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.
Showing posts with label bathrooms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bathrooms. Show all posts
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.
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
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Mexican Standoff of Epic Proportions
Maybe you’ve noticed I avoid discussing work these days. I know I’m flattering myself but it’s because I’m afraid that should my real name ever get out, I’ll get fired for online snarkiness and since I have no marketable skills, I will remained unemployed for many moon while my savings wither away. But the following story? This I must share with you.
To preface this, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had about six hours of sleep in the past two days. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because that busyness is exhausting me and when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in my narcotic of choice, Advil PM. I haven’t gotten there yet since it’s only been two nights of insomnia. I’m still firmly planted in the phase that oscillates between crankiness and glazed-over, vacant staring.
So, when I entered the ladies room earlier today and saw that my favorite stall was occupied, I got a little ornery. I was forced to take the handicapped stall at the end to provide a buffer. Hate that stall. My feet swing because my legs are short. Grumble grumble.
Normally I would just wiz and leave but because I’m a LITTLE ON EDGE RIGHT NOW I SO CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE SOME FUCKING PRIVACY WHILE I URINATE, I waited. Seconds crept by. The other occupant shuffled and fidgeted a bit. She pulled some paper from the roll and deafeningly wadded it into a ball. I tapped my foot. She made a second toilet paper wad. I sighed. By then I had passed the Awkwardness Barrier which requires that you perform within 20 seconds of seating yourself in a public bathroom when only one other stranger is present. Whether those 20 seconds pass due to stage fright or choice, after that time period it is absolutely prohibited to do your business until the other occupant has vacated. Why is this a rule? I don’t know. Maybe this is how my OCD brain keeps me from tapping things as I walk by them like my father does. Maybe I just can’t stand the sound of pure silence unexpectedly interrupted by the piercing cry of pee on water. Regardless, after this period of time, you enter into a Mexican Stand Off with your opponent. Only one can remain and I was prepared to wait another half an hour or so to prove my point.
I was pulled from my dazed reverie by a cough. With a heavy heart, I recognized it. It was a particular coworker of mine who consistently makes my eye tick. She’s foreign. Even her cough has a thick accent. She’s also the office talker: get caught at the sink with her and you will need to discuss for 15 minutes how you are both in the restroom at the same time and isn’t that SUCH a coincidence. Any slim consideration of getting on with my business vanished. She was going to fucking leave and I was going to get my fucking privacy and oh my god, I think I just burst a blood vessel in my eye.
Please allow me to expand on my vehemence. Office B and I have nicknamed this woman “Happy F” because after her first week here she wished us all a very happy Friday. Each one of us. Individually. And then next week it was “Happy Monday!” and “Happy Tuesday!” etc. etc. until my nails were digging into my palms to keep me from flying at her in a fit of desperate rage. You want more? She has taken it upon herself to be our personal welcome wagon and hug new employees on their first day. HUG. As in full body contact. She asks a series of questions that would be better directed at Google to anyone who demonstrates the slightest shred of competence in a topic. I despise watering the plant next to her desk because inevitably, she prairie dogs out of her cubicle and starts asking me about sun exposure, speckles on foliage, and botanical terminology and I have to stand there and not say, “I’m just watering the fucking plant” which takes immense restraint on my part. She makes me order random office supplies. In one instance, she decided she didn’t like the footstool I got her (footstool – who needs a footstool?!) , she hid it in the storage closet and buried it under other things as if I eventually wouldn’t think, “hmm, I don’t remember leaving all of these previously neatly stacked items in one heap on the floor.” She once told people gathered around the coffee machine that she heard on NPR that laughing has health benefits so if you live alone, they recommend practicing on inanimate objects. Like tea cups. Then she demonstrated. Now I can’t erase the depressing mental image of her standing alone in a tattered bathrobe giggling at her morning cup of tea in an otherwise deserted studio apartment.
So, that’s Happy F. Imagine my relief when she gave up and flushed. Another minute or two and I would be clear to evacuate the three cups of coffee that were keeping my sleep deprived brain semi-useful. She washed her hands. I stared at my boots and imagined that I was somewhere else. Then I heard the sound that will echo through future nightmares. The unmistakable zing of a make-up bag zipper sliding open.
For the next eternity, I sat in silence as she brushed her teeth, rinsed, brushed a few spots she had missed, and rinsed again. I sighed loudly. She flossed. I counted ceiling tiles. She gargled with mouth wash, and rinsed. In a dramatic gesture, I rested my forehead on my right arm which I had stretched out along the metal support bar on the wall. She patted her hands with a paper towel, brushed her hair, wiped down the counter, adjusted her clothing and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. By the end, I had resigned myself to die alone in the handicapped stall and was preparing to scrawl my last will and testament across the wall. I leave my DVDs to Lulu, the condo to Beau, my collection of strangers’ grocery lists to Bologna. But to Happy F, I leave NOTHING.
My head jerked up when the door swung open and another woman entered. I had dozed off somewhere near the end of Happy F’s grooming session and didn’t notice when she left. I finished my business and returned to my desk, having proven my point by spending my entire lunch break in the restroom.
To preface this, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had about six hours of sleep in the past two days. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because that busyness is exhausting me and when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in my narcotic of choice, Advil PM. I haven’t gotten there yet since it’s only been two nights of insomnia. I’m still firmly planted in the phase that oscillates between crankiness and glazed-over, vacant staring.
