Decaffeination

I was shooting for an entire month between entries but I can’t hold out. I just couldn’t stay away. I can’t quit you (no homo).

It’s been characteristically busy since my last check in. That’s becoming routine so I’ve stopped feeling surprised by work demands and my overwhelming popularity. For now I’m going to skip over Beau’s first Thanksgiving turkey, cramming 6.5 people into our wee little condo, Nugget projectile crapping in my bedroom, the purchase of my very own wedding dress, and the solid 40 man-hours I’ve devoted to crafting in the past two weeks to update you on my digestive health. Again.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I started having the same weird stomach pains I had back around Bologna’s baby shower this summer. I suffered through them for a few days before heading to the doctor who ordered blood work and other fun tests to screen for the lead suspect: an ulcer. While waiting for the results, she said to temporarily treat it like an ulcer and see if it got any better. No carbonation, no caffeine, no alcohol, no OTC pain medications. Pretty much no reason to live. I immediately began looking for pointy things to jab into my eyes.

Like 90% of red blooded Americans, I depend on caffeine to keep me going about my humdrum office life. Eliminating it resulted in a solid week of throbbing headaches, massive irritability, and mild retardation. Simple fifteen-minute tasks took an hour to complete as I tried to wrap my shriveled brain around arithmetic. I almost threw a computer at a coworker for walking too close to my desk. I couldn’t take my usual four Advil pills to counteract the epic migraine that was worse – I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY – than any hangover I’ve ever had, including the morning after Pleasure Island, the morning after St. Patty’s Day 2007, and that time I woke up in a tent in the bathroom. I was in the throes of caffeine withdrawal for seven days. That much was clear.

Sure enough, the stomach pains went away and though the tests did not reveal an ulcer, she said to continue treating it that way since it seemed to be working. How could I possibly have gotten a Ninja ulcer that hates on everything and hides from ultrasounds? The first person to suggest half a decade of the triple-punch of rumndietcokes which contain three of my delectably forbidden food groups will be eaten alive.

Bologna, who went through this ordeal in her mid-20s, advised me on the subject. Caffeine and carbonation are not a part of my future. Though I gnawed on the phone a bit when she told me that, really the worst was over. The headaches had subsided and I regained normal brain function. I still want to throw rotten fruit at my coworkers but at least Happy F left the company. That helps. And I can still drink alcohol in moderation (whatever the hell that means).

Unfortunately, as we usher out 2009, I will need to say goodbye to my long beloved rumndietcokes. In honor of them, friend, lover, soul mate, I present this tribute to be viewed while listening to “You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Farewell my little friend. I'll see you again at my bachelorette party.

Dangerous K and the Almost Zombie Apocalypse

I’ve fielded two complaints in the last few days about my lack of blog posting and that’s really all it takes to get me started again. I like to feel needed. I am a slave to my fans. My sincerest apologies to all of them (including the gaggle of Filipinos who know me better as Wak2. Listen to your cousin. He’s telling you the truth. I really do abduct young Catholic virgins from their beds at night and feast on their innards). As reparations for my inattentiveness and for the consumption of innocents, I offer you the story of Dangerous K and the Almost Zombie Apocalypse.

Maybe I mentioned before that my job closely resembles that of an office manager (I say “closely resembles” because what it more accurately resembles is a vaguely employed slacker who spends most of her days sneaking Twilight under her desk and helping the company hemorrhage it’s caffeine supply while occasionally and begrudgingly ordering paper clips). In early October, on a day when every C-level employee was in a meeting somewhere on the other side of our massive office complex, the lights suddenly went out. In the silence following a string of my belligerent curses, I heard the other lemmings shift about. I sat motionless at my desk, squinting in the dull glow of the emergency lights and the windows onto the building’s atrium, and hoping that the problem would resolve itself if I just ignored it long enough. It did not.

I rummaged around in the storage closet for flashlights but came up empty handed. By then, there were wide eyed cubicle monkeys peering around the corner looking for guidance. It occurred to me that somehow I was supposed to be holding down the fort while the big dogs were away. My one day of active duty for the month and calamity strikes. Well. Shit.

