Bachelorette Party - Part II: Seth's Girls

Correction from previous entry: The overwhelming page hits that I accused Bologna of are indeed NOT being perpetrated by Bologna. She introduced my blog to one of her coworkers who has taken a shining to my work. It is my pleasure to introduce her as My First Unrelated Admitted Fan (or Mfuaf for short... kind of sounds like if you tried to say “mofo” with a Ugandan accent). Hi, Mfuaf! Today’s post is dedicated to you!

When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.

We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.

I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).

Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.

The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.

A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.

At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.

An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.

Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.

Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:

Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!

Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.

Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?

Bologna: The raffle

Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!

I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.

My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.

But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.

Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.

Good morning, America / How are ya?

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 my father’s liquor cabinet. I guess that means no more open door pooping.

Decaffeination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, I Behaved Myself In God’s House

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

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

When We Last Left Our Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FYI: The Liquor Boxes Are Labeled “Anal Depilatory Cream”

We’ve been busy little beavers this week unlike this guy:

Good Example FAIL

There’s been some serious packing going on at Chez Dangerous K. Mama Beau thieved packing materials from the hospital where she works. That means some of my moving boxes have big ominous labels that read “Surgical Underpads” which may lead the casual onlooker to assume I have an incontinence problem of epic proportion but on the bright side, it also means I felt secure leaving those boxes in the back of my car yesterday while parked in front of my office where there’s been a rash of recent break ins. Office BFF suggested that I label the unmarked boxes with equally terrifying words. Like “tampons.”

In addition to boxes that once contained phenomenally gross materials, she also provided us with blue cushiony wrapping that she swears is used solely for packaging sterilized equipment and not putting under dead bodies. It smells of band aids nonetheless. Big six foot square band aids. That’s what’s wrapped around the contents of my precious liquor cabinet … which may have exceeded two large boxes … with some straggler bottles that I insist on finishing before we move next Saturday. What?! I refuse to move five bottles of two fingers of scotch each. It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to the scotch.

Last night we brought the first shipment of things-nobody-wanted-to-steal-from-my-car over to the condo and had our very first camp out – complete with a picnic on the charmingly 80s linoleum floor, discovery of a leaky showerhead, and removal of marbleized contact paper which was stuck to every shelf in the kitchen (to complete the Miami Vice ambience, I assume).

We’re off to the Cape tonight for a viewing of She-ra’s wedding band and tomorrow, Cape Gods willing, the postponed yard sale. Next week I’ll be posting a ton of pictures (one craft project and several thousand new purchases).

Don't Worry - I Wasn't Eaten By A Shark

...but I've been playing catch up at work and trying to plan a wedding at home so I haven't had time to write about my fabulous vacation yet. I will though, even if it means doing it by hand this weekend while I'm sitting on Beau's boat. Until then, please enjoy this picture of me making out with a vat of rum at the Cruzan Rum Factory in St. Croix.

When 3 Miles Really Equals 6

This past weekend marked not just the homecoming of Grasshoppah. It was also the Quatro's very first communal charity event. And it wasn’t even court ordered! We just did it because we care. In our magnanimous way, we combined forces to fight MS by … walking around Boston. Actually, I’m not really sure how that part fought MS, but it did give us an excuse to raise almost $3K for the cause and also to hold up traffic on both sides of the river.

Since Grasshoppah got into town on Saturday and the event wasn’t until Sunday, we had to find a way to entertain ourselves in between. We very responsibly ate a light dinner involving vegan-cheese nachos and gluten-free beer at Other Side Café where it was glaringly obvious that I did not fit in amongst the skinny hipsters who made me feel old (for further proof of the insanity, follow the link to their website. You’ll note that it is a MySpace page. You’ll also note that only 13 year olds and pedophiles use MySpace). I’m also fairly certain I heard a young lady with a lip ring discussing Nietzsche. I know I’ll get a few raised eyebrows for saying this considering my own emo-teen years, but Saturdays aren’t for deep philosophical conversation. They’re for starting bar fights and vomiting in public. Kids these days.