So, when I entered the ladies room earlier today and saw that my favorite stall was occupied, I got a little ornery. I was forced to take the handicapped stall at the end to provide a buffer. Hate that stall. My feet swing because my legs are short. Grumble grumble.
Normally I would just wiz and leave but because I’m a LITTLE ON EDGE RIGHT NOW I SO CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE SOME FUCKING PRIVACY WHILE I URINATE, I waited. Seconds crept by. The other occupant shuffled and fidgeted a bit. She pulled some paper from the roll and deafeningly wadded it into a ball. I tapped my foot. She made a second toilet paper wad. I sighed. By then I had passed the Awkwardness Barrier which requires that you perform within 20 seconds of seating yourself in a public bathroom when only one other stranger is present. Whether those 20 seconds pass due to stage fright or choice, after that time period it is absolutely prohibited to do your business until the other occupant has vacated. Why is this a rule? I don’t know. Maybe this is how my OCD brain keeps me from tapping things as I walk by them like my father does. Maybe I just can’t stand the sound of pure silence unexpectedly interrupted by the piercing cry of pee on water. Regardless, after this period of time, you enter into a Mexican Stand Off with your opponent. Only one can remain and I was prepared to wait another half an hour or so to prove my point.
I was pulled from my dazed reverie by a cough. With a heavy heart, I recognized it. It was a particular coworker of mine who consistently makes my eye tick. She’s foreign. Even her cough has a thick accent. She’s also the office talker: get caught at the sink with her and you will need to discuss for 15 minutes how you are both in the restroom at the same time and isn’t that SUCH a coincidence. Any slim consideration of getting on with my business vanished. She was going to fucking leave and I was going to get my fucking privacy and oh my god, I think I just burst a blood vessel in my eye.
Please allow me to expand on my vehemence. Office B and I have nicknamed this woman “Happy F” because after her first week here she wished us all a very happy Friday. Each one of us. Individually. And then next week it was “Happy Monday!” and “Happy Tuesday!” etc. etc. until my nails were digging into my palms to keep me from flying at her in a fit of desperate rage. You want more? She has taken it upon herself to be our personal welcome wagon and hug new employees on their first day. HUG. As in full body contact. She asks a series of questions that would be better directed at Google to anyone who demonstrates the slightest shred of competence in a topic. I despise watering the plant next to her desk because inevitably, she prairie dogs out of her cubicle and starts asking me about sun exposure, speckles on foliage, and botanical terminology and I have to stand there and not say, “I’m just watering the fucking plant” which takes immense restraint on my part. She makes me order random office supplies. In one instance, she decided she didn’t like the footstool I got her (footstool – who needs a footstool?!) , she hid it in the storage closet and buried it under other things as if I eventually wouldn’t think, “hmm, I don’t remember leaving all of these previously neatly stacked items in one heap on the floor.” She once told people gathered around the coffee machine that she heard on NPR that laughing has health benefits so if you live alone, they recommend practicing on inanimate objects. Like tea cups. Then she demonstrated. Now I can’t erase the depressing mental image of her standing alone in a tattered bathrobe giggling at her morning cup of tea in an otherwise deserted studio apartment.
So, that’s Happy F. Imagine my relief when she gave up and flushed. Another minute or two and I would be clear to evacuate the three cups of coffee that were keeping my sleep deprived brain semi-useful. She washed her hands. I stared at my boots and imagined that I was somewhere else. Then I heard the sound that will echo through future nightmares. The unmistakable zing of a make-up bag zipper sliding open.
For the next eternity, I sat in silence as she brushed her teeth, rinsed, brushed a few spots she had missed, and rinsed again. I sighed loudly. She flossed. I counted ceiling tiles. She gargled with mouth wash, and rinsed. In a dramatic gesture, I rested my forehead on my right arm which I had stretched out along the metal support bar on the wall. She patted her hands with a paper towel, brushed her hair, wiped down the counter, adjusted her clothing and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. By the end, I had resigned myself to die alone in the handicapped stall and was preparing to scrawl my last will and testament across the wall. I leave my DVDs to Lulu, the condo to Beau, my collection of strangers’ grocery lists to Bologna. But to Happy F, I leave NOTHING.
My head jerked up when the door swung open and another woman entered. I had dozed off somewhere near the end of Happy F’s grooming session and didn’t notice when she left. I finished my business and returned to my desk, having proven my point by spending my entire lunch break in the restroom.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Jalapeno
**PARENTAL ADVISORY: consider yourself warned**
Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.
Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.
Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”
“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).
He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.
I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”
“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.
I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”
“It’s on my bunghole.”
There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.
But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.
Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.
Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.
Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”
“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).
He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.
I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”
“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.
I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”
“It’s on my bunghole.”
There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.
But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Seemingly Popular Despite The State Of My Ankles
Ah, sweet interweb, it feels good to go out carousing on the town after months and months of self inflicted hibernation. It feels good everywhere but in one’s head the following morning.
After seeing five houses on Saturday morning with Beau (two of which we plan on returning to see again with his parents next weekend), I traveled into the city to dine with Notorious and Face at Pour House which features half priced burgers every Saturday. Per usual, our intentions of eating a quiet dinner and consuming a reasonable number of drinks were side tracked by doing the exact opposite. I assume this occurred because we haven’t been able to get together in close to a month and we had lots of womenfolk updates to catch up on. Also, we have absolutely no willpower. Except for Notorious who demonstrated amazing willpower in ordering an extra dinner to take home to her boyfriend and then successfully fighting me off as I repeatedly tried to assault the container for a single French fry… or alternately, his entire burger.