I addressed my flock, “I’m going to… uhh… go check with building management.” Yes! That is exactly what I’m going to go do! Eureka! And I promptly scuttled to the front door of our suite. Downstairs in the atrium, madness was moderately erupting. The maintenance guys with whom I’m friendly (because seriously, have you never seen Fight Club? Be nice to those guys. Plus, if you make friends with them, they visit you faster when you call them crying about leaky faucets) were unusually short with me. One of them shouted over his shoulder, “Sorry, K. We’ve got people stuck in elevators all over the building” as he ran off with what appeared to be the Jaws-of-Life. I sympathized. Our building is only three stories tall. I frequently take the elevator to my office on the second floor out of sheer slothfulness. I would be absolutely ripshit with myself, not to mention terrified, if I were one of those people.

Building management was likewise unhelpful in regards to the cause of the problem. They informed me that the power was out, but oddly enough, I was already wise to that fact. Later I learned that they had a backup generator for their suite and spent the next two hours emailing their tenants to say “the power is out.” I didn’t know that at the time because my computer runs on electricity you fucking morons.

I wandered back to my office to inform the others of the lack of updates. Instead of standing around, twiddling my thumbs, and fighting out the socializing advances of my coworkers, I decided to further make myself useful by checking on the C-level meeting in case they had no windows where they were and were currently sitting in total darkness. I knew generally where the conference room was but getting there was trickier. To access it, I need to head away from the sunny sky-light filled atrium and wander through a maze of windowless halls without a flashlight.

I turned the first corner and came face to face with a door that had never been there before. I learned later that the fire doors run on electricity and they had all automatically slammed shut when the power went down. Though it was disorienting, it wouldn’t have been a huge deal if someone had thought to put those red emergency lights in each segment created but closed doors. Instead, two segments down the hall I opened a fire door and was confronted with pitch black. I couldn’t see the tip of my nose. But I’m a clever girl, so I ran back to my desk and grabbed my cell to use a makeshift flashlight. When I got back to that door and started jabbing buttons on my phone, I could just barely see to the end of my outstretched arm, which wasn’t a bad thing because I was fairly sure this is what it looked like around me.


The red glow of the emergency light from the last segment was abruptly lost as the fire door slammed shut behind me. Within two steps, I could no longer see the door I’d just passed through. That was when it hit me. I’m that girl in a horror movie. I’m the blonde chick who goes to investigate the cause of the blackout armed with nothing but a half-charged Motorola. This is exactly why I need to keep a battle axe at my desk.

Without at least a machete for protection, I knew from countless B-movies that I had between thirty seconds and four minutes to live, depending on how cruel this particular director was. My left hand curled into a fist and my heart began racing. A door cautiously swung open to my right where I wasn’t expecting it and I nearly wet myself. An elderly woman popped out to ask if the bathrooms had lights. Looks like she hadn’t gotten the memo. Probably because it was emailed to her. Too bad, because those halls weren’t safe for little old ladies. I have a heavily ingrained self defense mechanism and almost beat her to death with my shoe before I realized that she was not a) the undead b) a serial killer c) a Velociraptor.

Several minutes later I found the conference room. I burst in looking more shaken, frazzled and wild eyed than usual to find the C-levels cheerfully sitting in a room with a wall of windows. I smiled weakly, explained briefly, and returned to the hallway for the return trip. My heart rate tripled as the phone battery blinked down to one pathetic bar.

I raced down the hallways at a faster pace than before, colliding with several doors and physically assaulting an unfortunately placed potted palm tree. Wait? A palm tree? There was no palm tree on my way here. I looked at the room number next to my victim. The numbers should have been ascending, not descending. In my panic, I’d lost my way.

