The Jell-O Mug

The past week has comprised of INTENSE preparation of the condo for this weekend when my loved ones will descend (or I should say ascend since they’re almost all coming from points further south) on the metro Boston area for my shower and a big thanks-for-hauling-ass-to-a-state-in-which-the-National-Guard-was-recently-deployed BBQ. Despite having sat still for about 15 minutes in the past week, I made time on Wednesday night to prepare for one of my favorite holidays: April Fools. Are you really all that surprised?

Office BFF is a die-hard Office fan and prides herself on being our office’s version of Dwight. So, this year’s inspiration came from the pilot episode. As luck would have it, Office B took a vacation day on March31. Why someone would leave their personal belongings unprotected the day before April Fools with me around, I’ll never know. Suffice it to say, she did and I took advantage by abducting her favorite mug…

Figure 1

… and asking Beau to buy as many packages of strawberry Jell-O that he could find on his way home from work. Shortly after dinner, I was in the kitchen setting this up:

Figure 2

When I pulled it out of the fridge on Thursday morning, it was magnificent. Sadly, it did not survive my commute as well as I had hoped:

Figure 3

Regardless, many laughs were had by all and Office B shouted “I’ve been Dwighted” when she got to work so I consider it a success. If anyone would like to try it out themselves, learn from my mistakes:

1. I positioned the mug horizontally instead of vertically on purpose but in retrospect, it was probably my first mistake. I was hoping to create the illusion of suspension since it was too big to touch the bottom of the bowl (see Figure 2). This way when I took the block of Jell-O out of the bowl, the mug appeared to float a couple of inches from both the top and bottom. The problem lay (lie? Laid? Lied?) in the contact points in which the mug touched the sides of the bowl. Those created weak spots in the outside of the mold which eventually turned into larger fissures. Lesson Learned: A better way was to suspend an object in Jell-O can be found at (where else?)

http://www.jellostapler.com/stapler-in-jello.html.

2. Jell-O will stain white counter tops. Lesson Learned: Work over the sink or (like I did) make sure you have a serious stain remover on hand. Beau had to the leave the room when I cleaned though because the stain remover reminded him of cleaning up vomit in college.

3. Before pouring in the liquid Jell-O, I greased the interior of the bowl with cooking spray in the clever hopes that it would make removal easier. It did nothing of the sort. When I pulled it out of the fridge and shook it over a plate, it didn’t fall out. I thought that maybe the top edge of the Jell-O was preventing it from sliding out easily since it was clearly adhered* to the side of the bowl. I slid a knife about an inch down around the mold. The next time I shook it, a chunk fell out but not the whole mold. Major fissure # 2. Thanks to the foul, clingy nature of Jell-O, I was able to stuff it back in the bowl and make it sort of whole again. Lesson Learned: I eventually shoved a long boning knife as far as it would go between the bowl and the Jell-O. Then it finally came out.

4. For transportation purposes, I put the upside down bowl back over the plated mold and harnessed it in place with tape. If the Jell-O hadn’t already split, this may have worked. Since it did split, bits of Jell-O were preventing the bowl from making contact with the plate. Lesson Learned: either don’t let the Jell-O split or even better, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination so that transportation is not an issue. I didn’t want to bring a big honkin knife to work but what the hell. What’s one more weapon in my cubicle?

5. I put the plated mold with the bowl covering on the floor of the front passenger seat where it jiggled at me horrifically**. My commute was longer than normal thanks to flooded roads and the Jell-O continue to wiggle and ooze out from under the bowl. When I finally got to the highway, I floored it in an attempt to get the wretched thing out of my car before it touched the carpet. Lesson Learned: I reiterate, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination. Jell-O was not meant to go 80mph.

6. Jell-O smells really bad on its own and if you’re anything like me, the odor will make your stomach turn as you relive memories from high school of your first attempt at Jell-O shots. Lesson Learned: Do not mix tequila and lime Jell-O even if you’re in high school and it’s the only thing you and your friends can steal from your parents’ liquor cabinets without getting busted because no one ever drank the tequila and you could tell from the amount of dust on the bottle. The memory will haunt you well into your 20s.