Eventually, she brought me with the ladies’ room with her because I could not be trusted near the food in question. We read graffiti to each other to pass the time until I nearly leapt out of my seat from sheer excitement at finding the BEST graffiti ever. If you’re ever at Pour House, I suggest that you to use the first stall on the left in the women’s lavatory and look to your left once seated because you will see the following message scrawled on the partition:
After a hearty laugh, we returned to Face to tell her of our discovery and, being the brains of the operation, she told me to return to the bathroom to take a picture of the graffiti. I returned but couldn’t work up the chutzpah to take flash photography in the women’s room because if the roles were reversed and I was the one taking a tinkle when I noticed the flash of a camera, I would freak the fuck out and probably stab someone.
From dinner I condoned a move from the hipster college-kid orgy that exploded inside Pour House to a quiet book lined corner of Lir and from there we went on to The Globe to meet up with another friend. In this way, I broke the cardinal rule of drinking which clearly states that barhopping is stupid when it’s cold outside and you are wearing your boyfriend’s boots because yours are soaked through because you’re too vain to buy REAL winter boots instead of cute fuzzy Sherpa boots. Anyway, despite the temperature and the blisters forming on my calves, we walked to the Globe and along the way, I had the opportunity to cock block Notorious from giving a quarter to a sketch ball. She earned that damn quarter and that’s more than could be said of him.
Somewhere around my seventh rumndietcoke and the arrival of our party’s addition, I found myself in a cab going to The Washington Square Tavern in Brookline to join yet more people at a fourth bar. It would seem seven rumndietcokes is the threshold where I cease being Dangerous K and begin introducing myself as Shania.
I fell into bed around 2 in the morning and was woken by a smirking, judgmental Beau at 9 to brunch with Chairsy and Jay Aitch, our favorite engaged couple who enjoy stealing chairs with me from people’s front porches, and chasing mice around my apartment. I struggled through the day with sunglasses and arrived successfully at dinner with the Italian.
Those series of events are my best explanation for why I didn’t have time to shave my legs this weekend which resulted in my current predicament of accidentally wearing high water slacks that reveal my Clydesdale-like blister-covered ankles.
Don’t look at me. I am a monster.
After seeing five houses on Saturday morning with Beau (two of which we plan on returning to see again with his parents next weekend), I traveled into the city to dine with Notorious and Face at Pour House which features half priced burgers every Saturday. Per usual, our intentions of eating a quiet dinner and consuming a reasonable number of drinks were side tracked by doing the exact opposite. I assume this occurred because we haven’t been able to get together in close to a month and we had lots of womenfolk updates to catch up on. Also, we have absolutely no willpower. Except for Notorious who demonstrated amazing willpower in ordering an extra dinner to take home to her boyfriend and then successfully fighting me off as I repeatedly tried to assault the container for a single French fry… or alternately, his entire burger.
Eventually, she brought me with the ladies’ room with her because I could not be trusted near the food in question. We read graffiti to each other to pass the time until I nearly leapt out of my seat from sheer excitement at finding the BEST graffiti ever. If you’re ever at Pour House, I suggest that you to use the first stall on the left in the women’s lavatory and look to your left once seated because you will see the following message scrawled on the partition:
After a hearty laugh, we returned to Face to tell her of our discovery and, being the brains of the operation, she told me to return to the bathroom to take a picture of the graffiti. I returned but couldn’t work up the chutzpah to take flash photography in the women’s room because if the roles were reversed and I was the one taking a tinkle when I noticed the flash of a camera, I would freak the fuck out and probably stab someone.From dinner I condoned a move from the hipster college-kid orgy that exploded inside Pour House to a quiet book lined corner of Lir and from there we went on to The Globe to meet up with another friend. In this way, I broke the cardinal rule of drinking which clearly states that barhopping is stupid when it’s cold outside and you are wearing your boyfriend’s boots because yours are soaked through because you’re too vain to buy REAL winter boots instead of cute fuzzy Sherpa boots. Anyway, despite the temperature and the blisters forming on my calves, we walked to the Globe and along the way, I had the opportunity to cock block Notorious from giving a quarter to a sketch ball. She earned that damn quarter and that’s more than could be said of him.
Somewhere around my seventh rumndietcoke and the arrival of our party’s addition, I found myself in a cab going to The Washington Square Tavern in Brookline to join yet more people at a fourth bar. It would seem seven rumndietcokes is the threshold where I cease being Dangerous K and begin introducing myself as Shania.
I fell into bed around 2 in the morning and was woken by a smirking, judgmental Beau at 9 to brunch with Chairsy and Jay Aitch, our favorite engaged couple who enjoy stealing chairs with me from people’s front porches, and chasing mice around my apartment. I struggled through the day with sunglasses and arrived successfully at dinner with the Italian.
Those series of events are my best explanation for why I didn’t have time to shave my legs this weekend which resulted in my current predicament of accidentally wearing high water slacks that reveal my Clydesdale-like blister-covered ankles.
Don’t look at me. I am a monster.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Just Like “House of 1000 Corpses” Except with Fewer Corpses and More Humiliation
It was only a matter of time before I got into trouble here at my new office. Three blissful weeks of uninterrupted professionalism and sobriety were just too much for me to ask of the Universe. I’ve been waiting patiently to do something dreadfully embarrassing like flip a driver off in traffic only to find out in the parking lot that it was my boss. That’s why today, day 13 of my new job, I was not surprised when all that waiting came to an end.