After dinner, we migrated to Lir where several dozen drinks were consumed. Because who thinks getting drunk the night before a 6 mile charity walk is a good idea? This guy. That’s who.

Shockingly enough, we all made it to Harvard Stadium in good spirits the next morning though most were equipped with dark sunglasses and one unnamed participant admitted to being in “rough shape.” The walk commenced amidst a crowd of entirely too chipper do-gooders and a couple of tee-shirt wearing dogs. Except it was really less of a walk and more of a stroll because there were several thousand people trying to promenade along the same path and some of them were in wheelchairs. Which asshole saw no problem passing disabled people on the left with the rest of her team? Still this guy.

Despite my best efforts to divert the herd to the nearest pub or bakery, we remained steadfastly on track (On a marginally related note: somewhere after half a mile, Notorious gave me a piece of vacuum sealed cheddar that she had snagged from the refreshment stand before leaving to shut me up. Thank you for your pocket cheese, Notorious).

After the first loop (which the MS Society claims was 3 miles but I think was probably closer to 4 miles), there was a smaller secondary loop to walk in order to complete the full 6 miles. It was like one of those trick SAT math problems with no solution.

Anyway, after completing oval A, we broke off from the pack of determined good Samaritans and slunk back to the stadium where we were greeted in a noisy, embarrassing fashion by a group of cheerleaders who congratulated us on finishing half the course (OR POSSIBLY MORE THAN HALF, YOU BUNCH OF FUCKING LIARS) and presented us with medals. Which we wore to lunch.

Lunch wasn’t easy to get though. After our exodus, we had to walk from Harvard Stadium to Border Café (a 0.6 mile route according to Google Maps, the leading authority on where stuff is… except my car keys… and my dignity) and then BACK (another 0.6 miles) to my car which was located at Harvard Stadium because I was too cheap to pay for parking a second time in one day. So according to my calculations (yes I have detailed calculations saved to my computer and am willing to show proof if necessary), even IF the route we walked was 3 miles, then we walked 5.6 miles between Saturday and Sunday. And everyone knows that you round up because decimal places are stupid because their not divisible by zero or something.

Tadaa! I walked 6 miles in the fight against MS, got drunk, and ate some vegan cheese though not in that order. Wasn’t it worth waiting all week to hear about it? Stay tuned – I’m heading down to the Dirty Jerz tomorrow morning to visit my knocked up sister and bring her to a liquor store for supplies where I’m hoping we’ll get judgmental looks and I can yell something at an elderly woman like, "Well, maybe YOU shouldn't be drinking on your heart medication? Ever think of THAT?"

But My Brilliance Cannot Be Contained

I spent a portion of this week reminiscing with Notorious about our good ol’ college days and how we’re now boring people that get excited whenever something remotely interesting happens to us because then it gives us something to blog about. Personally, I’m boring now because I’m too much of a pansy to deal with the consequential hangover from a night of drunken adventure. For example last weekend’s party:


As a result of my own weakness – or maybe the unnaturally fast aging of my liver – my binge drinking has reduced from a daily habit in Oxford to a weekly ritual in Brighton to a monthly treat at my own home. (I like throwing parties at my apartment. It almost guarantees I’ll make it back to my bed before passing out.) Drinking more often even for the sake of a good blog or two is no longer an option. Much sadness. Tear.

But my conversations with Notorious this week reminded me that I have plenty of old amusing exploits to share that the Interweb has not yet heard. They inspired me to reach deep into my iffy memories of an era long past when I could down a liter of Jack and still be up for class at 9am. Let’s start with this one from circa Fall 2005 when one day, I missed the bus.

