So, I was pretty surprised when I said good morning to an unfamiliar face coming out of our shared kitchen and she just gave me one of those contemptuous why-are-you-talking-to-me smiles. I brought it up to my coworkers at lunch later that day and they laughed and told me there’s a deaf girl in the next office over and said it was probably her.
(The following isn’t really relevant to the story as I’m just using this scenario to introduce how I came to find out about the deaf girl but I have to share it anyway. The lunch conversation continued and my description of the unfriendly stranger with a short black bob didn’t match the description of the purported deaf girl with long light brown hair usually worn in a high ponytail. I saw the bobbed girl later. She’s an intern in my office WHO CAN HEAR PERFECTLY FINE. BITCH.)
Regardless, I bumped into the REAL deaf girl coming out of the ladies’ room last week. This time I knew it was actually her because when she opened the door and almost hit me in the face, she said sorry but kind of in that Helen Keller voice like “sah-reh.” After thinking that, I immediately ran into a stall to berate myself for my insensitivity and make up for it by mentally complimenting how cute her dress was. It really was. I’m not just making that up. Then I started wondering if dressing particularly cute was some sort of visual overcompensation and I had to change the topic in my head because I don’t even MEAN to think these things. They just happen whether I want them to or not and I frequently feel bad about them.
A few days ago, she was in front of me walking into the bathroom in yet another adorable dress – a pink one with big Hawaiian flowers. We seated ourselves and she immediately ripped ass. Instead of panicking and leaving the room like I usually would, I realized that despite our rocky start, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. For once, I could (and DID) take a wiz without the stage fright of someone listening in and judging the quantity of my wiz or audible speed of release. I even contributed a little gas of my own and there we were, tooting along in our own little bathroom jamboree while I imagined a movie montage of us laughing while drinking coffee on a park bench and window shopping for really cute dresses on our lunch break. Amidst my reverie, she left the bathroom and I was sadly left to wash my hands alone.
I walked back down the hallway to my office still lost in my own personal thoughts when who should appear out of the kitchen with a cup of water but my new office BFF! She smiled in return to my greeting and we parted ways. It wasn’t until I was back at my cube before I realized that when she was leaving the kitchen, she was wearing a blue toile dress. Not a pink one. I’d mistaken someone else’s ponytail for her signature look and got so caught up thinking about her wardrobe that I didn't even look at her face.
And this is why I have such a hard time making new friends.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A New Meaning to Free-Range
Alright, yes, it has been three weeks since my last post and nearly two months since my wedding and I have been side stepping complaints from a certain luncheon meat who will remain unnamed but guys. I got my dream job. A few weeks ago I started working for an animal welfare nonprofit and it rocks. It also kind of makes me feel like I’ve never worked a legitimate day in my entire life because the work is demanding and brain-energy consuming and interesting for once. I’m doing a lot of real writing which is completely different from blogging because instead of recounting the slapstick routine that is my daily existence, I’m tearing out hearts with sob stories about abused puppehs. I mist at my desk all the time. I shit you not.
So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.
Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.
I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.
Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.
As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.
Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.
As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”
Well. Fuck.
That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.
I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.
After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.
Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.
So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.
So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.
Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.
I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.
Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.
As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.
Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.
As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”
Well. Fuck.
That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.
I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.
After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.
Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.
So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Collect The Moments One By One
Before I can talk about the wedding, I have to properly cover the days leading up to the wedding when we sat back and watched all of our loved ones converge on Cape Cod. It’s surreal seeing different parts of your life collide like that. My best friend from the 2nd grade made friends with my gay BFF. My sister played beer pong with my drinking buddies. My Dad hit on Beau’s pretty cousin. Again.
Brideslave Grasshoppah & sanitary beer pong
The weekend started with a speed bump when our friends gathered on the lawn of their rental house and the landlord didn’t show up to let us in. We busted out the party supplies (namely vodka, leis and a deck of cards) and partied on the front lawn.
Why not? We rented the lawn too.
Though our friends seemed content playing Asshole in the yard, poor Beau was getting distraught and leaving irritated voicemails for the delinquent landlord. I was rapidly approaching the optimum number of red cups for Supreme Levels of Confidence so though we’d made multiple attempts at breaking into the house, I gave it another go. Somehow, the vodka mixed with the Jersey in me and I busted in.
"What if you boost me up to the balcony?" / "Nobody is boosting you anywhere"
After settling in, we all trooped back to the Beau homestead where Mama and Papa Beau hosted a fantastic barbeque, fed us meat and mac’n’cheese, and poured more alcohol down our throats. We returned to the frat house to play drinking games and listen to Sandstorm on loop. At some point, we tried to take a cute picture out front and succeeded only in breaking the fence.
Should have shown up to let us in. Now your fence is busted.
“Are we getting pulled over on foot?” Beau hiccupped. I nodded. We were quiet and attempted to be less stumbly as we neared the cruiser. When we were 10 feet away, the trooper opened the door and pointed a flashlight in our eyes. He ascertained that yes, we were coming back from a friend’s house and probably noticed that we were half in the wrapper. Beau waved off his offer of a ride since we were so close to his house. I spent the remainder of the walk scowling at his for passing up the opportunity to arrive home in a cop car. Also, I was in flip flops and didn’t feel like walking anymore.
That was the last unmarried night we spent in the same bedroom.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Fur is Murder
This morning I went to the dentist, got two fillings done and it was entirely uneventful (except that I drooled a little bit on my dress and was too lazy to change when I swung by the house to pick up my lunch before driving to work so am currently trying to sit in such a way that I hide the slobber spot) but it DID remind me that the Saturday before my wedding, I did something even more painful: I got waxed. For the first time. In places other than my eyebrows. And I have opinions.
Before you go thinking this even MORE of an over share than usual, I didn’t get the whole shebang done. Despite the encouragement of most of my female friends, I resisted popular opinion and opted for my thighs and bikini line instead of getting a landing strip in the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It began harmlessly enough with my eyebrows. I chatted with my waxer, Alice, about the wedding. She was cute, not overly-perky, and had a big fake hibiscus behind her right ear. What a coincidence? I also like big fake flowers. We bonded over being chubby and avoiding buying pants until our old ones have holes and how I would likely reward myself with ice cream after my waxing appointment. Alice and I were thick as thieves. Until she stole my pubic hair.