I was lost in thought this morning on a routine trip to the lady’s room, probably pondering the supreme existential questions of mankind like where on the unattractiveness spectrum does ugliness end and deformity begin. Still deep in contemplation, I entered the restroom and approached my favorite stall. My reverie was cruelly disrupted when I saw before me a toilet with a lifted seat and urine spatters along the raw, exposed rim. Huh, I thought, here’s one I haven’t seen before. Some women are real freaks I guess.
My eyes widened in panic as it occurred to me that that may not be the case. A more reasonable explanation presented itself. I might have overshot the girl’s room by one door. As a result of my own spaciness and a case of massive autopilot failure, I might instead be in the men’s room. Like, for males only. Coincidentally, the gender of the CEO, President, and Vice President of my new company. All of whom were getting out of a breakfast meeting any minute and were no doubt, full to the brim with coffee.
These disturbing mental images flashed through my mind as I stood just inside the stall, completely frozen. Then the main door to the bathroom opened and I slammed the stall door closed behind me and attempted to shrink to an eighth my normal size while cowering next to a sullied toilet that despite more serious prevailing concerns, continued to noticeably skeeve me out.
Instead of the click-clacking of stilettos across the tiled floor, I heard the soft padding of flat shoes. Like the scene in a slasher movie just before a stupid blonde is murdered, the footsteps moved casually past the sinks, excruciatingly slowly past the crack in the door jam that I was desperately trying not to watch, and finally into a neighboring stall. With my heart pounding in my ears, I ripped open the door and flew out of the restroom.
As I paused for breath directly outside like the complete and utter moron that I am, the President appeared in the hallway before me. My face fell into a look of abject horror to have been caught exiting the men’s room. Thankfully, like all good senior staff members, he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice that I appeared to have just soiled myself in his presence. He smiled benevolently before passing me and entering a door to my left.
I spun around and saw that I had been in the women’s room after all. My trustworthy autopilot had not failed. Shaking, I double checked the skirted symbol on the door and reentered, making sure to avoid the tainted stall of terror which I may never be able to use again.
I was lost in thought this morning on a routine trip to the lady’s room, probably pondering the supreme existential questions of mankind like where on the unattractiveness spectrum does ugliness end and deformity begin. Still deep in contemplation, I entered the restroom and approached my favorite stall. My reverie was cruelly disrupted when I saw before me a toilet with a lifted seat and urine spatters along the raw, exposed rim. Huh, I thought, here’s one I haven’t seen before. Some women are real freaks I guess.
My eyes widened in panic as it occurred to me that that may not be the case. A more reasonable explanation presented itself. I might have overshot the girl’s room by one door. As a result of my own spaciness and a case of massive autopilot failure, I might instead be in the men’s room. Like, for males only. Coincidentally, the gender of the CEO, President, and Vice President of my new company. All of whom were getting out of a breakfast meeting any minute and were no doubt, full to the brim with coffee.
These disturbing mental images flashed through my mind as I stood just inside the stall, completely frozen. Then the main door to the bathroom opened and I slammed the stall door closed behind me and attempted to shrink to an eighth my normal size while cowering next to a sullied toilet that despite more serious prevailing concerns, continued to noticeably skeeve me out.
Instead of the click-clacking of stilettos across the tiled floor, I heard the soft padding of flat shoes. Like the scene in a slasher movie just before a stupid blonde is murdered, the footsteps moved casually past the sinks, excruciatingly slowly past the crack in the door jam that I was desperately trying not to watch, and finally into a neighboring stall. With my heart pounding in my ears, I ripped open the door and flew out of the restroom.
As I paused for breath directly outside like the complete and utter moron that I am, the President appeared in the hallway before me. My face fell into a look of abject horror to have been caught exiting the men’s room. Thankfully, like all good senior staff members, he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice that I appeared to have just soiled myself in his presence. He smiled benevolently before passing me and entering a door to my left.
I spun around and saw that I had been in the women’s room after all. My trustworthy autopilot had not failed. Shaking, I double checked the skirted symbol on the door and reentered, making sure to avoid the tainted stall of terror which I may never be able to use again.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Lonely Teenage Boys Need Not Apply
The following requires no introduction, which is convenient because I’m slightly hung over from Beau’s birthday festivities last night and my brain is having trouble formulating an appropriate opening line:
My web of spies informs me that this flier was found posted in a student dorm at Bentley College (just west of Boston) and that the square seen in the lower left corner is the genuine stamp of approval from the school. After a little intrepid sleuthing of my own I was able to find the aforementioned housing contract here on their website but was unable to find the anti-chicken-choking clause.