It wasn’t just any bus that I missed. In the dead of night, I missed the last bus leaving from the densely student-populated apartments just north of campus. With a bottle of Sauza in me, I determined that the walk home could not possibly be worse than spending the night huddled on the sticky floor of a bachelor pad inhabited by 3 foul males while unsuccessfully trying to ignore the inevitable sounds of fornication on the couch across the room. “Hey,” I thought, “a walk might even be refreshing.”

Google insists that refreshing walk is 1.7 miles which may not sound like much to the able-bodied or energetic amongst you, but to a drunk, lazy college student with “put the lime in the coconut” looping through her head, it's almost enough to deter such a quest. One last look at my other option was enough to send me out the door. By the time I reached campus, I had remembered a short cut which I estimated would shave entire minutes from my walk. WHOLE MINUTES that I could spend curled up in the fetal position next to the toilet instead of walking uphill. Here is a map that illustrates my genius:

You’ll note that the red line represents the Google-suggested way home along major thoroughfares and that the blue line represents my hypothesized shortcut along a footpath in the woods. The pink dotted line is where the trouble began. As I paused to catch my breath at the intersection of pink and blue, I caught sight of my dorm through the trees and determined I would forsake the footpath for a beeline.

This plan was going well until I came upon a mystifying chain link fence in my way. I sniffled quietly to myself, clinging to the fence like one of those depressing refugees on the commercials. After a few failed attempts at scaling it, the obstruction proved to be insurmountable in my inebriated state. I sniffled again and turned around to head back to the path.

Once about-faced, I was confronted with a large house looming ominously in front of me. I scratched my head wondering who put a big lovely house here and why I’d never noticed it before. It was a sobering moment when it dawned on me that I had seen the house before from the front on my way to classes. Somehow, I was standing in the Chancellor’s fenced backyard. Several more panicked attempts were made at scaling the fence, but eventually I was forced to follow it out of the gloom and onto his well lit drive way where I ran as I have never run before.

Though my confinement lasts a mere two paragraphs here, in reality, it lasted an excruciating quarter of an hour. When I finally got back to my room, I was visibly shaken with twigs in my hair and scratches on my arms. My roommate, having lived with me for some time and witnessed the M&M incident, didn’t ask a single question.

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.

By The Numbers

To summarize the past four months of my life:

I permanently withdrew from the graduate program I was slated to begin in January. I applied to 72 jobs: 11 in September, 16 in October, a whopping 39 in November, and just six in December. I was offered 10 interviews and made it to eight. I had four second round interviews. I had one infuriating third round interview. I had one faux job offer which dissolved into nothing when I left a message accepting the position, called five more times that day without success, and finally got through to someone the next morning who gave me an attitude, told me they were “still deciding” and never called back. I met with four staffing agencies. Two of them laid off my original recruiter. None of them were able to find work for me in a span of almost four months. So, you see, it’s been a rocky third of a year.

And absolutely none of it matters now because I was offered a job this past Friday (this time with legitimate paperwork!) which I gleefully accepted. I’ve learned an important lesson, which I think my father was right in saying that I’m lucky to have learned at this age when I have so few financial obligations. But even in my euphoric state last Friday, I had one last lingering concern. I worried that this phase changed me as a person, made me a somber, antisocial downer unable to even write a funny blog anymore. So I did the only thing I could to test the waters: I got invited a dozen of my friends over for a Christmas party, got shit faced drunk, spilled a rumndietcoke down the front of my shirt, and needed a team of people to help me overcome the hiccups.

I'M BACK BITCHES! AHAHAHA!

God, Gin, and Something Trippy

This Saturday found me in a vaguely familiar place: church. I haven’t been to one of those since Christmas 2006 when Beau’s family dragged me to a midnight mass despite the fact that most of us were half in the wrapper. But this weekend wasn’t a holiday. It was a wedding. That means I stopped hissing at statues of saints long enough to quietly sit through a ceremony.