I hope my pointers serve to help you in your own future pranks. I know this time next year, I’ll be references them myself.

*This shit is so gross. How is it considered dessert?

**SERIOUSLY – HOW COULD SOMEONE EVER WILLINGLY IMBIBE THIS VIAL SUBSTANCE?

Dangerous K and the Almost Zombie Apocalypse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Don't Trust A Computer

Me and you, we’ve discussed how I have trouble with screen shots, right? Once again, I’ve experienced technical difficulties with that seemingly simple function. This morning I sent a routine email about an error message I saw. Now, here’s a game for you to play: spot the horribly mortifying mistake in the following screen shot that I sent to the vendor.

Need a hint? Did you check what I last googled?

WHY AM I SO AWKWARD?!?!?

Now there’s a herd of techies sitting in Texas who are either a) pointing north and laughing or b) convinced that I am a jilted lesbian. In my own defense, I googled it in the first place after reading a facebook status update from Notorious:

Being the playful type, I had planned on responding with lyrics that describe my innermost feelings… but couldn’t remember what came before “woo ooh” in the song. And then I got distracted with error messages and screen shots and emails and the whole thing just kind of spiraled out of control until I was sitting at my desk slamming my forehead into the keyboard and exchanging brief emails with the vendor which are COMPLETELY USELESS WHEN ATTEMPTING TO READ SOMEONE’S TONE AND DETECT LAUGHTER AND POINTING.

So, I now present this to you, sweet Internet, as further evidence that I am the reincarnation of Lucille Ball. Much like recounting a nightmare involving zombie cucumbers chasing you out of the produce aisle to whoever will listen, sharing the embarrassing details of my day makes me feel a little better about them.

If You Pass, I’ll Rotate Your Tires for Free!

Today at work, I was involved in a discussion with the single girls in the office concerning point systems for rating potential mates. I got to thinking about how Beau attained the coveted position of being my boyfriend (coveted like being a fighter pilot: it looks really fun and you get serious street cred for surviving, but actually, if you fuck up, it's really hazardous to your health). While my new office BFF, Krystal Youngblood, has a 5-point system, I determined Beau passed a much more rigorous assessment which was (sadly) culled from actual knowledge gained over years and years of dating complete losers. Here I present to you, in no particular order, Dangerous K’s 22-Point Inspection:

1. Must drink without being a full fledged alcoholic.
2. Must be able to drink me under the table.
3. Must not wear black eye liner
4. Must not write, read, or enjoy dark poetry
5. Must not have British teeth.
6. MUST NOT BE A BARTENDER.
7. Must not be in a band.
8. Must pay own share of rent.
9. Must have an egalitarian point of view concerning housework.
10. Must bathe frequently.
11. Must live in the continental United States; must not need assistance obtaining proper paperwork to do so.
12. Must not exist in a permanent state of couch-surfing.
13. Must participate in communal farts, burps, and nose picking.
14. Must be able to make me laugh at his jokes harder than I laugh at my own.
15. Must not have connections to the mob.
16. Must not be gay.
17. Must not play Dungeons & Dragons.
18. Must not be a vegetarian.
19. Must not listen to Starbucks soundtrack music, NPR, or jazz.
20. Must not expect me to attend cultural events and maintain a façade of maturity.
21. Must not weep during arguments.
22. Must be an excellent cook. Must not judge me when I lick my plate. Must offer his plate for licking as well.

Now for shits and giggles, guess which points the following ex-boyfriends failed (pseudonyms have been expanded on for those in my personal life who may have difficulty determining real names):

Weasely, The Elf Boy: Transitional high school to college boyfriend (Summer 2002 – Summer 2004)
Ho-Train: Abercrombie-esque guy that I permanently broke (Fall 2004? Maybe? Is that right?)
Marilyn Manson: Goth dude from my dorm (The day I broke up with Ho-Train until a month or two later)
Malarkey: Irish delinquent (Summer 2005 - Spring 2006)

Bonus points for identifying the ex (not included on this list – initials only if you know who it is) who failed #15!

**Update for clarification: Each point may apply to multiple listed exes. Some points apply to unlisted exes**

The Zen Master

It’s safe to say Bologna has always been a little… on edge. I mean, you won’t get knifed if you make a sudden movement around her but if she catches you improperly folding a bed sheet, she might go ballistic and start screaming.