So many questions come to mind (a much better place to come than the Bentley showers apparently). I’m positively bursting with questions, much like their pipelines are overflowing with the raging spermatozoa of a thousand desperate freshman boys. But enough puns. Onto the inquiry. Right onto it. All over it, in fact. One might liken it to a money shot. But seriously:
So many questions come to mind (a much better place to come than the Bentley showers apparently). I’m positively bursting with questions, much like their pipelines are overflowing with the raging spermatozoa of a thousand desperate freshman boys. But enough puns. Onto the inquiry. Right onto it. All over it, in fact. One might liken it to a money shot. But seriously:
Who was the unfortunate plumber that discovered the problem? How exactly does semen clog a pipe other than the one in which it originated? How does the school expect students to masturbate in their rooms when most are shared by a roommate? Isn’t that why they’re escaping to the showers for a little privacy? Is Bentley suggesting they do the five knuckle shuffle with their roommate? Is that sexual harassment or homosexual activity? Do they permit the non-ejaculating gender to wank in the showers? Isn’t that gender discrimination if they do? If the boys can’t beat the bishop in the shower OR in their rooms, will all that baby batter on the brain affect their schoolwork? Which is more important to Bentley: keeping their students happy and healthy enough to succeed in their classes or keeping the cost of facilities maintenance at an absolute minimum? If the guys are cock blocked in their own homes, will they compensate by having more sex elsewhere? Will the school turn into one giant outdoor orgy? How will that affect the teen pregnancy rates? How about the STD rates? Is Bentley prepared to provide free condoms as a precaution? Wouldn’t it probably be cheaper to just clean out the pipes once in a while? How much sperm does it take to clog a pipe? How much are these guys masturbating anyway?!
The only certainty in this case is that the housing authority at Bentley College wouldn't be so up tight if they engaged in a little prohibited self-love themselves. I suggest the administration make a special visit to the showers immediately.
The only certainty in this case is that the housing authority at Bentley College wouldn't be so up tight if they engaged in a little prohibited self-love themselves. I suggest the administration make a special visit to the showers immediately.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Smelvis Has Left The Building
I heard exciting work gossip today from Queen Bee (*New Character Alert* The 50-something Queen Bee is an accountant who’s been working this office for her entire career. She’s a chain smoking Italian that, bless her soul, never ever stops talking). So, drum roll please... Bertha was fired from her job at the Office Across the Hall! We’d discussed seeing her less and less recently, but after a solid week’s absence, Queen Bee told us that her cousin from the office upstairs told HER that Bertha was shown the door.
Previously, we’d all agreed that Bertha must be brilliant at whatever it is that she does for a living. How else would one get called back after sitting though a job interview smelling like a decomposing animal? Isn’t that a turn off for employers? It may sound discriminatory and juvenile but I think “she smells funny” is a perfectly legitimate reason not to hire someone. And we only encountered her in the hallways, bathroom, and, on one particularly horrible experience that I don’t want to talk about, elevator. Imagine the 9-5 life experienced by those people sitting in her neighboring cubicles. That’s just mean, man.
Whatever she did right to earn a place there, I guess she wasn’t doing it anymore. We have little to remember Bertha by other than her “special soap” that she left after her departure still sitting on the bathroom counter where it’s always been, tagged with a post it reading “Bertha, Office Across the Hall.” I suggested to Bell this morning that we leave the soap there in memoriam. Maybe drop a few flowers next to it on occasion. Light a candle. Make a big tacky sign out of poster board with her picture and the solemn farewell that I’m quite sure my entire office is hearing in their hearts. It might look a little something like this:
Previously, we’d all agreed that Bertha must be brilliant at whatever it is that she does for a living. How else would one get called back after sitting though a job interview smelling like a decomposing animal? Isn’t that a turn off for employers? It may sound discriminatory and juvenile but I think “she smells funny” is a perfectly legitimate reason not to hire someone. And we only encountered her in the hallways, bathroom, and, on one particularly horrible experience that I don’t want to talk about, elevator. Imagine the 9-5 life experienced by those people sitting in her neighboring cubicles. That’s just mean, man.
Whatever she did right to earn a place there, I guess she wasn’t doing it anymore. We have little to remember Bertha by other than her “special soap” that she left after her departure still sitting on the bathroom counter where it’s always been, tagged with a post it reading “Bertha, Office Across the Hall.” I suggested to Bell this morning that we leave the soap there in memoriam. Maybe drop a few flowers next to it on occasion. Light a candle. Make a big tacky sign out of poster board with her picture and the solemn farewell that I’m quite sure my entire office is hearing in their hearts. It might look a little something like this:
Sitting in her old stall this morning, I noticed a lingering, phantom odor that seems to have absorbed into the very fabric of the restroom. As I sat there musing and wrinkling my nose, I felt a sadness over our loss. The role of That Person is integral to the infrastructure of a work environment. We must all have someone to hate on, make fun of, and gossip about. That person is just as important as the Office BFF or the Office Boyfriend or the Office Drunk (yours truly). Without Bertha, we’re left with Freak #2 and a slightly newer addition to the Office Across the Hall, Amy Winehouses’ Doppelganger. Bertha leaves a very large muumuu to fill. Let’s all hope they’re up to the task.
Friday, March 7, 2008
If James Bond Were Dead, He Would Be Rolling In His Grave Right Now
Though I had to come into the office a bit early today, the stars seemed aligned in my favor. I had a good night’s sleep with no nightmares involving the Food Network. The weather is warming up. My iPod shuffle surprised me with back-to-back favorites including I'm Too Sexy and Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex as if to say “Happy Friday, Dangerous K! I will skip over the depressing tracks and give you only sunshine and wonderfulness on your subway ride!” I made SUCH good time on my morning commute that I had time to stop for an iced coffee. All this, plus I’m looking forward to an evening of Beau coming home and doggy-sitting my neighbor’s adorable rat terrier! Life is good!