I dropped trou, preparing myself for what I understood would not be a pleasant experience. The first rip wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I thought to myself “I can handle this. I’ve been through worse.” Over the next hour, that would prove to be a terrible, terrible lie. I can honestly say that it was worse than all three of my tattoos combined at the same time. PLUS, unlike the tattoo parlor, there wasn’t a TV playing Labyrinth in the background. Instead, she dimmed the lights and we listened to Sounds of the Ocean: Volume IV on loop. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing but I couldn’t wrap my head around the dichotomy. It would be like playing Enya on the set of Saw. Waves calmly lapping against the shore and getting the hair ripped out of your crotch just don’t go together. It took me DAYS on the honeymoon to stop cringing when we walked on the beach.
What else could I do but attempt to control the volume of my voice during our idle banter and not yell “I WILL KILL YOU” when she asked about my wedding dress. I kept my furiously perspiring hands tightly clasped on my stomach to keep myself from giving in to instinct and begin hitting the person causing me so much pain. In addition to controlling myself, the wet spot under my profusely sweating palms was growing and I stressed about hiding it from this woman with a terrible fake tan who had already seen my ugliest pair of underwear and parts of my lady bits. But the anxiety gave me something to think about other than holding her down and pulling out her fingernails so I accepted it.
To keep myself distracted I made a mental list of those responsible for my situation: I cursed my own propensity for fuzziness. I cursed my genetic information for giving me the fuzzy phenotype. I cursed my parents for those genes. I cursed Italy for my fuzzy heritage. I cursed all of the Mediterranean just to be on the safe side. I cursed my bathing suits and I cursed Old Navy for not having any board shorts in my size that week. I cursed the fashion industry for insisting that females be bald everywhere but their heads. I cursed every dollar I’d spent in support of that industry and I cursed every goddamn Vogue I’d ever read. Then I squinted and I cursed Alice in my mind so vehemently that she caught my eye and started looking scared. So, I stopped playing that game.
But. It. Kept. Going. I ran out of clever little things to think about and my jaw started hurting from grinding my teeth. The sweat spot was out of control. I’d already memorized every detail of the neon painting of a Caribbean beach landscape on the wall and had already drafted a mean letter to the artist in my head belittling his talent. I searched the walls for something else to focus on. Mere feet from the painting was Alice’s waxer certificate. From mid-April. You know when the camera rushes in on a focal point really quickly in a movie and you can tell the main character must be shitting his pants? That’s sort of what it was like. Just then Alice asked “Did you want to do the back of your legs too?” and I responded a little too quickly with an unnaturally high voice “NOTHANKS.ITHINKI’MALLSET.”
In a thinly veiled attempt to restore my karma after an hour of homicidal thoughts, I tipped well despite the fact that I was walking like I’d been riding a horse all day, had wax stuck to my pants, and, as I later found out, still had plenty of patches that she’d missed, making me resemble not a blushing bride but a mangy dog.
So, yeah, I have opinions. Here's one: cavities are more fun than waxing appointments.
Before you go thinking this even MORE of an over share than usual, I didn’t get the whole shebang done. Despite the encouragement of most of my female friends, I resisted popular opinion and opted for my thighs and bikini line instead of getting a landing strip in the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It began harmlessly enough with my eyebrows. I chatted with my waxer, Alice, about the wedding. She was cute, not overly-perky, and had a big fake hibiscus behind her right ear. What a coincidence? I also like big fake flowers. We bonded over being chubby and avoiding buying pants until our old ones have holes and how I would likely reward myself with ice cream after my waxing appointment. Alice and I were thick as thieves. Until she stole my pubic hair.
I dropped trou, preparing myself for what I understood would not be a pleasant experience. The first rip wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I thought to myself “I can handle this. I’ve been through worse.” Over the next hour, that would prove to be a terrible, terrible lie. I can honestly say that it was worse than all three of my tattoos combined at the same time. PLUS, unlike the tattoo parlor, there wasn’t a TV playing Labyrinth in the background. Instead, she dimmed the lights and we listened to Sounds of the Ocean: Volume IV on loop. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing but I couldn’t wrap my head around the dichotomy. It would be like playing Enya on the set of Saw. Waves calmly lapping against the shore and getting the hair ripped out of your crotch just don’t go together. It took me DAYS on the honeymoon to stop cringing when we walked on the beach.
What else could I do but attempt to control the volume of my voice during our idle banter and not yell “I WILL KILL YOU” when she asked about my wedding dress. I kept my furiously perspiring hands tightly clasped on my stomach to keep myself from giving in to instinct and begin hitting the person causing me so much pain. In addition to controlling myself, the wet spot under my profusely sweating palms was growing and I stressed about hiding it from this woman with a terrible fake tan who had already seen my ugliest pair of underwear and parts of my lady bits. But the anxiety gave me something to think about other than holding her down and pulling out her fingernails so I accepted it.
To keep myself distracted I made a mental list of those responsible for my situation: I cursed my own propensity for fuzziness. I cursed my genetic information for giving me the fuzzy phenotype. I cursed my parents for those genes. I cursed Italy for my fuzzy heritage. I cursed all of the Mediterranean just to be on the safe side. I cursed my bathing suits and I cursed Old Navy for not having any board shorts in my size that week. I cursed the fashion industry for insisting that females be bald everywhere but their heads. I cursed every dollar I’d spent in support of that industry and I cursed every goddamn Vogue I’d ever read. Then I squinted and I cursed Alice in my mind so vehemently that she caught my eye and started looking scared. So, I stopped playing that game.
But. It. Kept. Going. I ran out of clever little things to think about and my jaw started hurting from grinding my teeth. The sweat spot was out of control. I’d already memorized every detail of the neon painting of a Caribbean beach landscape on the wall and had already drafted a mean letter to the artist in my head belittling his talent. I searched the walls for something else to focus on. Mere feet from the painting was Alice’s waxer certificate. From mid-April. You know when the camera rushes in on a focal point really quickly in a movie and you can tell the main character must be shitting his pants? That’s sort of what it was like. Just then Alice asked “Did you want to do the back of your legs too?” and I responded a little too quickly with an unnaturally high voice “NOTHANKS.ITHINKI’MALLSET.”
In a thinly veiled attempt to restore my karma after an hour of homicidal thoughts, I tipped well despite the fact that I was walking like I’d been riding a horse all day, had wax stuck to my pants, and, as I later found out, still had plenty of patches that she’d missed, making me resemble not a blushing bride but a mangy dog.