Lots of things serve as irritants to Bologna but that’s just because she is a sensitive soul, unlike your beloved Dangerous K who once ate an M&M from behind her college roommates’ desk even after realizing that that particular candy had not been brought into the room in the 2 years of cohabitation. But it was a brown one and I really like the brown ones because I’m always afraid they’ll be the next to be discontinued after the tan ones so we should enjoy them while we have them. Or maybe the shell had eroded and I was looking at raw chocolate innards. Whatever. It was delicious. Anyway.

Now that Bologna is pregnant (read: engorged with hormones) she is slightly more sensitive than usual (read: a fucking whack job that WILL knife you). So her husband T and I have formed a sort of unspoken 24-hour patrol – he takes the in-person night shift from 6pm to 7am and I have the day shift via AIM from 8am to 5pm. We spend her unsupervised travel time in between our shifts praying for the safety of other commuters.

So this afternoon I was not surprised to hear her ask for a dose of Zen to sooth an apoplectic fit induced by a lazy secretary in her office. In my most calming typing tone, I talked my sister down from a ledge. Deep breath in…. and release that big guy back into the wild. Very good everyone! I’m seeing progress here.

But if there is one thing I am learning from this whole fetus-incubating-sister thing, it is that logic means nothing to the impregnated masses. There are no rules. This IS ‘Nam, Smokey. And if Bologna says turkey bacon on a bagel she MEANS turkey bacon on a bagel and GOD HELP YOU IF YOU BRING HER A PLAIN ONE (Hi T! Remember that time you brought her a plain bagel? That was fun). Meltdowns will ensue. Since things like reason can no longer be counted on to pacify Bologna, I find the best option is distraction. My best method of distraction is apparently humor. So when my conversational tactics failed today, I turned to whale noises which top scientists say are very soothing in their OOOOoooooOOO’y kind of way. I detected giggling (I can detect these things through a computer). I pushed on, idly threatening to call her office and sing Enya to her if she didn’t immediately get happy.

Don’t threaten pregnant ladies. Just don’t. Because they will in turn refuse to become happy until you call them and sing Enya. They won’t be swayed by excuses like “I forgot my cell phone at home” and “I can’t sing to you from my cubicle – everyone in the office will hear me” or even “But I’m the new girl and I still have them mostly convinced that I’m normal!” Why not? Because TURKEY BACON NOW.

So I peaked over my cubicle wall, ascertained that the desks nearest to me were empty, dialed with shaking hands and as soon as the phone was answered, began softly crooning “storms in Africaaaaaa.” Giggles from the other end. Bologna was appeased. I stopped. Bologna was no longer appeased. I made a thunder/tribal drum noise. Giggling continued. I hissed, “I’m sorry, that is all I have time for” while attempting to contain a guffaw that would surely be heard in the executive offices.

As I was hanging up and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, one of my coworkers appeared with a quizzical look on her face. She had been in a conference room around the corner from my desk, easily within earshot. I smiled my best I-am-SO-not-certifiable smile. She asked if I was OK. She’d heard a disturbance and now there appeared to be tears on my face. In order to save my reputation, I gave her the abridged version of this blog and explained that they were tears of laughter, not pain.

But they would have been tears of pain had I not called Bologna and sung Enya in my most humbling and self-mortifying way. Because she would have knifed me. And don’t you forget that.

Ella Ella Eh Eh Eh

There’s pretty much NO way I can work today because:

a) It is currently 59° outside.
b) It’s Friday.
c) We made an offer on a house this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from the owners.
d) One of my oldest Jersey friends, Pilipoy, is visiting Boston tomorrow.
e) Beau and I are hosting a dinner party (read: shit show) tomorrow night and when my liver hears the word “party” it starts sending chemical signals out to my brain that say “HOLLAHHH - CRANK UP UMBRELLA AND START DANCING AROUND!!”

I’m forcibly resisting the urge to take my swivel chair outside in order to tailgate in the parking lot. It’s taking all my will power just to stay in this cubicle. I have no energy left over for silly tasks like counting or filing or doing anything else that I’m currently being paid to do. So instead, I'll tell you a random story.