It got better around 8:30 when my tilted walnut bladder decided it could hold no more iced coffee. I was just finishing up my business and washing my hands when I noticed a plastic bag sitting on the counter. Since Bell was the only other female in the office that early, I assumed she’d left her toothbrush, so I began to investigate. Poking out from the bag was a slip of paper which I gently unfolded. It looked like this:
It got better around 8:30 when my tilted walnut bladder decided it could hold no more iced coffee. I was just finishing up my business and washing my hands when I noticed a plastic bag sitting on the counter. Since Bell was the only other female in the office that early, I assumed she’d left her toothbrush, so I began to investigate. Poking out from the bag was a slip of paper which I gently unfolded. It looked like this:
AGHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHY, GOD, WHY?!?!?! YOU HAVE A SICK, TWISTED SENSE OF HUMOR. Kind of like me, actually. Come to think of it, I’m really into that. We should get together sometime. What’s ya numbah?
I bolted from the ladies’ room to report my findings to Bell and everyone in the surrounding cubicles. Upon returning to my desk, I caught sight of the spiffy new camera phone that I got last week. It’s similar to the model I destroyed in late 2006. [Tangent: I had been unemployed for about a month but wanted to bond with my old roommates so instead of pay for drinks at Copperfield's, I took a flask of whatever was laying around the house. That turned out to be the old high school favorite Aftershock. As the night progressed and I got drunker, I apparently stopped closing the flask completely. It leaked sugary, cinnamon liquor all over my phone and coated the lining of my Burberry bag. The purse survived, though it still smells faintly of yumminess, but the phone was not so lucky. And Verizon was not fooled when I handed them a sugar-crusted LG and claimed water damage]
So, I grabbed my phone and returned to the ladies’ room for a bit of old fashioned espionage involving photographing documents with a very small camera. I tentatively poked my head in. The coast was clear so I sidled up to the counter and gingerly spread the receipt out on the counter, took the shot, replaced the receipt in it’s original location and ran away giggling like mad.
Naturally, since it’s Friday and I had this highly intriguing new intelligence, I immediately put my paperwork aside to start a blog entry. Upon reaching the sentence “It looked like this” I flipped open my phone to figure out how to get the picture onto my computer. You see, I’m not so technology-friendly. Once I deleted the hard drive of the family computer. I have no idea how. Neither did the guys at Circuit City, Dell, or Best Buy. So, I was not all that surprised when I was unable to find the picture on my phone. It wasn’t there. Off the record, that’s probably because I skipped that step where you save it. On the record, I blame Verizon.
Not to be defeated by a hunk of infuriating, call-making metal, I returned to the restroom knowing full well that Bertha had walked in not 5-minutes earlier for her morning dump. I crept back to the bathroom to find an empty, smelly room with no bag or receipt on the counter. I stamped my feet a few times but then retreated, quite certain that the government would never hire me as an international spy despite my many applications.
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, November 26, 2007
The Harrowing Story of Beau & the Night I Almost Peed Myself
For full pictographic details of my recent "vacation" to Florida, please refer to the link to my flickr account located at stage right. Generally, there are very few details worth reliving or relating to others, so instead I will tell you this much more interesting tale.
This past Monday was a lousy day in the life of Dangerous K due to a previous unforeseeable event this past Sunday in which I drank approximately all the rum on Pleasure Island. This immediately led to (possibly) the worst hangover of the year in which I was confined to my bed except for brief sessions of vomiting and spaghetti consumption. All this instead of going to Epcot on Monday as planned.
ANYWAY, we compensated by going to both Sea World and Epcot on Wednesday in a super-doubleheader which made everyone else go to bed as soon as we got back to the condo. Except for me because Family Guy was on and its like heroin.
But even the wacky antics of Peter Griffin couldn't keep me up past 11:30 when I too headed to sleep. As previously discussed, my bladder is itsy-bitsy so as a general rule, I make time to empty it before bedtime.
I flicked on the bathroom light and immediately froze in the doorway. Looking back at me from a distance of 5 feet was a gigantore 3-inch cockroach sitting on my previously clean bathmat. He looked like this (yes I took a picture):
So, there we were: me, now desperately in need of a potty break and it, a 6-foot tall, slobbering Beelzebug with a semi-automatic weapon. After several minutes of intense eye contact with a creature that I've heard could outlive me in nuclear winter, it dared to wiggle a leg at me, giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and also helping me to determine that despite my righteous feminist ideals and stubborn independence, now was a time to go crying to my boyfriend because there was NO way to kill this thing with a flip flop.
I slowly backed out of the room and headed for Beau who was peacefully snoring in the next room.
Beau: SNOREEE
Dangerous: Beau? (poke, poke) Are you asleep?
Beau: Snore, gurgle.
Dangerous: Baby (poking becomes more urgent) I need you... [*Beau's interjection "Beau wakes up with the hope of late night nookie - not to kill a mutant"]
Beau: Gurgle (half rolls over)
Dangerous: Baby, there's a bug... it's in the bathroom... it's like really big.
Beau: (nodding, sitting up, silently going into bathroom)
DRAMATIC PAUSE
Beau: Holy fuck.
Dangerous: SEE! It's a very big bug!
Beau: I, uh, I think I need to get fully dressed for this.
Beau then armored up like knights of yore and went courageously into battle while I cowered in the fetal position on the bed. Eventually I emerged to find my hero coming in the front door:
Dangerous: It's gone?
Beau: It's gone.
Dangerous: I can pee now?
Beau: You can pee now.
Dangerous: Where did the bathmat go?
Beau: It's outside... there was no saving the bathmat.
You see, like a good Italian In Training, Beau made a clean hit and then rolled the body in a rug for easy disposal. He made me very proud.