So, yeah, I have opinions. Here's one: cavities are more fun than waxing appointments.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hitched
Stay tuned for TONS of photos and stories (oh the stories!) of the wedding and honeymoon coming up in the next few weeks. I’m trying to hold out for the DVD from our wedding photographer before I get rolling. Till then, here’s a sneak peak from the fabulously charming and talented Kate Haus of Alpine Moon Photography.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bachelorette Party - Part II: Seth's Girls
Correction from previous entry: The overwhelming page hits that I accused Bologna of are indeed NOT being perpetrated by Bologna. She introduced my blog to one of her coworkers who has taken a shining to my work. It is my pleasure to introduce her as My First Unrelated Admitted Fan (or Mfuaf for short... kind of sounds like if you tried to say “mofo” with a Ugandan accent). Hi, Mfuaf! Today’s post is dedicated to you!
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Bachelorette Party - Part I: The Road
First of all, I’d like to say how tremendously flattered I am that after more than a month of no entries, my site meter says I’m still getting a whopping ten hits a day. Granted, eight of those are coming from Bologna’s IP address, but to my two other fans, thank you ever so much. You give me the warm fuzzies. Bologna, you give me the warm fuzzies but also sort of a chill down my spine that you get when you can feel someone watching you. At nighttime, I check under the bed for you.
Beau was kidnapped by his groomsmen yesterday afternoon for his four day bachelor party extravaganza in Montreal. That means I’ve spent the last twelve hours crapping with the bathroom door open, eating nothing but pizza, and sleeping in the middle of the bed without him complaining about my elbow being in his face. What better time to tell you about my own bachelorette party which occurred two UNFORGIVEABLE weeks ago? I actually did a complete write up at work yesterday but found that too many of the important details were left out in a one part entry. The humor is all in the details, my friends. So, before Bologna pops out of one of my closets frothing at the mouth, wielding a laptop, and shrieking at me for an entry, let’s begin.
Two INEXCUSEABLE Saturdays ago, Chairsy pulled up to my house in her brand spanking new SUV. I hopped in and threw my bag in the back which contained (among many other things that Bologna insisted that I bring) a bathing suit, five pairs of underwear, and a sturdy pair of walking shoes. I immediately asked if there were snacks. Shocker.
Chairsy instructed me to look at the bag at my feet and to also note the two bottles of soda that had clearly been tampered with. I was to consume those. Trusting that Chairsy wouldn’t slip me a roofie (and frankly, not caring if she did – free drugs for everyone!) I opened the first bottle and tentatively took a sip. I was chugging the sweet nectar of rumndietcoke before we’d even left my street.
Though Chairsy was supposed to blindfold me from the get go, she understood that the combination of binge drinking in a moving vehicle in pitch blackness might cause my now notoriously (NO-NO-NO-NOTORIOUS) weak stomach to expel its contents all over her brand spanking new dashboard causing her husband to kill her in a gruesome fashion. Thus, I was allowed to skip the blindfold and secretly begin guessing where we were going. Yes, I can talk myself out of almost everything. I would have been a lawyer but that requires work and I am decidedly against work.
After my first bottle of darling rumndietcoke (sweet Jesus, how I’ve missed you, my poppet) I convinced my chauffeur to let me out of the car to pee. Everyone is happy to pump me full of liquid but the minute the necessary bodily function need occur, it’s all OH LOOK AT DK WITH HER TILTED WALNUT BLADDER. Sorry for my petite organs. I can’t help that they aren't gargantuan like yours.
Rest stops are much more fun when you’re tipsy. Before you start thinking I’ve gone lightweight, let me say that Chairsy mixes a hefty drink and had prefaced my first sip with “Sorry… that might be a little strong. I got carried away.” Carried away indeed. I skipped into the turnpike restroom, nearly stopping to ask what appeared to be a living anime character to take a picture with me. I clicked the lock on the stall while pulling down my pants and spun around in ballerina fashion before flopping down on the toilet. I immediately jumped up in my least graceful way, pseudo-waddling in the seated position so as to hide my lady bits to slam the door shut before any errant Pokémon saw my shame. Guess the lock was faulty. Must have been.
I skipped back out to the parking lot ready to relate my close encounters with Japan and stopped short on the curb. Instead of seeing Chairsy usual red beater, I saw a sea of unfamiliar vehicles. What color was her new car? Black? Dark blue? Steely Gray? Shit. Well, I knew it was a Toyota SUV. That narrowed it down to only 90% of the cars. I peeked in a few vehicles and inadvertently gave one elderly woman the scare of her life when I was certain I’d found Chairsy’s car and popped up next to the passenger’s side window with that HERE’S JOHNNY face and enthusiastic jazz hands only to find that indeed, I had not found the right Toyota at all.
Eventually, I found Chairsy in the next row and told her about my adventures. We continued our journey while I wondered aloud whether the turnpike went east-west or north-south and started nursing my second bottle of refreshing, beautiful rumndietcoke (sigh of yearning). I became convinced that we were not going a roundabout way to Boston when some of the town names became vaguely familiar from my college years. We left the highway and not long after, pulled onto a bona fide dirt road. I felt so complimented that Chairsy bought an offroading vehicle just for this moment. Until she pulled over and told me to get out.
I stepped out, making sure to leave the door open so that if the engine kicked back on, I’d have time to hop back in. Chairsy told me to turn around. I faced the farmer’s field, surveyed the recently sown rows, and asked if we were trespassing on private property because getting shot at by a man in overalls was not really my idea of a good time. Chairsy giggled from somewhere near the trunk of the car. While I continued to form a contingency plan, she blindfolded me, pinned something to the back of my head, and shoved me back in the car. While this may sound like the starts to a promising porno, I assure you, it is not going in the direction that you think it is.
Though blindfolded, I could sense from Chairsy sudden reticence and the many K turns that we were ever so slightly lost. Could there be a more convenient time that when you’re lost in the unfamiliar land of Deliverance to need a bathroom? I think not. I demanded she return me to the dirt path so I could tinkle in the bushes. Instead, ten minutes later when it became evident that a phone call was necessary for assistance, she pulled over at a gas station.
I cheerfully hopped out, resolving to look at the bathroom lock BEFORE undressing (see, I’m a quick learner) and walked in with a jaunty step, smiling at the many admirers who watched me go by. By many, I mean the toothless man who held the door for me and the Pakistani cashier. I was pleased to see my favorite type of public lavatory (a single room instead of a prison of stalls in which I could see my neighbors’ ankles), secured the door, double checked the lock, and enjoyed a private smile before looking up at my fabulousness in the mirror. Looking back was a smug, slightly intoxicated woman with a fringe of veil showing around her face. The smile broadened as I checked myself out. The smile faded as I realized my admirers outside may not have been admiring me so much as staring at the many neon penises bedazzling the back of my veil.