Earlier this afternoon, the controller, president, and vice president took me out for lunch (technically my welcome lunch which has been postponed for a couple of months because they have real jobs, which I totally understand). Here’s a sample of our conversation which may help explain why I love this freakin’ place:

VP: So what kind of wines do you like?

Me: Cheap ones… pretty much anything with an animal on the label. I bought an expensive one recently that tasted horrible so, now I pretty much stick to Yellow Tail.

Controller: I love Yellow Tail!

VP: Are you more of a cocktail person? What’s your signature drink?

Me: Bacardianddietcoke [Yes, I told this to senior management without any hesitation whatsoever and practically before the vice president had finished his sentence]

President: I love Mt. Gay rum. I could drink that stuff straight.

Then the conversation turned to a discussion of rum and rum-based drinks for the next 5 minutes and I kept grinning from ear to ear and thinking “I am never going to leave this place.” At the end of our meal, we clinked our sodas together in cheers and they welcomed me to the company again.

Me: Just pretend there’s rum in here

President: We should start bringing flasks to lunch.

LOVE THIS PLACE. Anyway, have an awesome weekend! Full report of party shenanigans on Monday. And for any of the invitees who read this, don’t you dare flake out! We have Guitar Hero and a camera all set up.

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.

Where's Waldo? Let Me Show You.

Ya know what pisses me off, Interweb? When your next door neighbors go away for two weeks at the end of December and turn off their wireless router so that you are bereft of Interweb access for HALF A BLOODY MONTH. And then they come back and lock the network so that you can't mooch off of it anymore. How uncharitable is that at this time of year? Seriously, my neighbors are the opposite of philanthropy. You can blame them for me not blogging much recently.

I suppose you could also blame my new rockin' job which keeps me super busy during the day but I would prefer if you didn't come down too hard on them. Granted I've only been working for two weeks but I absolutely adore the new gig. The days fly by since I'm not just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, I get to commute by car in my new pimpin mid-90s whip, the office is filled with girls my age who invite me to lunch every day to discuss our favorite available-only-on-TV merchandise, and there is free Diet Coke available in the fridge. If I can figure out how to sneak Bacardi onto the office supply ordering list, I'll absolutely be in 9-5 heaven.

In addition to Interweb issues and working for a living, Beau and I are now house hunting in earnest. The morning after our Christmas party Evil Landlord politely asked us to vacate by March instead of staying till the end of our lease in June. He insisted it wasn't because we were blasting Bette Midler until 3:00 am but instead because his sperminated wife will be spawning in the early spring and they'd like to move her mother into our apartment. While this is a massive inconvenience for us, I don't particularly want to live one thin layer of floorboards above a screaming baby. Plus, I imagine our landlord's life is about to suck big time if his mother-in-law will be living in the house. I take some twisted comfort in that. But, don't worry. We're not being evicted and we haven't put anything in writing. We're just trying our damndest to get out of here before the Seed of Evil Landlord is birthed.

At any rate, Beau bought us our very own Interweb connection so I'm free to babble to my heart's content. And now that I'm done with what was intended as a quick introduction to get you up to speed on my enormously interesting life, I see that it has actually evolved into a fairly lengthy entry unto itself so instead of launching into further revelations, I will instead say goodbye for now and promise to post again within the week.

HR Beasties

Today I had a phone interview for an editorial assistant position with a local publishing company. Unlike the last interview I had, this one was with a faceless human resources lackey. Regardless of actually wanting this job and feeling lucky to have gotten an interview, I can’t help complaining about the conversation itself which consisted of The Most Generic Questions Ever which I answered in my usual evasive, political way (thanks presidential candidates for teaching me how to give a 30-second sound bite without giving any semblance of a real answer!). I talked about professional growth, my intellectual curiosity, and my understanding of the words “deadline” and “organization.” Meanwhile, deep in the corners of my mind, my real personality was hog tied and gagged with a tube sock because this is how she wanted to answer these questions:

Why did you leave your last job?