I back tracked, slower this time, until I picked up the scent of rum and jeans that haven’t been washed in awhile… and also the turn that I had missed. I was back to the correct path. Around the corner was a sad looking woman with an illuminated iPhone who was looking for the bathroom. I took comfort in the developing pattern that proves I am clearly not the only one with an inherent instinct to soil myself when trouble strikes. I pointed her about ten feet behind me and secretly judged the iPhone for lacking a Fucking Awesome Survival Skills app. My confidence rose as I realized it had been about fifteen minutes from my original departure. Even the most sadistic director wouldn’t drag out the dumb girl’s death for fifteen minutes. People would get bored. Except for maybe Saw but I’ve never seen that movie so I don’t count it as technically existing. I apply this same logic to Australia.

Could it be that I was the hero of this story and not just a disposable supporting actress? The protagonist always has a brush with death that appears inescapable but ends up surviving on nothing but their own cleverness, charm, and resourceful use of palm fronds that have been sharpened into a shiv. I started to recognize the offices I passed and realized I was close to my suite. Oh thank God, the denouement.

I opened the door leading out of the last pitch black segment and my smugness evaporated. At the far end, there was a dark figure lurking in edges of the red emergency light. Not moving. Just standing there. My fist tightened around the shiv as I prepared for the final battle. I squinted to ensure I was not about to attack another houseplant when the figure turned its head to look at me as I approached.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked me and my breathing returned to normal as I recognized the voice of the guy who sat at the office complex’s front desk, “There’s a black out. Didn’t you get my email?”

Also, I Behaved Myself In God’s House

Yep, I know I haven’t written about Chairsy’s wedding yet. Nope, I probably never will. I’ll add it to the list of major life events that never got proper blog representation. I just never walk out of the big things with a napkin full of notes. The ladies restroom on the other hand… usually I've mentally drafted an entry by the time I leave. I don’t want to leave you completely empty handed though.

Somewhere around the seven rumndietcoke mark when the bartenders began marveling at my ability to stand up right, we busted out the glow bracelets to rave to Sandstorm. I’m pretty sure the glow sticks can be blamed for my illuminated boobs. Or maybe I’ve finally gone radioactive from all the Splenda pooling in my liver.

My Neurosis Knows No Bounds

My bathroom and the next closest bathroom are currently occupied by custodians and my bladder is ready to burst due to a cup of soup at lunch, a glass of water, and most of a can of Diet Coke which I continue to drink because I’m TEMPTING THE GODS. To keep my mind off of my dangerously distended lower abdomen, I will now furiously relate to you the textual panic attack that I sent Bologna while she was away from the computer to change a dirty diaper (probably Nugget’s, not her own). I can’t believe how out of whack her priorities are. Can’t the kid sit in a pile of his own feces for five minutes? I HAVE A CRISIS.

Everyone knows that I have severe stage fright when it comes to peeing in the presence of others but I flat out refuse to enter a bathroom inhabited by janitors. They are the ultimate, silent enemy. There’s no Mexican Stand Off that can deter them. They will wait for you to vacate because they need to finish cleaning that room. You can’t just curl up in the fetal position on the toilet, put your fingers in your ears and hum gently to yourself because it’s not a personal thing for them – it’s professional. They are professional Mexican Stand Offers. They’re paid to wait for you to move your ass so they can scrub the toilet under it.

As I have just demonstrated, waiting is not an option. I could just go in there are pee but the last time I did that, I imagined the custodian polishing the sink faucets, shaking her head and thinking “Seriously?! I JUST cleaned that and now I have to fucking do it again.” Except for the recleaning she’d have to scrub a freshly soiled toilet with loose urine particles still hanging in the air. And GOD FORBID the seat still be warm when she goes back to reclean it. I would not be able to live with the knowledge that there was a transfer of ass heat.

Anyway, after that played through my head last time I had to wash my hands while standing next to her, full of shame for my own biological insufficiencies. I almost apologized. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sprint across the building to find a safe haven before I follow Nugget’s example.

When We Last Left Our Hero

First of all, I turned my squash into soup and I want you to know that it was fan-freakin-tastic so I’ve actually purchased another butternut squash to pulverize into liquid for tonight’s dinner. Second, wow. It’s been two and a half weeks? A lot happened. A lot. Oodles. I will now summarize for any interested parties who may or may not have attacked my Facebook wall with wails of rage over my lack of blog attention due to brides-slave duties and also doing someone else’s project at work. The only thing I’ll leave out is when I was almost attacked by zombies. That’s a story for another time.