Let me preface this by saying that I was raised Catholic. I went to church every week in my childhood. I sat through Sunday school classes where I was scolded for asking questions, not understanding the concept of blind faith, and drawing fancy hats on Jesus in my work book (and then further reprimanded when I called my teacher an idolater for putting so much emphasis on a pictorial representation of Christ). I’ve studied the Bible more in depth than most Christians. That said, I am now an enthusiastic atheist. If that or blaspheming bothers you, now might be a good time to stop reading.

Anyway, I can be respectful when needs be, so I behaved. We were seated too far back in the church to hear or see what went on up front which was a pity because friends of ours were getting hitched somewhere up there. After a quarter of an hour of straining my neck and failing to catch anything, my mind started to wander. For awhile I watched everyone around me kneel and sit and chant and make elaborate hand gestures all the while thinking that truly, mass must count as cardio. I abstained from the general hocus-pocus except the standing bits (because my ass was falling asleep) and the hand shaking (because I like smiling and saying nice things to people on occasion). For the remainder of the time I admired the interior of the church with its marble columns and painted murals and wondered how much money could have been donated to charity instead of pimping God’s crib. Of course, studies show that God is between 17 and 30 feet tall so they had no choice but to vault the ceiling that high, but the rest is a bit much.

Eventually, the ceremony was over and we moved to the reception hall where I visibly relaxed and unclenched because there was an open bar and that is a religion I can wholeheartedly believe it. In my magnanimous way, I grabbed a few scotches for the boys before asking for my rumndietcoke. The bartender shook his head. I spoke louder as if he were hard of hearing, “RUM AND DIET COKE.”

He gestured behind him at the sparse array of bottles and said, “This is what we have.” No rum. Fuck, I thought, God is pissed at my sacrilege. The bartender suggested I try something else and handed me something blue and fruity. I was dumbstruck. Defeated, I took my blue cocktail back to the table and sat pouting while Beau laughed at me.

Five minutes later I returned to the bar with a friend all the while lamenting the plight of the rumless. She told me her drink of choice was gin and Sprite but she couldn’t have too much because it gets her into trouble. Trouble you say? I ordered a round for us.

An hour later, I was dangerously flirting with Tanqueray, sending texts to Bologna about this delicious mistress. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur of gin, baby quiches, and holding my new friends’ hair back while she vomited on the sidewalk. I spent the majority of the time dancing to Polish techno with a dozen accountants. At one point I paused to wonder how I came to be spinning with my arms above my head, surrounded by stupefied bean counters but then someone told me it was time for the second dinner and this one included meatballs and I lost my train of thought.

In conclusion, gin gives you a crisper feeling hangover than rum, don’t eat a bowlful of sauerkraut when you’re drunk, and God may or may not shop in the big’n’tall men’s department of Macys.

Speaking of Lessons Learned

As I leaned against the kitchen wall just now, fixing myself a cup of coffee and swallowing my second helping of Advil to counter my early afternoon hangover, I thought to myself, when will I learn? When will I learn that staying out half the night drinking ends the same way EVERY TIME? A small voice in my head ventured never. I may NEVER learn to curb my thirst in the interest of not feeling like pond scum the following day. I’m sure we’ve all sworn after a particularly bad night that we were never drinking again (see St. Patty’s Day 2007). I certainly have no intention of following through to a state of teetotalism but a little restraint might go a long way. Developing the ability to say “I’d love to go to another bar for more drinks after dinner, but it’s a weeknight and I’m broke” instead of “Hells fuckin’ YEAH I want a shot of tequila” would be advantageous at this juncture of my life.

Instead, here I am squinting under fluorescent lights thinking of how that plate of nachos from the Cask & Flagon circa 10 pm will manifest. Perhaps as another dimple on my already ample bottom? A third chin to keep the other two company? A pooh that waits until my commute home to try to leave the mother ship? It is a mystery.

Besides the weight gain and the hangovers, my wallet runs dry as my poor, desiccated bladder (something to keep in mind since I’ll be officially unemployed as of September 1). Yet this trifecta of reasons NOT to get drunk enough to pinky-swear that I will reread Wuthering Heights is somehow not enough to sink into my brain.