I put eye-drops in my boss’ coffee or, they caught me negotiating with the janitorial staff for a bag of pure, uncut Colombian, or, I got sick of collecting mugs and scrubbing at stubborn tea rings, or I hate answering the switchboard phone, or, I am the lizard king.

What is your understanding of this position?

Despite rereading the job ad 5 minutes ago and actually having it open on my laptop right this very moment, I have very little understanding of what I would do in this position because your advertisement uses the same kind of flowery corporate phrases as are present this interview. I’m aware that I will book flights, send form letters to annoying people that my superiors don’t want to talk to, and go to occasional conferences where more than likely, I will watch a married editor get drunk and tell me he’s gay before vomiting in his briefcase and passing out in an Applebee’s bar.

Why do you think you’d be good at this job?

I’m good at everything that I’ve ever tried except sucking at life.

What are your future goals?

Well, short-term I intend on using this company as a source of income, title, recommendations, and new facebook buddies. Long-term, I hope to flee this country, become a snorkel tour leader in Bermuda or barmaid in a small village pub in Ireland where I’ll own several large Labrador/Shepherds mixes. I do not see myself as part of the intelligentsia and have limited interest in the disciplines covered by your company (literature, anthropology, sociology, political science, etc.) but would be interested in founding a division on crude humor.

How much money do you want?

I need $75K a year, access to the corporate jet on the weekends, and also whatever you have in your wallet right now.

Phew! It feels better to have gotten that out of my system. Anyway, I think the answers I gave out loud were sufficient enough. Fingers doubly crossed for this one and the interview I had last week.

More Projects I Started and Then Forgot About / I Still Have a Blog?!

I’ve made it through almost a month of unemployment and besides a booming social calendar and a dwindling checking account, I have very little to show for my time other than a touch of insomnia. While I wait for this Benadryl to knock me out so I can finally get a good night’s sleep this week, I thought I’d check in. Nothing puts me to sleep so well as listening to myself talk. In the dark. To the Internet.

I’ve had a couple of complaints from my Only Fan that updates have not been coming at their usual frequent pace. For this I apologize and offer the following excuse: I have very little (good) material to share with you. For monetary and liver-tary reasons, I’ve scaled back on drinking (except for last weekend which was a shit show in New Hampshire where I took shots and ate sauerkraut in the same day which is a VERY BAD IDEA) so I have fewer wild and crazy stories to divulge and also I fall down less often. Mostly I putter around the house, read 19th century fiction, water plants, do laundry, and spy on my neighbors.

I also voraciously apply to every publishing house in the Boston area while our economy crumbles and hope that someone employs me soon so I won’t have to start bootlegging gin out of the washing machine (no bathtub – it’s the only option). On that note, I just had my second interview with an awesome company that felt promising but now that I’ve jinxed it and probably won’t get it, I’ll come back and cry to you next week when I hear back. I also crawled back to that grad program that I deferred in the spring and told them I’d be enrolling in the spring (hopefully part-time if this whole getting-a-job thing works out). So, I’m theoretically back on track to get a Masters in Books. We’ll see how that goes.

In my puttering today I discovered that we once again have a mouse which is not unusual in an old Victorian in New England at the onset of cold weather but nonetheless grosses me out when I want a piece of toast and find that something has chewed through the plastic bag and nibbled a circular portion of my whole wheat bread. This happened sometime last year when I left an unprotected loaf on a shelf with a large obvious mouse hole, but this time the food was in a bowl with tall, smooth sides on a counter devoid of holes. This led me to believe I have not just a rodent but indeed a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse that carries nun chucks and wears a little black mask like Zorro. Bologna (who is visiting for the weekend) disagreed and demonstrated vividly how the villain might climb up the pipes under my sink, through a crack in the stove, hoist itself up on the ledge around the counter and from there jump into the bowl. So, OK, either I have a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse or a Super Intelligent Mouse with Logistical Powers and Planning Ability Far Exceeding My Own. Neither makes me feel comfortable in my kitchen. But so help me God, if I see that thing crawling around on the ceiling like the baby in Trainspotting, I will spray its ass with Raid faster than you can say “Hey, I think the Benadryl kicked in.”