Instead of slinking past my new found friends, I strode past with my head held high, genital-covered veil flowing behind me. I returned to the car, ready to say “very funny” in my best dripping-with-sarcasm-but-secretly-incredibly-amused voice but Chairsy was ready for me with one of my weaknesses in hand: a big red balloon with a note attached that read “Clue #1.”
That’s where I’ll leave you for today. See what I mean? I couldn’t do the sheer awesomeness of my bachelorette party justice if I didn’t tell you how it really went down and there’s just too much for one day’s work. I swear on my penis veil that I’ll get the entire story written by the time I leave for the wedding next Wednesday. But for now, I need to get to my wedding chores and prepare for the arrival of Lulu who has generously offered to drive up for the weekend to help with crafting. That means I’m spending my last weekend as a single lady the same way I spent them from 1992 to 2002: having a slumber party with Lulu, gossiping about boys, watching chick flicks, and getting into myfather’s liquor cabinet. I guess that means no more open door pooping.
Beau was kidnapped by his groomsmen yesterday afternoon for his four day bachelor party extravaganza in Montreal. That means I’ve spent the last twelve hours crapping with the bathroom door open, eating nothing but pizza, and sleeping in the middle of the bed without him complaining about my elbow being in his face. What better time to tell you about my own bachelorette party which occurred two UNFORGIVEABLE weeks ago? I actually did a complete write up at work yesterday but found that too many of the important details were left out in a one part entry. The humor is all in the details, my friends. So, before Bologna pops out of one of my closets frothing at the mouth, wielding a laptop, and shrieking at me for an entry, let’s begin.
Two INEXCUSEABLE Saturdays ago, Chairsy pulled up to my house in her brand spanking new SUV. I hopped in and threw my bag in the back which contained (among many other things that Bologna insisted that I bring) a bathing suit, five pairs of underwear, and a sturdy pair of walking shoes. I immediately asked if there were snacks. Shocker.
Chairsy instructed me to look at the bag at my feet and to also note the two bottles of soda that had clearly been tampered with. I was to consume those. Trusting that Chairsy wouldn’t slip me a roofie (and frankly, not caring if she did – free drugs for everyone!) I opened the first bottle and tentatively took a sip. I was chugging the sweet nectar of rumndietcoke before we’d even left my street.
Though Chairsy was supposed to blindfold me from the get go, she understood that the combination of binge drinking in a moving vehicle in pitch blackness might cause my now notoriously (NO-NO-NO-NOTORIOUS) weak stomach to expel its contents all over her brand spanking new dashboard causing her husband to kill her in a gruesome fashion. Thus, I was allowed to skip the blindfold and secretly begin guessing where we were going. Yes, I can talk myself out of almost everything. I would have been a lawyer but that requires work and I am decidedly against work.
After my first bottle of darling rumndietcoke (sweet Jesus, how I’ve missed you, my poppet) I convinced my chauffeur to let me out of the car to pee. Everyone is happy to pump me full of liquid but the minute the necessary bodily function need occur, it’s all OH LOOK AT DK WITH HER TILTED WALNUT BLADDER. Sorry for my petite organs. I can’t help that they aren't gargantuan like yours.
Rest stops are much more fun when you’re tipsy. Before you start thinking I’ve gone lightweight, let me say that Chairsy mixes a hefty drink and had prefaced my first sip with “Sorry… that might be a little strong. I got carried away.” Carried away indeed. I skipped into the turnpike restroom, nearly stopping to ask what appeared to be a living anime character to take a picture with me. I clicked the lock on the stall while pulling down my pants and spun around in ballerina fashion before flopping down on the toilet. I immediately jumped up in my least graceful way, pseudo-waddling in the seated position so as to hide my lady bits to slam the door shut before any errant Pokémon saw my shame. Guess the lock was faulty. Must have been.
I skipped back out to the parking lot ready to relate my close encounters with Japan and stopped short on the curb. Instead of seeing Chairsy usual red beater, I saw a sea of unfamiliar vehicles. What color was her new car? Black? Dark blue? Steely Gray? Shit. Well, I knew it was a Toyota SUV. That narrowed it down to only 90% of the cars. I peeked in a few vehicles and inadvertently gave one elderly woman the scare of her life when I was certain I’d found Chairsy’s car and popped up next to the passenger’s side window with that HERE’S JOHNNY face and enthusiastic jazz hands only to find that indeed, I had not found the right Toyota at all.
Eventually, I found Chairsy in the next row and told her about my adventures. We continued our journey while I wondered aloud whether the turnpike went east-west or north-south and started nursing my second bottle of refreshing, beautiful rumndietcoke (sigh of yearning). I became convinced that we were not going a roundabout way to Boston when some of the town names became vaguely familiar from my college years. We left the highway and not long after, pulled onto a bona fide dirt road. I felt so complimented that Chairsy bought an offroading vehicle just for this moment. Until she pulled over and told me to get out.
I stepped out, making sure to leave the door open so that if the engine kicked back on, I’d have time to hop back in. Chairsy told me to turn around. I faced the farmer’s field, surveyed the recently sown rows, and asked if we were trespassing on private property because getting shot at by a man in overalls was not really my idea of a good time. Chairsy giggled from somewhere near the trunk of the car. While I continued to form a contingency plan, she blindfolded me, pinned something to the back of my head, and shoved me back in the car. While this may sound like the starts to a promising porno, I assure you, it is not going in the direction that you think it is.
Though blindfolded, I could sense from Chairsy sudden reticence and the many K turns that we were ever so slightly lost. Could there be a more convenient time that when you’re lost in the unfamiliar land of Deliverance to need a bathroom? I think not. I demanded she return me to the dirt path so I could tinkle in the bushes. Instead, ten minutes later when it became evident that a phone call was necessary for assistance, she pulled over at a gas station.
I cheerfully hopped out, resolving to look at the bathroom lock BEFORE undressing (see, I’m a quick learner) and walked in with a jaunty step, smiling at the many admirers who watched me go by. By many, I mean the toothless man who held the door for me and the Pakistani cashier. I was pleased to see my favorite type of public lavatory (a single room instead of a prison of stalls in which I could see my neighbors’ ankles), secured the door, double checked the lock, and enjoyed a private smile before looking up at my fabulousness in the mirror. Looking back was a smug, slightly intoxicated woman with a fringe of veil showing around her face. The smile broadened as I checked myself out. The smile faded as I realized my admirers outside may not have been admiring me so much as staring at the many neon penises bedazzling the back of my veil.