Lately, I’ve actually grown bored of the boozing lifestyle but you wouldn’t know it, would you? I whine that I want to go out for a nice adult dinner but then I’m the first one to order a rumndietcoke… or seven. I make plans for innocent day trips but then cancel on account of a hangover. If I wasn’t too lazy to go out most nights, I’d be an alcoholic by now. Apparently, sloth is my saving grace.

So, I returned to my desk with my coffee and my obstinate refusal to learn from my mistakes. And also the memory of Grasshoppah buying a steak and cheese sandwich for a homeless guy sitting outside the 7-11.

BUI (Blogging Under the Influence)

Beau's at a work thang tonight that I wasn't invited to so I spent the evening getting into the Portuguese wine that Mrs. First Floor brought me for watching her adorable dog earlier this week. Then I accidentally stumbled face first into four or five rumndietcokes. Whoops! Sorry Friday morning! Anyway, here are some important notes that my brain made during the course of these events:

- Stephen Colbert is a poignant blinker.

- iTunes says I played Coldplay's Viva la Vida 17 times. Since I remember looping it while dancing around the apartment, that means it was on for a little over an hour ... straight.

- Misappropriation of Bon Jovi songs as pertains to So You Think You Can Dance. OK, so that's not a sentence. They still misused Bon Jovi for a shitty dance routine. And yes, I AM the Bon Jovi police. I'm from Jersey. He's all we have.

- What is this receipt from Amazon? I bought Under the Tuscan Sun???? Really? Well, it's about time. Man, that movie is awesome.

- I know exactly why Jordan Sparks is a failure: she's like watching an after school special in motion. Don't you make hand gestures at me in the shape of a heart while making horribly written love metaphors. That makes you lamer than the kid i saw on the subway today that had a tattoo of "freaks are born into their own tragedy" on his arm (PS punk: you'll regret that in like three years MAX. I speak from experience. Just a heads up). And also don't underestimate the power of Kelly Clarkson. You can't just win American Idol and BE HER. She is a mystical force of nature.

- Why am I never this sexy when I'm dancing sober? Being sloppy drunk makes me sexified? OK. That sounds about right. Maybe i should start drinking more.

- I'm mad at my landlord for being a douchebag. He told me that I can't have a dog because it would be too loud on the hardwood floors above his apartment... and then he had his friend over for the evening... and his friend's dog... that spent two hours howling. But that's OK. I didn't hear much of the howling after the first half hour because I found the raunchiest gay porn I could on the Internet and blasted it through the open window. I mean during Coldplay breaks.

Bermuda, Land of My People

Let me start by saying that I had fully intended on coming home from vacation and giving a play-by-play account of the entire week (no, but seriously, I have a detailed itinerary of every event in my paper journal – the one that some refer to as my “creepy little journal” because I can often be found sitting in a corner furiously writing while making shifty eye motions and visibly judging those around me). I am choosing not to do this for one main reason: the trip was perfect. It would be smug of me to sit here and describe the weather, the food, the beaches, the sunsets, etc. to you, especially the unfortunate souls who were stuck in Boston’s freak heat wave last week. More importantly, I’d probably lose your attention if I gave a full recap because that kind of peacefulness is inherently uneventful and less than dramatic. If you’re actually interested in my series of 20,000 dolphin pictures from the Maritime Museum you are more than welcome to visit my flickr album which I promise to update tonight, Bologna, so please stop calling and leaving breathy messages on my voicemail. I know it’s you.

Instead, I will regale you with one of my usual stories of foolishness, since my magnetism for trouble operates just as well in Bermuda as it does here at home. After our first day of sightseeing, we returned to port and decided to have a snack at the Tavern by the Sea in St. George’s before boarding the ship. Ordering went something like this:

Waiter: And madam what can I get for you?

Dangerous K: Could we get the nachos? And also a rumndietcoke?