I Said “More on That Later” and Now is Apparently Late Enough

The time has come to explain what I meant when I elusively mentioned in my last post not getting a job until October. I’d like to preface this explanation by saying that I had to completely rewrite this post because it turned into an incoherent three page diatribe ending in a poorly constructed metaphor involving colonialism in early America, so, please be aware that this is the calmer, friendlier, 50% less bitter version.

In short, I have determined that work sucks. I don’t want to overwhelm you with my wisdom so why don’t you take a minute to let that sink in.

Specifically, I’ve come to abhor office work. I’m resentful of every minute I fritter away in front of a computer under fluorescent lights in a room with no windows. Less than three years into the work force and I’m already sick of office politics. I realized earlier this month that if one more customer/superior/random neff they pulled off the street gives me an attitude, insults my intelligence, or is just generally nasty because they’re constipated, I might actually just walk out on my job. Like literally. Take my purse and leave this place and never come back because this doesn’t feel like the way to really live one’s life.

Instead, I’ve luckily had a quiet month of training my replacement and saying my farewells. Originally, I quit in anticipation of starting grad school in the fall. After weeks of agonizing (both in my head and out loud to everyone I know… thanks guys), I deferred my acceptance for two main reasons:

1) I have no idea what I want to do with my life and I’m finally comfortable with that. I’m not prepared to waste $30,000+ figuring it out. I highly doubt sitting in a classroom will lead to existential resolution anyway. So, if I go back for more education, I’m going to be damn sure I’m going to use it. Without that assurance, I don’t think it’s not a good investment. And no, I don’t believe graduate programs are generally beneficial in landing a fulfilling career. For those stalwart proponents, I suggest reading Barbara Ehnrenreich and Penelope Trunk and then polling the cashiers at Barnes and Noble and baristas at Starbucks to find out how many have PhDs in English.

2) Any graduate program I’m both qualified for and interested in will launch me directly back into an office environment which, as we’ve already discussed, I find loathsome and soul-sucking. The thought of paying someone so that I can come right back to the same general thing under a fancier guise is downright horrifying to me.

I fully respect those who do office work. Working outside of one can be tough – I know, I’ve been there. I understand that we need someone to staff the organizations that make the world go round. I’m aware that my humble efforts photocopying play a role, albeit a minor one, in keeping these giants afloat. I get that you’ve got to start at the bottom where the work is boring and unrewarding and work your way into a more stimulating position. My understanding of the way the world works does not change my reluctance to participate in it. And yes, I am five minutes from following Thoreau’s lead and building a house in the woods. Preferably on someone else’s property (hey Bologna, how’s the new house search going? Still looking at that one with a few acres of forest that you won’t be able to easily monitor?)

As such, I’ve given myself a break in September, both to goof off and also pursue projects of my own interest. It’s entirely possible I won’t be able to support myself in my freelance endeavors (which I assure you are farfetched and completely unstable means of earning a living) but I owe it to myself to try before resigning myself to a means of existence that I personally find distasteful.

I'm Backkkkk

Hello Internet! I have returned! I'll post about my trip tonight. For now, know that I'm tanner and fatter and hating work even more, especially the massive backlog that has caused me to plow through emails at such an astonishing rate that I made the following horribly embarrassing typos:

More news tonight from the comfort of my couch.

Your Boss Knows You Too Well When...

Yesterday, 4:55 pm:

RING RING RING

Dangerous K: Good afternoon, Nerd Herd Magazine.

Voice on other end: I need more magazines. Right now. Give them to me.

Dangerous K: Luanne?

She's back. Luanne of "Did I Mention I'm Double Parked" fame is about to become a repeat offender. She's on her way to my office to make another pick up and generally ruin my day. On her way here from the main campus, she's probably eating small children and puppies and rainbows.

In anticipation of the event, my manager, Bell, sent the following message this morning:

To which I naturally responded:

More updates as events warrant. Meanwhile, I will continue to flinch and dive under my desk whenever the elevator opens.