Instead of slinking past my new found friends, I strode past with my head held high, genital-covered veil flowing behind me. I returned to the car, ready to say “very funny” in my best dripping-with-sarcasm-but-secretly-incredibly-amused voice but Chairsy was ready for me with one of my weaknesses in hand: a big red balloon with a note attached that read “Clue #1.”
That’s where I’ll leave you for today. See what I mean? I couldn’t do the sheer awesomeness of my bachelorette party justice if I didn’t tell you how it really went down and there’s just too much for one day’s work. I swear on my penis veil that I’ll get the entire story written by the time I leave for the wedding next Wednesday. But for now, I need to get to my wedding chores and prepare for the arrival of Lulu who has generously offered to drive up for the weekend to help with crafting. That means I’m spending my last weekend as a single lady the same way I spent them from 1992 to 2002: having a slumber party with Lulu, gossiping about boys, watching chick flicks, and getting into my
Friday, April 16, 2010
A Fabric Cage of Emotion
The wedding is coming up fast (50 days to be exact but who’s counting? I certainly don’t have half a dozen countdowns that I update daily). Last night, I went to my first dress fitting. Both Mama Beau and Chairsy were able to make it to David’s Bridal in Natick with me. They helped me carry my trousseau in from the car and then deposited me in the fitting room. The seamstress (who was named Nina, I believe) came in and asked me if I knew how to get into the bridal bra. I said, “No, not really.” She said, “OK well, I’ll show you.” So, I stripped and held the new one up to my chest and called her in. She instructed me to bend over slightly while she hooked the back. It was very Mammy-pull-tighter-I-want-to-look-ravishing-at-the-barbeque until she kind of gave up and said, “This is the wrong size.”Nina ran out to get a new loaner bra to use for the fitting and I poked my head out of the dressing room to chat with Chairsy and Mama Beau. Now, my bridal bra is one of those seamless molded corsets. It doesn’t show through the dress but it holds my womanflesh firmly in place. I like it in all its simplicity. It reminds me of my grungy cotton bras when they first arrive in the mail from Victoria’s Secret. But, of course, last night they didn’t HAVE a loaner seamless one in my size so Nina brought back a monstrosity out of Frederick’s of Hollywood. There was lace and wire ribbing and those little strings that you hook to your stockings and OH MY GOD IS THAT A PALE PINK BOW?!
After Nina strapped me into the The Moulin Rouge corset, Chairsy came in and helped me into the petticoats which GOODNESS GRACIOUS poof like nobody's business once you pull them out of the original packaging. She managed to get the dress over my head and I waddled out to the little stage while Mama Beau sniffled and smiled. I realized I had left my shoes in the dressing room. Chairsy brought them out and placed them at the edge of the stage. As I found out, there is no bending over in a wedding gown. Try as I might, the shoes remained steadfastly several feet away from me. As I approached them, one of two things would happen: the dress would push them further away or they would get consumed by my petticoats and I would begin fearing for their safety up in there.
Instead, Chairsy, ever the good brideslave, lifted the hem of my dress, guided my foot towards the shoe and then even acted as my own personal shoehorn. I stood there petting my dress as Nina showed my entourage how to properly close it up. She hemmed what felt like several thousand layers of skirt. Time passed. I spun in lots of circles, talked about bridezillas, and found out that my toes go numb when I stand still too long (I guess we know what will happen during the ceremony – that will make for a graceful exit down the aisle). The seamstress gossiped with us about girls coming to David’s Bridal for prom dresses and buying skimpy one that barely cover their bosoms and we all shook our heads and said “Kids these days.” Once she was all done, I got to walk up and down a little hallway while everyone watched to test the hem length. It’s fun taking up an entire corridor with a voluminous dress. It’s just fabric but it feels like sheer POWER. At one point a woman, I assume a scullery maid, needed to get down the hallway and I stepped aside and magnanimously gestured that she may pass my magnificence.
Chairsy helped me out of the dress and I managed not to put an eye out on one of the thousand pins. I left behind my red light district corset and was able to make an exchange for the correct size in the correct style. Everyone and their mother made a point of profusely apologizing for getting me the wrong size in the first place. I assume they’re used to dealing with bridezillas. Say what you will about David’s Bridal, but I think the customer service is phenomenal.
As we were collecting our things to leave, another girl came out of the dressing room next to me and went up on the stage. Mama Beau, still looking a little misty, complimented her dress (which was ivory silk and one of those pretty mermaid shapes that only looks good on size 2 figures) and asked her when the big day was. The girl replied, “I’m not getting married. This is my prom dress” and proceeded to concentrate on pulling the dress lower on her chest. Kids these days.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Jell-O Mug
The past week has comprised of INTENSE preparation of the condo for this weekend when my loved ones will descend (or I should say ascend since they’re almost all coming from points further south) on the metro Boston area for my shower and a big thanks-for-hauling-ass-to-a-state-in-which-the-National-Guard-was-recently-deployed BBQ. Despite having sat still for about 15 minutes in the past week, I made time on Wednesday night to prepare for one of my favorite holidays: April Fools. Are you really all that surprised?
Office BFF is a die-hard Office fan and prides herself on being our office’s version of Dwight. So, this year’s inspiration came from the pilot episode. As luck would have it, Office B took a vacation day on March31. Why someone would leave their personal belongings unprotected the day before April Fools with me around, I’ll never know. Suffice it to say, she did and I took advantage by abducting her favorite mug…
… and asking Beau to buy as many packages of strawberry Jell-O that he could find on his way home from work. Shortly after dinner, I was in the kitchen setting this up: 
Figure 2
2. Jell-O will stain white counter tops. Lesson Learned: Work over the sink or (like I did) make sure you have a serious stain remover on hand. Beau had to the leave the room when I cleaned though because the stain remover reminded him of cleaning up vomit in college.
3. Before pouring in the liquid Jell-O, I greased the interior of the bowl with cooking spray in the clever hopes that it would make removal easier. It did nothing of the sort. When I pulled it out of the fridge and shook it over a plate, it didn’t fall out. I thought that maybe the top edge of the Jell-O was preventing it from sliding out easily since it was clearly adhered* to the side of the bowl. I slid a knife about an inch down around the mold. The next time I shook it, a chunk fell out but not the whole mold. Major fissure # 2. Thanks to the foul, clingy nature of Jell-O, I was able to stuff it back in the bowl and make it sort of whole again. Lesson Learned: I eventually shoved a long boning knife as far as it would go between the bowl and the Jell-O. Then it finally came out.