It wasn't until the following morning that I discovered that Bologna and her husband, T, had similar experiences. We spent the remaining days very drunk and with all the lights on.
And now, I seek the ultimate retribution by publicly denouncing ON THE INTERWEB that theLiki Tiki has cockroaches of unusual size and if your family offers you a free condo there, you should say "Good day!" and then hang up the phone or slam the door in their face, whichever is most convenient to your particular situation.
This past Monday was a lousy day in the life of Dangerous K due to a previous unforeseeable event this past Sunday in which I drank approximately all the rum on Pleasure Island. This immediately led to (possibly) the worst hangover of the year in which I was confined to my bed except for brief sessions of vomiting and spaghetti consumption. All this instead of going to Epcot on Monday as planned.
ANYWAY, we compensated by going to both Sea World and Epcot on Wednesday in a super-doubleheader which made everyone else go to bed as soon as we got back to the condo. Except for me because Family Guy was on and its like heroin.
But even the wacky antics of Peter Griffin couldn't keep me up past 11:30 when I too headed to sleep. As previously discussed, my bladder is itsy-bitsy so as a general rule, I make time to empty it before bedtime.
I flicked on the bathroom light and immediately froze in the doorway. Looking back at me from a distance of 5 feet was a gigantore 3-inch cockroach sitting on my previously clean bathmat. He looked like this (yes I took a picture):
Maybe you would like a closer close-up, yes?:
So, there we were: me, now desperately in need of a potty break and it, a 6-foot tall, slobbering Beelzebug with a semi-automatic weapon. After several minutes of intense eye contact with a creature that I've heard could outlive me in nuclear winter, it dared to wiggle a leg at me, giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and also helping me to determine that despite my righteous feminist ideals and stubborn independence, now was a time to go crying to my boyfriend because there was NO way to kill this thing with a flip flop. I slowly backed out of the room and headed for Beau who was peacefully snoring in the next room.
Beau: SNOREEE
Dangerous: Beau? (poke, poke) Are you asleep?
Beau: Snore, gurgle.
Dangerous: Baby (poking becomes more urgent) I need you... [*Beau's interjection "Beau wakes up with the hope of late night nookie - not to kill a mutant"]
Beau: Gurgle (half rolls over)
Dangerous: Baby, there's a bug... it's in the bathroom... it's like really big.
Beau: (nodding, sitting up, silently going into bathroom)
DRAMATIC PAUSE
Beau: Holy fuck.
Dangerous: SEE! It's a very big bug!
Beau: I, uh, I think I need to get fully dressed for this.
Beau then armored up like knights of yore and went courageously into battle while I cowered in the fetal position on the bed. Eventually I emerged to find my hero coming in the front door:
Dangerous: It's gone? Beau: It's gone.
Dangerous: I can pee now?
Beau: You can pee now.
Dangerous: Where did the bathmat go?
Beau: It's outside... there was no saving the bathmat.
You see, like a good Italian In Training, Beau made a clean hit and then rolled the body in a rug for easy disposal. He made me very proud.
It wasn't until the following morning that I discovered that Bologna and her husband, T, had similar experiences. We spent the remaining days very drunk and with all the lights on.
And now, I seek the ultimate retribution by publicly denouncing ON THE INTERWEB that the
Friday, November 9, 2007
Bathroom Etiquette 101: What Not To Do
That game you play at work? The one where you sit alone in your cubicle drinking bottle after bottle of water so that eventually you'll have an excuse to hide in the bathroom for 5 gloriously free minutes? Yeah, you're not alone. Everyone does that.
This safe haven shouldn't be abused though and in my office building it certainly is. Not by my coworkers, but by the freaks at the company across the hall (heretofore known simply as "the Freaks"). In particular, by 2 individuals whose restroom behavior continues to fascinate and horrify me, much like a Discovery channel documentary of a lion eating a gazelle. Regardless of the entrails dripping from Mufasa's mouth and my own humanity puddling on the floor at my feet, I continue to watch. I continue to watch with my mouth slightly ajar and my head cocked to one side. This is similar to my expression whilst guarding the restroom.
First, there's Bertha. Bertha is a girthy woman with a distinct odor (as her carefully chosen pseudonym might suggest). By "girthy" I mean she's the type of person who makes me put the extra cookie back in the jar and immediately start doing abdominal exercises at my desk. By "distinct odor" I mean one of my coworkers once reported to management that something must have died in the ventilation system.
Besides her moderately unsavory appearance, she spends a great deal of time violating our restroom... physically as well as vocally. Very vocally. And sometimes while eating chips.
Then there's Freak #2 who I once called security on. Freak #2 likes to stand in the bathroom stall thusly:
Mind you, in this illustration, I was there first. I came into an empty bathroom. She came in and of the 4 available stalls (all to my right) picked THAT one thereby completely eliminating the concept of the BUFFER stall and launching an aggressive assault on my personal space. When such an event occurs, I am left with no choice but the inevitable Stage Fright. I cannot urinate whilst preparing for a physical attack on my being. Furthermore, having identified herself as a freak, she cannot no longer be trusted to fall into the category of safe assumptions. Included in this category, the safe assumption that people don't just go into the restroom to listen to you pee. Awesome. Now I (maybe) have an audience who's (maybe) staring at the wall to her left instead of looking politely ahead. I could (maybe) feel her eyes boring through the thin wall as she attempted to see me with her xray vision. All bets are off and I just had a Venti iced coffee. Queue tilted walnut bladder's uncontrollable whimpering.
