Certain activities lend themselves to an atmosphere of redneckishness: go cart racing, pool, waiting in an empty supermarket parking lot at 10:30 pm while your boyfriend pees on a dumpster. I have partipicated in all of these today.
Beau, Mistress, Boy Toy and I ventured out to Braintree this evening to visit F1 Boston, the only go cart track in the general vicinity to the best of my knowledge. It was only a matter of time before we ended up there, considering Beau drives an Audi TT and Mistress' parents are both racecar drivers. Today was that fortuitous day.
Though once infamous for reckless driving, I've tamed in my road attitude. Now I'm more inclined to nag Beau into observing a 35 mph speed limit than pass in the shoulder, but that wasn't always the case. Having been raised in glorious NJ, I was once what one might call "a Jersey driver" in the sense that I was comfortable going 90 mph on the turnpike while rocking a Jersey sweep (for those not in the know, a Jersey sweep refers to a particularly dangerous driving maneuver in which one is stuck in the left lane behind a slow driver and moves to the middle lane to pass only to find a slow driver there too requiring a move to the far right lane to complete a pass before swerving all the way back to the left lane all in one clean movement at a minimum of 70 mph).
Beau pumped up my Jersey driver status before arriving at F1 saying that my newfound paranoia would be overruled once I found myself behind the wheel again. I maintained I would spend my time on the racetrack in the right lane going a reasonable speed with my blinker going. Let's just guess who was right, as always. Like I've said, it's a curse.
We arrived at the hanger-cum-racetrack shortly before the other couple. It gave us time to watch the incoming crowds of teenagers and mullet clad adults. We became increasingly concerned upon seeing a group of 40something men wearing personalized racing gear. "I'm not going to wear a race suit, right?" was all I could squeak out before the others arrived. After registering, paying and signing a waiver promising we weren't drunk and/or wouldn't sue them if we lost a limb on their premises, we were ushered into a closet where we were presented with a rack of orange jump suits. Now, I understand the need for shared bowling shoes, but I draw the line at communal clothing. Having already paid, Beau ignored my horror stricken face and shoved me towards the clothes rack where I selected a size larger than I'd like to admit because these hips don't lie and they also don't fit into ANYTHING.
We viewed a brief safety video that I don't recall because I spent the entire time poking Mistress and telling her she looked like a giant condom in her "head sock" (also communal). Soon, we were ushered out to the track where I was pleased to see I had been assigned to the 2nd car in the line up. A ha. I had an edge on the others. Had. Past tense. Very past tense.
Within seconds of leaving the gate on our practice lap the first stranger passed me. I was content to floor my souped up lawn mower on the straight aways and brake going around the corners. Screw you guys. I'm responsible now. But despite my conscientious driving, some asshole hit me going through the Z-turn, causing his car to spin out and my car to come to a complete halt against his. I looked up through the visor of my super sexy helmet to make eye contact with Beau who was clearly pleased with himself.
Needless to say, I have official paperwork declaring myself the worst driver in the bunch. I ranked 10th place out of 10. That includes the old woman who beat my ass by at least 15 seconds. The race was long over when I pulled across the finish line.
As a consolation prize, I earned cheap drinks and a few games of pool. Halfway through my first loss, it occurred to me that I’m just not cut out for some low brow activities despite my penchant for hard liquor and rowdiness. Though I carried the Beau/DK team during game #2, it seemed the odds were stacked against me. Could it be that, in fact, I ain’t no red neck woman?!
We came back to Suburbia for dinner and drinks which were generally uneventful despite frightening a wholesome looking couple at the next table over with a loud discussion involving strap-ons. A pleasant evening was passed until we walked back to the Boy Toys car where Beau declared himself physically incapable of waiting any longer to take a wiz. He rounded a corner of the nearest building while we courteously waited outside in the accumulating snow until it seemed that too many minutes had passed.
“What? Is he crapping back there?” I asked which sent Mistress running around the corner to confirm, no, he was indeed not pooping in a parking lot.
We’re home safe now where Beau is happily sleeping and I am nursing my last rumncoke of the evening and contemplating showering and burning any of my personal possessions that may have come in contact with something referred to as a “head sock.”
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Coyoday
Tuesdays are worthless. They contribute nothing to the week. Even Mondays with that fresh-start feeling have a solid position. Wednesdays mark midweek, Thursday through Saturday are designated drinking days and Sunday is for lounging about with a hangover. But Tuesday? Fucking useless.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Reporting Live from the Dirty Jerz
If I had to pick just one reason why I hate public transportation, it would have to be the public. Above and beyond inconveniences caused by delays, uncomfortable seats, outrageous prices, and bad service, one can always depend on the inconsiderate, unwashed masses to make traveling into a living nightmare. Instead of leaning on one another for support during these troubling times, the general public is often Enemy Number One.