4. For transportation purposes, I put the upside down bowl back over the plated mold and harnessed it in place with tape. If the Jell-O hadn’t already split, this may have worked. Since it did split, bits of Jell-O were preventing the bowl from making contact with the plate. Lesson Learned: either don’t let the Jell-O split or even better, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination so that transportation is not an issue. I didn’t want to bring a big honkin knife to work but what the hell. What’s one more weapon in my cubicle?
5. I put the plated mold with the bowl covering on the floor of the front passenger seat where it jiggled at me horrifically**. My commute was longer than normal thanks to flooded roads and the Jell-O continue to wiggle and ooze out from under the bowl. When I finally got to the highway, I floored it in an attempt to get the wretched thing out of my car before it touched the carpet. Lesson Learned: I reiterate, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination. Jell-O was not meant to go 80mph.
6. Jell-O smells really bad on its own and if you’re anything like me, the odor will make your stomach turn as you relive memories from high school of your first attempt at Jell-O shots. Lesson Learned: Do not mix tequila and lime Jell-O even if you’re in high school and it’s the only thing you and your friends can steal from your parents’ liquor cabinets without getting busted because no one ever drank the tequila and you could tell from the amount of dust on the bottle. The memory will haunt you well into your 20s.
I hope my pointers serve to help you in your own future pranks. I know this time next year, I’ll be references them myself.
*This shit is so gross. How is it considered dessert?
**SERIOUSLY – HOW COULD SOMEONE EVER WILLINGLY IMBIBE THIS VIAL SUBSTANCE?
Office BFF is a die-hard Office fan and prides herself on being our office’s version of Dwight. So, this year’s inspiration came from the pilot episode. As luck would have it, Office B took a vacation day on March31. Why someone would leave their personal belongings unprotected the day before April Fools with me around, I’ll never know. Suffice it to say, she did and I took advantage by abducting her favorite mug…
Figure 1
… and asking Beau to buy as many packages of strawberry Jell-O that he could find on his way home from work. Shortly after dinner, I was in the kitchen setting this up:
Figure 2 When I pulled it out of the fridge on Thursday morning, it was magnificent. Sadly, it did not survive my commute as well as I had hoped:
Figure 3
Regardless, many laughs were had by all and Office B shouted “I’ve been Dwighted” when she got to work so I consider it a success. If anyone would like to try it out themselves, learn from my mistakes:
1. I positioned the mug horizontally instead of vertically on purpose but in retrospect, it was probably my first mistake. I was hoping to create the illusion of suspension since it was too big to touch the bottom of the bowl (see Figure 2). This way when I took the block of Jell-O out of the bowl, the mug appeared to float a couple of inches from both the top and bottom. The problem lay (lie? Laid? Lied?) in the contact points in which the mug touched the sides of the bowl. Those created weak spots in the outside of the mold which eventually turned into larger fissures. Lesson Learned: A better way was to suspend an object in Jell-O can be found at (where else?)
http://www.jellostapler.com/stapler-in-jello.html.1. I positioned the mug horizontally instead of vertically on purpose but in retrospect, it was probably my first mistake. I was hoping to create the illusion of suspension since it was too big to touch the bottom of the bowl (see Figure 2). This way when I took the block of Jell-O out of the bowl, the mug appeared to float a couple of inches from both the top and bottom. The problem lay (lie? Laid? Lied?) in the contact points in which the mug touched the sides of the bowl. Those created weak spots in the outside of the mold which eventually turned into larger fissures. Lesson Learned: A better way was to suspend an object in Jell-O can be found at (where else?)
2. Jell-O will stain white counter tops. Lesson Learned: Work over the sink or (like I did) make sure you have a serious stain remover on hand. Beau had to the leave the room when I cleaned though because the stain remover reminded him of cleaning up vomit in college.
3. Before pouring in the liquid Jell-O, I greased the interior of the bowl with cooking spray in the clever hopes that it would make removal easier. It did nothing of the sort. When I pulled it out of the fridge and shook it over a plate, it didn’t fall out. I thought that maybe the top edge of the Jell-O was preventing it from sliding out easily since it was clearly adhered* to the side of the bowl. I slid a knife about an inch down around the mold. The next time I shook it, a chunk fell out but not the whole mold. Major fissure # 2. Thanks to the foul, clingy nature of Jell-O, I was able to stuff it back in the bowl and make it sort of whole again. Lesson Learned: I eventually shoved a long boning knife as far as it would go between the bowl and the Jell-O. Then it finally came out.
4. For transportation purposes, I put the upside down bowl back over the plated mold and harnessed it in place with tape. If the Jell-O hadn’t already split, this may have worked. Since it did split, bits of Jell-O were preventing the bowl from making contact with the plate. Lesson Learned: either don’t let the Jell-O split or even better, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination so that transportation is not an issue. I didn’t want to bring a big honkin knife to work but what the hell. What’s one more weapon in my cubicle?
5. I put the plated mold with the bowl covering on the floor of the front passenger seat where it jiggled at me horrifically**. My commute was longer than normal thanks to flooded roads and the Jell-O continue to wiggle and ooze out from under the bowl. When I finally got to the highway, I floored it in an attempt to get the wretched thing out of my car before it touched the carpet. Lesson Learned: I reiterate, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination. Jell-O was not meant to go 80mph.
6. Jell-O smells really bad on its own and if you’re anything like me, the odor will make your stomach turn as you relive memories from high school of your first attempt at Jell-O shots. Lesson Learned: Do not mix tequila and lime Jell-O even if you’re in high school and it’s the only thing you and your friends can steal from your parents’ liquor cabinets without getting busted because no one ever drank the tequila and you could tell from the amount of dust on the bottle. The memory will haunt you well into your 20s.
I hope my pointers serve to help you in your own future pranks. I know this time next year, I’ll be references them myself.
*This shit is so gross. How is it considered dessert?
**SERIOUSLY – HOW COULD SOMEONE EVER WILLINGLY IMBIBE THIS VIAL SUBSTANCE?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
It’s Gone Now. I Ate It While Trying to Think of a Title.
After a post-lunch trip to the vending machine today, I settled back into my cubicle with a prized bag of Cheez-Its. The lunch crowd was emptying out of the kitchen which is directly behind my desk, so I had to wait before opening Facebook and continuing to scrutinize Beau’s profile (listen, I am marrying this man. I need to make confirm that what he puts out into cyberspace is an approved representation of his person. Sometimes he wears stripes and plaid together. It makes me nervous).