Wait. Stop. I'm getting way ahead of myself. You've gotten me all worked up. This event happened several weeks after my original encounter in which I called security. In said original encounter I went into the bathroom to find what appeared to be a person standing so close to the stall door that a pair of actively wiggling shoes were sticking out into the surrounding room. And the shoes were large and masculine. So, I pulled Trick #460 from the Ol' Rule Book and faux-blew my nose before running away... running away and calling security:
Dangerous: Hello?? Security??
Security Girl: Hi.
Dangerous: Security Girl, it's Dangerous from upstairs.
Security Girl: Oh hey, what's up? Time to go home yet? Haha.
Dangerous: SECURITY GIRL! Do not joke about home. There is a MAN in my bathroom. You must come immediately to arrest him.
Security Girl: Seriously?
Dangerous: I'm very sure of it.
Security Girl: I'm so there.
Until Security Girl made her way up the elevator, I jumped into my Concerned Citizen gear and ran to the hallway where I concealed myself in the trash area to watch the only entrance to the Ladies' Room for the serial killer to make his exit at which time I would pepper spray him and finally get on the 5:00 News.
Much to my dismay, the only occupant emerged: a squirrely woman I recognized from the office across the way. And oh boy was she surprised to see me hiding behind a recycling bin. I went back to my desk with my head hanging low to wait for Security Girl to laugh at me... again.
So while you enjoy the serenity of a quiet, deserted bathroom for extended stays of near 20 minutes, I am forced to reduce my visits to unclockable speeds lest another encounter with the Freak side ensue. I am bereft of refuge in this sea of cubicles. I am chained to my desk, unable even to urinate my way into safety. If anyone needs me, I will be in the trash area, sitting in the corner and eating wet cigarette butts.
This safe haven shouldn't be abused though and in my office building it certainly is. Not by my coworkers, but by the freaks at the company across the hall (heretofore known simply as "the Freaks"). In particular, by 2 individuals whose restroom behavior continues to fascinate and horrify me, much like a Discovery channel documentary of a lion eating a gazelle. Regardless of the entrails dripping from Mufasa's mouth and my own humanity puddling on the floor at my feet, I continue to watch. I continue to watch with my mouth slightly ajar and my head cocked to one side. This is similar to my expression whilst guarding the restroom.
First, there's Bertha. Bertha is a girthy woman with a distinct odor (as her carefully chosen pseudonym might suggest). By "girthy" I mean she's the type of person who makes me put the extra cookie back in the jar and immediately start doing abdominal exercises at my desk. By "distinct odor" I mean one of my coworkers once reported to management that something must have died in the ventilation system.
Besides her moderately unsavory appearance, she spends a great deal of time violating our restroom... physically as well as vocally. Very vocally. And sometimes while eating chips.
Then there's Freak #2 who I once called security on. Freak #2 likes to stand in the bathroom stall thusly:
Mind you, in this illustration, I was there first. I came into an empty bathroom. She came in and of the 4 available stalls (all to my right) picked THAT one thereby completely eliminating the concept of the BUFFER stall and launching an aggressive assault on my personal space. When such an event occurs, I am left with no choice but the inevitable Stage Fright. I cannot urinate whilst preparing for a physical attack on my being. Furthermore, having identified herself as a freak, she cannot no longer be trusted to fall into the category of safe assumptions. Included in this category, the safe assumption that people don't just go into the restroom to listen to you pee. Awesome. Now I (maybe) have an audience who's (maybe) staring at the wall to her left instead of looking politely ahead. I could (maybe) feel her eyes boring through the thin wall as she attempted to see me with her xray vision. All bets are off and I just had a Venti iced coffee. Queue tilted walnut bladder's uncontrollable whimpering.
Wait. Stop. I'm getting way ahead of myself. You've gotten me all worked up. This event happened several weeks after my original encounter in which I called security. In said original encounter I went into the bathroom to find what appeared to be a person standing so close to the stall door that a pair of actively wiggling shoes were sticking out into the surrounding room. And the shoes were large and masculine. So, I pulled Trick #460 from the Ol' Rule Book and faux-blew my nose before running away... running away and calling security:
Dangerous: Hello?? Security??
Security Girl: Hi.
Dangerous: Security Girl, it's Dangerous from upstairs.
Security Girl: Oh hey, what's up? Time to go home yet? Haha.
Dangerous: SECURITY GIRL! Do not joke about home. There is a MAN in my bathroom. You must come immediately to arrest him.
Security Girl: Seriously?
Dangerous: I'm very sure of it.
Security Girl: I'm so there.
Until Security Girl made her way up the elevator, I jumped into my Concerned Citizen gear and ran to the hallway where I concealed myself in the trash area to watch the only entrance to the Ladies' Room for the serial killer to make his exit at which time I would pepper spray him and finally get on the 5:00 News.
Much to my dismay, the only occupant emerged: a squirrely woman I recognized from the office across the way. And oh boy was she surprised to see me hiding behind a recycling bin. I went back to my desk with my head hanging low to wait for Security Girl to laugh at me... again.
So while you enjoy the serenity of a quiet, deserted bathroom for extended stays of near 20 minutes, I am forced to reduce my visits to unclockable speeds lest another encounter with the Freak side ensue. I am bereft of refuge in this sea of cubicles. I am chained to my desk, unable even to urinate my way into safety. If anyone needs me, I will be in the trash area, sitting in the corner and eating wet cigarette butts.
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