I am consistently dissapointed, nay, horrified by my encounters with the GP. After a five hour train ride from Boston to NJ in which I was subjected to close proximity with a variety of unsavory types, I propose for the consideration of the US government (and specifically the TSA) the following regulations for the well being of folks like you and me:
- Cell Phone Restrictions: Conversations are to be kept to a bare minimum not to exceed a maximum of three minutes. Permissible topics include transportation delays, estimated time of arrival, emergency situations, and important reminders (eg "Don't forget to pick up the kids/dry cleaning/rum"). I do NOT want to hear about tomorrow's 10:00 AM meeting, your sorority sisters, lengthy family arguments involving intimate details of your personal life, last Tuesday's episode of The Hills, or your plans for the Super Bowl.
- Volume Regulations in General: Keep it to a whisper and this includes your goddamn iPod. If I liked R Kelly then I'd put him on MY iPod. Furthermore, if you are under 21 and traveling with friends, know that the rest of us are coming from a long eight hour day of work. We don't think your rebellious loudness is cool. Stop showing off for the adults. You make us wish your parents had had access to Plan B.
- Personal Space Control: See this?
The area in red represents my seat. I paid for ALL of it. You may not share it with your love handles, stretched legs, or shopping bags. If you require more room then go purchase some. I intend on using all $63 of my train seat. If you insist on invading my domain, I will calculate the percentage of my ticket you are occupying, add a $50 annoyance tax, and help myself to your wallet when you run to the bathroom. - Hygiene Requirements: Sometime in the 24 hours leading up to boarding public transportation, a full shower must be accomplished. This includes use of soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and deodorant. A thorough dousing of Axe body spray DOES NOT COUNT as bathing.
But alas, until the government starts paying attention to my many letters of suggestion, a word to the wary traveler: arm yourself with an iPod of Enya, a fashion magazine full of perfume ads to discreetly stick your nose in, and a glare of pure rage.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I'm Bad At Sharing
There’s no time to discuss the outcome of yesteryesterevening’s experiment. I have breaking news of the receptionist kind.
Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.
Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.
A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"
Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)
Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.
Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.
So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.
Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly
Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.
Hrmph.
This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.
Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.
Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.
A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"
Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)
Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.
Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.
So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.
Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly
Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.
Hrmph.
This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Ode to the Days When My Bottom Was Smaller
Once upon a time, I rented a room in the student ghetto of Boston where I cohabitated with two girls, two boys and two dogs, not to mention the ever shifting group of hippies in the first floor apartment and the creepy guy that lived in a tent next to the washing machine in the basement.
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
- Do not snack pre-dinner
- Eat something healthy instead. This does not include: condiments eaten from the jar with a spoon, ice cream straight from the container or cheese in any form.
- Dance around in underwear or exercise otherwise for a minimum of 20 minutes.
- Drink a cup of tea while reading. Just because it sounds quaint.
Now that the bag of Tostidos is no longer a threat, I feel optimistic as to the outcome. Full report tomorrow.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Most pictures are worth a thousand words. This one is worth six hundred and thirty eight.
Forgive me for being abnormally quiet. It’s just that nothing wacky or entertaining really happened to me this week. I haven’t gotten into any bar fights, I haven’t been chased by the police, and I haven’t seen any new genital piercings. But since I can’t help but talk about myself, when nothing terribly interesting happens, I just get all reminiscey about the past. That is why I will now share with you, the Internet, what I believe to be the first picture taken of Beau and me, way back in our junior year of college on the day of Beau’s 21st birthday when he uttered the fateful words “I want to get so drunk that I vomit.”
Let us take a moment to analyze this most excellent photo. Shall we begin with the obvious? To the left, we have Beau, dressed as Bruce Springsteen with a Burger King crown of unknown origins, leaning in to make an emphatic point in conversation. This emphasis is easily seen in the two raised fingers of his red cup hand (also known as the “pimp hand”). Though the image catches a lateral view of his face, the glazed intoxication is still clearly visible in his eyes which only lends further credence to the impending accomplishment of his ultimate goal of the night.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cock bar? Huzzah!
What do you discuss with your friends over a quiet lunch in a family restaurant? Politics? The weather? Genital piercings? Us too. Or at least that's what we discuss when the German comes to town. I quite nearly choked on a nacho when he said "I got a piercing" because it was clearly not located on his face. Ever hopeful of seeing a man with a belly button ring, I asked about its location. That was the first mistake I made on Saturday.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
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