I clicked on my favorite pretend-I’m-working screen which is my loaded and color-coded work calendar. Coworkers continued to filter out of the break room individually. I opened my bag of snacks and began munching. Two girls stopped to wrap up a conversation. I squinted at my computer in that way that suggests concentration and serious thought. Really, I was looking at the list of alternate calendars and thinking, “I wonder if I still have access to the President’s calendar” because I thoroughly enjoy putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. My right hand continued to dig through the contents of the bag which was firmly held by my left hand. Then the President’s calendar opened up. I almost choked on a Cheez-It.
I immediately closed his calendar and informed Bologna that I have telekinesis because being able to control things with your mind is more interesting than my boss’ doctor’s appointments. After 26 years, Bologna has grown accustomed to my reports of brain aneurisms, bird flu symptoms and Sasquatch sightings so she tends to approach my claims with a reserved tone. This time I got a “wow” with TWO exclamation points. That’s how moving my proof was.
She demanded scientific testing. I put a cracker on my desk and worked on levitating it to my mouth by making the same squinty face. After a few seconds of wasted energy, I gave the Cheez-It a little boost by putting it on my keyboard (don’t judge – it’s my first exercise in levitation). I hovered menacingly and opened my mouth really wide but to no avail. I moved the cracker to higher ground again and continued concentrating.
Bologna and I kept talking while the stubborn cracker refused to fly into my mouth. Maybe telekinesis is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. You can burst a blood vessel straining your eyes or you can kind of let them cross and the picture will appear. But how to distract myself while a lush Cheez-It, the last of the bag, sits unmolested and easily within reach? I checked my email. I lined up other objects on my desk. I wrote an entire blog entry. Still, 45 minutes later, the cracker remains steadfastly on my stapler like Mufasa overlooking his kingdom. That is the longest that an undefended food product has ever remained on my desk.
I clicked on my favorite pretend-I’m-working screen which is my loaded and color-coded work calendar. Coworkers continued to filter out of the break room individually. I opened my bag of snacks and began munching. Two girls stopped to wrap up a conversation. I squinted at my computer in that way that suggests concentration and serious thought. Really, I was looking at the list of alternate calendars and thinking, “I wonder if I still have access to the President’s calendar” because I thoroughly enjoy putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. My right hand continued to dig through the contents of the bag which was firmly held by my left hand. Then the President’s calendar opened up. I almost choked on a Cheez-It.
I immediately closed his calendar and informed Bologna that I have telekinesis because being able to control things with your mind is more interesting than my boss’ doctor’s appointments. After 26 years, Bologna has grown accustomed to my reports of brain aneurisms, bird flu symptoms and Sasquatch sightings so she tends to approach my claims with a reserved tone. This time I got a “wow” with TWO exclamation points. That’s how moving my proof was.
She demanded scientific testing. I put a cracker on my desk and worked on levitating it to my mouth by making the same squinty face. After a few seconds of wasted energy, I gave the Cheez-It a little boost by putting it on my keyboard (don’t judge – it’s my first exercise in levitation). I hovered menacingly and opened my mouth really wide but to no avail. I moved the cracker to higher ground again and continued concentrating.
Bologna and I kept talking while the stubborn cracker refused to fly into my mouth. Maybe telekinesis is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. You can burst a blood vessel straining your eyes or you can kind of let them cross and the picture will appear. But how to distract myself while a lush Cheez-It, the last of the bag, sits unmolested and easily within reach? I checked my email. I lined up other objects on my desk. I wrote an entire blog entry. Still, 45 minutes later, the cracker remains steadfastly on my stapler like Mufasa overlooking his kingdom. That is the longest that an undefended food product has ever remained on my desk.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
None of This is Exaggeration
My morning was not off to a fantastic start. I didn’t get a great night’s sleep in the guest room where I was relegated because Beau took Nyquil and was snoring in a way that proved it. I had to wake up earlier than usual to get to my first HR class and overslept by 10 crucial minutes. My entire morning routine was rushed as a result. I shook my face moisturizer without checking the lid and an arc of lotion sprayed across the carpet, furniture and walls. Finally, I sat down to eat my breakfast in begrudging silence and roll my eyes continuously at the sportscast that came on thanks to my altered schedule instead of my usual morning news. Shortly after I finished my cereal, something walked out from under the red Man Chair in the corner, casually walked across the floor and entered the gloom under the TV console.
No, I don’t have mice again. The something appeared to be an ant, roughly 2 inches long, of the variety one sees on documentaries about the Amazon, carrying entire sparrows into its den. My shock wore off after I lost sight and I immediately started shrieking to Beau. He appeared (after an inexcusable pause, mind you) and stood halfway down the stairs looking at me calmly with shaving cream all over his face. It’s as if he’s getting used to me and my early-morning blood-curdling screams. Actually, he was entirely too nonchalant about the situation.
From where I stood across the room, I explained that an Ant of Epic Proportions had infiltrated our home and was now camping out under the TV stand. Beau ever-so-coolly stood there in his boxers and informed me that he “couldn’t do anything about it at this moment” before heading upstairs. Within a second, I had leapt off the sofa and was tailgating him to the second floor. I sure as shit wasn’t staying downstairs with that thing.
Teary eyed and verging on hysteria, I begged Beau to fumigate its lair in hopes of killing it or at least scaring it out. I really ought to buy a can of Raid. The number of times I’ve hairsprayed or Febreezed an insect to death is just obscene. While I did my hair (pausing occasionally to blow dry the doorway to protect against sneak attacks), Beau followed orders with household sprays of mass destruction. The ant didn’t come out but if it shits out a sparrow down there, I’m confident the scent will be masked by half a bottle of Glade.
No, I don’t have mice again. The something appeared to be an ant, roughly 2 inches long, of the variety one sees on documentaries about the Amazon, carrying entire sparrows into its den. My shock wore off after I lost sight and I immediately started shrieking to Beau. He appeared (after an inexcusable pause, mind you) and stood halfway down the stairs looking at me calmly with shaving cream all over his face. It’s as if he’s getting used to me and my early-morning blood-curdling screams. Actually, he was entirely too nonchalant about the situation.
From where I stood across the room, I explained that an Ant of Epic Proportions had infiltrated our home and was now camping out under the TV stand. Beau ever-so-coolly stood there in his boxers and informed me that he “couldn’t do anything about it at this moment” before heading upstairs. Within a second, I had leapt off the sofa and was tailgating him to the second floor. I sure as shit wasn’t staying downstairs with that thing.
Teary eyed and verging on hysteria, I begged Beau to fumigate its lair in hopes of killing it or at least scaring it out. I really ought to buy a can of Raid. The number of times I’ve hairsprayed or Febreezed an insect to death is just obscene. While I did my hair (pausing occasionally to blow dry the doorway to protect against sneak attacks), Beau followed orders with household sprays of mass destruction. The ant didn’t come out but if it shits out a sparrow down there, I’m confident the scent will be masked by half a bottle of Glade.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Things I’ve Learned About Myself
1) While the pace of my job has been picking up lately, it has not picked up enough to entirely eschew blogging.