Beau: Beer.

Waiter: Black rum, madam?

Dangerous K: Yes, please.

Beau: BEEEEEERRRRRR.

Waiter: Anything else, madam?

Dangerous K: No, thank you.

Beau: BEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

Black rum is the uber-rum. It’s aged longer, tastes stronger, and is essentially as lethal as Schwarzenegger circa the first Terminator would be if we dropped him in the Iraq. Pretty much, it is anti-terrorism in a jar. So, I wasn’t terribly surprised that it didn’t go down as easy as my first love, Bacardi. I was only halfway through my drink when Beau finished the last of his beer – an unprecedented occurrence. I am not one to hold up the next round. As I began to take bigger swigs, I noticed that the drink was going straight to my head, though, to the best of my knowledge, the Bermudian variety is not a higher proof than Ol’ Faithful. As the reigning Queen of Rum Consumption, the idea of a single cocktail taking me down is downright embarrassing. Beau gave me a funny look when I voiced this out loud. Then he felt my forehead. Then he took a sip. Then he said, “Honey, I think that’s straight rum.” Phew. Chug chug chug giggle.

Sure enough, the bill corroborated his opinion. My drink was listed only as black rum. No -ndietcoke. Which I believe officially makes me a pirate. Give me your booty.

Heh heh heh. Booty.

The Morning After

The damage

Yes, I washed the dishes in my sunglasses. That window was really bright.

Karma

I didn’t vomit in a recycling bin on Friday like I thought I would, though I did subject my designated driver, the ever patient Beau, to a loud, torturous rendition of Elton John’s entire body of work.

Karma didn’t catch up with me until Sunday morning, when, presented with the house to myself, a pot of coffee, and an ANTM marathon, I got up to do some laundry and along the way caught my little toe on the leg of the coffee table and apparently broke it. Again. I did this in December 2006 when I was chasing my roommate’s dog and caught the same little toe on the leg of the futon [Tangent: this was the same evening of the Aftershock incident at Copperfield’s. I figured I’d just stubbed it really, really bad, so I went out to the bar hopping on one foot and drank myself retarded to deal with the pain. Then I did the Running Man with a man dressed as Santa].

So, in order to save my remaining nine toes from a similar fate, I will now formally apologize to people who don’t recycle for antagonizing them and the girl that puked at my subway stop for shaking my head at her. I’m very, very sorry for judging you harshly. I promise not to rant about environmental issues instead of confessing my horribly embarrassing and moderately amusing shenanigans ever again. Now that I’ve restored balance to the karmic universe, I will proceed to hobble around in flip-flops as penance instead of my adorable black peep toe pumps.

A History Lesson: Dangerous K and How She Got That Way

The time has come, little ones, to share the story of how I acquired my pseudonym. You’ve probably already guessed the K stands for my first name. Clever girl. Now gather round for the rest.

Once upon a time, I spent a summer studying abroad in Oxford which I still believe to be one of the most beautiful towns on Earth. My scholarly endeavors consisted of two classes that I attended incredibly hung over, a couple of papers that I wrote with double vision, and nearly vomiting on a world renowned professor. Most of my time was spent at a basement club called The Purple Turtle, located down a charming cobble stone street. Inside there were all manner of seedy staples: pleather couches, drunk men in kilts, dance floor with strobe lights, a visible cloud of smoke hanging below the ceiling, etc.

What dive would be complete without the requisite creeps trying to pick you up? I, unlike someone else who shall remain unnamed, never managed to get my claws into a kilted drunk, but I did attract the attention of another English stereotype: a chav. While waiting for a drink one night, I found myself squished next to the bar with one such individual who was sporting the complete uniform of faux-Burberry baseball cap, oversized sports jersey, gold chain, and vigilantly manicured facial hair.