So where did I leave off? Ah yes. The two-foot inflatable penis. It was implemented as it should have been. Meaning shortly before the bachelorette party guests began arriving at my hotel room to pregame, I sat around in my underwear watching Food Network and blowing it up. Then we posed with it and repeatedly tossed it at our token gay guy. Much joviality was had by all. After polishing off a bottle of vodka, all sixteen of us piled into the rickety old elevator (because it looked like a REALLY good idea at the time) and had a collective panic attack when it started jerking a bit and showing other signs of strain.

We stormed Sissy K’s (which will put you on the guest list, waive the cover charge, and let you skip ahead of the line if you call ahead for a bachelorette party reservation) and did all the things good little single ladies should do: threw back test tube shots, asked young gentlemen for their underwear for a scavenger hunt, danced so much our legs hurt for the next two days and handed out mardi gras beads. Oh. And I also may have almost gotten into a fist fight when some bitch shoved Chairsy, the bride, on the dance floor. But Chairsy is made of sugar and spice and everything nice so she didn’t even realize the girl had shoved her on purpose. She just kept on smiling and bopping along to the music while I got up in the chick’s face with that wide-armed you-messed-with-the-wrong-brides-maid stance but the bitch ran away so I didn’t get to throw punches after all.

Next we stumbled, skipped, and piggy backed over to the Grand Canal where we had another connection that allowed us to jump the line for free. Once inside we realized it was a pseudo classy bar which we were adulterating with our boisterous shouting and Chairsy’s loud complaints that the bartender didn’t know how to make a blow job shot. Then the night got fuzzy and I think I made friends with a hooker in the ladies’ bathroom. She looked like Bret Michaels in a gold lame mini dress and she was using the hand dryer to make her hair bigger. Love at first sight.

Eventually, the night wound down and our drunken bride began demanding her comfy shoes so we shuffled back to the parking garage to retrieve her Uggs from the trunk of her car but the thing about parking garages? Really tricky to get into when you’re drunk. The security guard yelled at us when we attempted to hoof it down the ramp meant for incoming vehicles. Finally we found a staircase which took us to the right place but the second we emerged from the stairwell, the door slammed shut and an ominous sign said “No Readmittance” which wouldn’t have stopped us except it also had the audacity to lock. Once Chairsy had appropriated the preferred footwear, we found an operating elevator and cheered and high fived all the way to the floor marked with a star. That floor ended up being the grand marble-clad lobby of 75 State Street where a gaggle of drunk girls wearing matching neon pink shirts look ever so slightly conspicuous at two in the morning. We certainly weren’t returning to the creepy depths of Mordor though, so instead, we attempted the front door which was locked and guarded by two police officers behind a line of yellow tape. So, um. I knocked. Politely. And then a little bit more insistently.

Eventually they overcame their surprise and opened the doors to yell at us as we scampered outside. After 10 or 15 seconds of trying to respectfully explain the stairwell situation to calm their belligerent scolding, we grew bored and Chairsy started to wander so I closed the conversation by yelling “Well, we’re outside now, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it, officer?” and followed the entourage down the street.

Shortly after, we parted ways so the bride could attack a McDonalds on the way to her own hotel. Apparently I know Boston better than I previously assumed because I found my way back to my hotel without incident and in celebration, purchased a large bag of snacks from the 711 next door. I then proceeded to stand on the street corner eating Combos from my purse while texting Beau.

I woke up relatively early the next morning in relatively good shape. I pulled down streamers and popped about thirty balloons with a pen to avoid getting charged for trashing the room before smuggling all of the remaining penis accoutrement in the bag that Chairsy left with me for safe keeping. Including a deflated two-foot wang.

Your Own. Personal. Jesus.