2) Even when I am busy at work, I’m still bored because office management is only slightly more interesting than eating plain Wasa crackers.
3) Despite having a box of Wasa crackers in my desk drawer, I am still more likely to hit the vending machine for Cheez Its.
4) Writing about food and taking pictures of flowers makes me want to vomit harder than I did last Sunday
5) Flower appreciation and burgeoning culinary skills aside, I am still not an adult. See #4.
6) It’s really hard to not say the f word or talk about my bowel movements for an entire month.
7) I’d rather have a blog in which I can talk about my fucking poops than a blog in which I show you pictures of quinoa even if I know I’ll neglect it when I get moody.
2) Even when I am busy at work, I’m still bored because office management is only slightly more interesting than eating plain Wasa crackers.
3) Despite having a box of Wasa crackers in my desk drawer, I am still more likely to hit the vending machine for Cheez Its.
4) Writing about food and taking pictures of flowers makes me want to vomit harder than I did last Sunday
5) Flower appreciation and burgeoning culinary skills aside, I am still not an adult. See #4.
6) It’s really hard to not say the f word or talk about my bowel movements for an entire month.
7) I’d rather have a blog in which I can talk about my fucking poops than a blog in which I show you pictures of quinoa even if I know I’ll neglect it when I get moody.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Fin
Over the past year, my life has changed in a very positive way. It's time for me to stop fighting it and openly acknowledge that I like the changes. I haven't been blogging much lately because I felt like it wasn't worth mentioning the parts of my life that aren't slap-stick comedy. Like I'd be letting down my three fans if I included the other parts of my life. Really though, I started this blog for my own entertainment and I've missed it. I don't want to feel pressured to live up to my old lifestyle or any arbitrary expectations that I set for myself but I want to continue writing. So, this is it. I've decided to retire Dangerous K and migrate elsewhere. If you're one of my friends or relatives (or you're a curious stranger) you can now find me at rose ribbon and carbon.
Every now and then I still miss my wild days but really, I had a good run. I'm going to keep my old blog here as a record because while there may not be many more bar fights in my future, I'll always think fondly of the past ones.
Every now and then I still miss my wild days but really, I had a good run. I'm going to keep my old blog here as a record because while there may not be many more bar fights in my future, I'll always think fondly of the past ones.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
In Which I Do Not Acknowledge My Two Month Absence
I have been known in the past to make rash decisions. Now I spend several minutes reading nutrition labels before committing to a box of crackers. Every once in awhile though, I still do something without thinking it through and it comes back to bite me in the ass, much to the amusement of my loved ones. But not to Verizon techs.
After reading this hilariousness and watching Beau whisper sweet nothings to his Iphone, I decided it was time to join the 21st century and purchase my very own smart phone. My BlackBerry arrived in the mail two days later and I spent an evening playing with it and experiencing something very similar to Nintendo thumbs. Yet I was still intrigued by my brand new blinky, buzzy thinger with Interwebs and email and Facebook.
Shockingly, over the next week, I grew to hate it for all its blinking and buzzing and constant connection. I hid it in my desk drawer. I gave it dirty looks at the dinner table. I said hurtful things to it when we were alone. Despite several opinions to the contrary, I did not want to wait another week to get used to it. I could not love this thing. It was unlovable.
Bright and early Saturday morning, I strapped on my snow boots and dragged Beau to Verizon. I punched my information into the waiting list registry and wandered around the store looking at other hateful blinky things until they called my name. I bee lined to the counter and cheerfully asked the tech to take back my BlackBerry. I explained that I thought I was ready for the 21st century but indeed, I am not and this was just way TOO connected and I miss my paper pocket calendar. He gave me a look that suggested that they paid him to do this on Saturday mornings and he did not, in fact, care about my particular breed of neurosis. My cheerfulness waned until he said he could reactivate my old phone so I wouldn’t have to keep using the terrible, horrible blinky thing that plays Bach when no one calls me.
I slid my gray clunker flip-phone across the counter and enjoyed the revulsion in his eyes, probably in the same way that PETA crazies get a kick out of throwing red paint on ladies in fur coats leaving the opera. Oh yeah, I thought, that’s right. I don’t want your miserable smart phone. I reject it. I am publically declaring my preference for this old, clearly inferior model.
Now all I have to do is send the wretched BlackBerry back and we’ll have this impulse buy behind us. I skipped back to the car as Beau shook his head and said he hoped I learned something. Then I made him take me to the Salvation Army.
After reading this hilariousness and watching Beau whisper sweet nothings to his Iphone, I decided it was time to join the 21st century and purchase my very own smart phone. My BlackBerry arrived in the mail two days later and I spent an evening playing with it and experiencing something very similar to Nintendo thumbs. Yet I was still intrigued by my brand new blinky, buzzy thinger with Interwebs and email and Facebook.
Shockingly, over the next week, I grew to hate it for all its blinking and buzzing and constant connection. I hid it in my desk drawer. I gave it dirty looks at the dinner table. I said hurtful things to it when we were alone. Despite several opinions to the contrary, I did not want to wait another week to get used to it. I could not love this thing. It was unlovable.
Bright and early Saturday morning, I strapped on my snow boots and dragged Beau to Verizon. I punched my information into the waiting list registry and wandered around the store looking at other hateful blinky things until they called my name. I bee lined to the counter and cheerfully asked the tech to take back my BlackBerry. I explained that I thought I was ready for the 21st century but indeed, I am not and this was just way TOO connected and I miss my paper pocket calendar. He gave me a look that suggested that they paid him to do this on Saturday mornings and he did not, in fact, care about my particular breed of neurosis. My cheerfulness waned until he said he could reactivate my old phone so I wouldn’t have to keep using the terrible, horrible blinky thing that plays Bach when no one calls me.
I slid my gray clunker flip-phone across the counter and enjoyed the revulsion in his eyes, probably in the same way that PETA crazies get a kick out of throwing red paint on ladies in fur coats leaving the opera. Oh yeah, I thought, that’s right. I don’t want your miserable smart phone. I reject it. I am publically declaring my preference for this old, clearly inferior model.
Now all I have to do is send the wretched BlackBerry back and we’ll have this impulse buy behind us. I skipped back to the car as Beau shook his head and said he hoped I learned something. Then I made him take me to the Salvation Army.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)