During our wait, we chatted about ourselves: I learned that he was a local DJ of hardcore electronic music and he learned that I was a lingerie model with a thick Italian accent. When our drinks sloshed onto the counter in front of us, he immediately pulled out a wad of cash and insisted on paying for my drink. This was convenient because I was also about to insist he pay for my drink.

Sensing weakness, I continued to prey on this poor young gentleman for the next hour or so. Why yes, I would like another drink. Blink blink blink. I dare say I’m getting quite tipsy now. I’m not used to this strong, virile English cider. Blink blink blink. Why no, I don’t have any cigarettes of my own. Why yes, I’d love to have one of yours. Blink blink blink.

Unfortunately, he had underestimated my tolerance and was eventually surprised to see his wallet contained nothing but a few loose coins, his pack of Mayfairs was empty, and yet I was not yet intoxicated enough to be taken to a dark alley for a quick lay. With a hanging head and drained resources, he made a last ditch effort (after being told that international phone calls to Italy are actually very expensive, but he was welcome to get in touch with my agent if he’d like to take me out to dinner) and handed me a flyer for one of his upcoming shows in which I could get backstage if I told the bouncer I was a personal-nudge-nudge-hiccup-friend of Dangerous J’s.

With supreme timing, our next round of drinks - and two additional shots (men are shameless) - arrived. I carefully folded the flyer and stuck it in my back pocket before thanking him in the full glory of an unmistakable American accent for a wonderful evening. As his eyes grew wider and crossed a bit, I slammed down both shots, lit a Marlboro, and paid for the last round before winking and disappearing back into the crowd.

Le baguette, le baguette? LE FROMAGEEE

For the first time since Christmas break, Beau was granted a day off by the Evil Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. He spent all week muttering to himself and secretly researching on his laptop with shiftier eyes than usual. This suggested he was up to no good. You see, when I have a day off, I like to do things like putter around the apartment, read in a corner, or watch 11 hour marathons of ANTM. Not Beau – his precious little free time is spent outside the house engaging in normal human activities. And that’s how I ended up in Canada last weekend.

Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:

1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).

2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.

3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”

4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.

5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.

I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.

We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.

A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.

Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.

I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.

In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.

The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.

A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?

No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.

“Where are my penguins, Beau?”

“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”

“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”

“We’ll find your penguins, honey”

Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.

15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?

After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).

It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.

Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.

We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?

How About The Ones I Sold to Hustler?

I gave myself an asthma attack yesterday after running through South Station for my train, hauling myself uphill through a fog of evil, evil pollen spores, and then, the clincher, opening my mail of the porch where I found the acceptance letter from my new grad school.

Beau herded me up two flights of stairs and helped me look for my inhaler while I wheezed, “They let me in. I’m gonna be edumacated. Wheez. Yay! Wheez. Suckers.”

A few hits later and I felt strong enough to call Bologna who congratulated me heartily and my father who quickly turned the conversation to himself, like usual. Bless him.

I floated into work this morning and found a new use for my good news: pissing off Boss Lady, who you may remember, is none too fond of me. I found her and Bell stirring their morning coffee in the kitchen where I promptly spilled the beans because I am physically incapable of keeping secrets or good news pertaining to myself. Bell hugged me and smiling said, “Good for you, honey! Oh, congratulations!”

Boss Lady said “Yay” and walked out of the room. That means I win.

After exhausting the orientation website, I decided it was time to mail the form (the one saying I accept their acceptance of my application) but first, I had to fulfill their request of a small photo of myself. I browsed through my pictures and came to a horrible, terrible realization. I am drunk in every photo of myself. No, but seriously:

Internet, I don’t have a problem. If anyone here has a problem, it’s you. You have a problem judging others. Let me have my fun now before my funds are sucked dry on things like tuition and books and thick framed glasses to make me look smarter. Anyway, I finally found one lone solitary picture taken 3 years ago during my summer abroad in England that sufficed but sorry ladies, I had to crop you out:

That’s the one they’re getting unless of course, they find my blog in which case they can have all of my other ones too.