I currently have a butternut squash and a two-foot-long inflatable penis in my car and they are, in some strange way, related thanks to Chairsy’s upcoming wedding. The wiener is one of many inappropriate objects destined for her bachelorette party this Saturday. The produce. Well.

As you may remember, I was incorrectly measured for my bridesmaids dress. I have since learned that it was ordered a full THREE sizes too small. I’d lost a size by the time it was delivered so by the time I was hopping up and down trying to squeeze into it, it was only TWO sizes too small. Only. After briefly exercising in an attempt to shed 30 pounds in 2 months, I came to the conclusion that I much prefer drinking vodka alone at my kitchen counter to sweating. She-Ra recommended I go to the uber-Italian seamstress who altered her wedding gown, proclaiming her a bonafide miracle worker. She works (and apparently lives) in the basement of her big, beautiful house, I assume because Italians have a strict no-touch policy when it comes to having nice things (thus the plastic couch covers so prevalent in popular movies). I’m used to this because my aunt in Long Island has a white couch in her mirrored front parlor guarded by a porcelain jaguar. In a quarter of a century, I have NEVER seen anyone sit on that couch. Anyway, that’s why the basement thing didn’t weird me out.

Last month, after a bit of prodding and yanking on the zipper, the seamstress asked for more fabric to complete the sash around the middle of the dress. I ordered a yard of it from China which was finally delivered last weekend. I didn’t make it to the seamstress until today because I’m having a REALLY hectic week month year. I forgot the fabric at home on Tuesday, postponed my fitting till Wednesday, forgot the shoes on Wednesday, postponed the fitting till today and finally made it to her house basement, flustered, red-faced, and extremely apologetic.

I wiggled into the dress which already fit thanks to her wizardry and wobbled out to the pedestal where she spun me around in circles while marking the hem and patiently listening to my outpouring of gratitude for fixing a dress that previously had a 4-inch gap to overcome via its zipper. I paused for breath at one point and she calmly said while holding pins between her lips, “That’s life. Nothing to get upset over. Don’t you worry. This is nothing.” It made me pause mid-hyperventilation and reevaluate my entire life. Wow. So what if I came inches (4 to be exact) from walking down a church aisle at one of my best friend’s weddings with a gapping hole in the back of my dress? It’s not the end of the world. No biggy. She fixed it. Just like that. I wanted to take her with me to say it over and over again the next time I’m stuck in traffic thinking about following a tailgater home so I can egg their house and key their car.

While I stood there dumbstruck by my existential epiphany, her husband wandered through the studio to ask about lunch. They exchanged a few words in Italian and he smiled and said to me, “I still have to ask her how to cook everything.” I smiled. Then he asked “You like these?” and pointed to the squash in his hand. I answered “Of course!” He could have been holding a pound of rancid meat and I would have said yes at that moment. “Then I give you one before you go.” True to his word after I’d changed clothes again, he took me to the garage to display his garden’s bumper crop and insisted I pick out a butternut squash for dinner. I almost hugged the seamstress when she walked me to the door. We’ve shared philosophy and squash. In the Italian culture, that practically makes us family now.

Even Bigger Yawns

Christ almighty. I’m now getting over round THREE of the ailment that will not die and now work refuses to settle down. Turns out I have a real job. Weird… good thing I don’t show up hung over anymore. Well, except the day after Nugget was born but that was situational intoxication. I was innocently drinking red wine at a dinner party when suddenly Bologna sent me a picture of him and I was SO excited to a) be an aunt and b) figure out how to open a picture text that I may have accidentally gotten into the bottle of rum. Half the bottle of rum. Anyway. As I was saying: Nug.

via Flutter Productions

While we were in the Jerz, a photographer stopped by to take some family portraits. I’m pumped to see the rest of her set because in addition to the usual formal pictures, there's also a series of about 50 shots of Nugget crapping his pants while sitting on T’s knee. You would not believe the faces that this kid pulls. First it’s a look of consternation, followed by effort, then relief, utter shock, disgust, confusion, and finally delight. I’m going to make it into a flip book and show his girlfriends when he’s a teenager.