Teaching Old Coworkers New Tricks

I’m actually quite good at handling the serious problems that life throws my way. It’s not long ago that I was an unemployed, narcotics-dabbling nomad with a serious attitude problem. And look how well I’ve turned out? No, it’s the daily trivial irritations that drive me absolutely nuts. For example, I almost advised a woman on the train last night to close her mouth while chewing her gum to avoid making that smack smack smack noise. I’ve gone completely ape shit crazy on commuters for not signaling properly in traffic. I’ve worked myself up in a foamy lather over someone sitting in my favorite lunch spot.

Another of my pet peeves includes the inability of certain individuals to place a dirty dish in the dishwasher instead of the sink. I’m often ruffled by what I can’t understand, and this is outside my realm of logic. Why it is so difficult to extend the arm two feet in the other direction, open the machine, and place the item inside? Is it laziness? Unconscientiousness? Out and out defiance? Whatever causes the behavior, it bothers me because in the end, I must transfer them myself, usually after scraping at crust-covered surfaces and transferring food sludge to my carefully selected ensemble.

Several months ago, while enacting this cherished ritual, an unidentifiable piece of food shrapnel landed on my shoe. MY SHOE. My very favorite pair of yellow Steve Madden peep toe heels. Is nothing sacred?! So, I snapped. In a PMS-induced temper tantrum, I manifested my rage in a series of highly passive-aggressive notes that I taped around the kitchen.

Exhibit A (located above the sink)

Exhibit B (located on the counter to the right of the sink)

Exhibit C (located on the front of the elusive dishwasher itself)

Say what you will about the use of passive-aggressive notes, but I find them to be a valuable means of communicating what would otherwise go completely unresolved because it simply can not be transmitted in any other way. The trick to successful use is to keep your notes lighthearted enough so as to give others a chuckle. This will divert them from seeing directly into your black, withered soul which is secretly wishing horrible things about them. Case in point: my signs worked. On occasion, a stray butter knife covered in jam is abandoned in the sink, but for the most part, I’ve cured the office of their dishwasherophobia. Next, I will begin to train Beau.

Jobs I Would Be Better Suited For

1) Dolphin trainer at Sea World

2) Arts & crafts teacher

3) Olympic marathon shopper

4) Puppy petter

5) Stay-at-home mom

6) Professional picnic coordinator

7) Barbara Michaels'

8) Meadow frolicker

9) Indie bookstore cashier

10) Mermaid

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:

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.

Jeez-It

My eyes are crossing from copy editing madness and I'm developing a hunch back from sitting in my swivel chair so long instead of trotting around the office, but I had to report that due to this new bizarre activity of Actually Working and the amount of time I've been spending at my desk, my cubicle is now covered in a fine mist of Cheez-It crumbs. I'm not entirely sure how the two are related but I'm quite sure that they are related. They're everywhere. The crumbs are jamming up my computer mouse and my clothes has been dusted in them for days now.

I may be developing a Cheez-It dependence.

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:

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.

White People Like Bookcases

A new blog came to my attention recently compliments of Face: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com/. Besides accurately describing my love of expensive sandwiches, dogs, arts degrees, 80s night, and David Sedaris, the comments section is worth at least a half an hour of your time. The hate mail generated by this blog is an astounding affirmation of my distaste for the General Public. I’d estimate that a solid 10% of the comments fall into the hate mail category. They blast the author for a variety of nonsense: pigeon-holing white people, focusing only on the likes of the upper-middle class, being racist or, God forbid, being Republican. Once again, people have missed the point of satire in favor of being offended, which I assure you, is really much less fun than appreciating satire. I’ve been so moved by the number of such entries that I’ve been forced to blog about the comment section of another blog. Blogging about blogs. It’s this kind of reflexive thinking that reduces me to quiet nose picking in the fetal position while humming the Sesame Street theme.

But, my nervous break down will have to wait. Nerd Herd magazine met my demands finally and gave me a raise. So, instead of pursuing my goal of unemployment, I’ve extended my stay until the end of August. After that, I’ll either drift elsewhere or (fingers crossed) get into the grad program that I just applied for. My dreams of domestic goddessry, late morning walks in the park, leisurely cups of coffee not chugged while firing off twenty emails, and excessive free time will have to wait. The Man put a price on my dignity and I accepted. With relish. Most of us already know how much our college education is worth or our accumulated assets but not many of us can refer to an exact number when referring to the price of our self-respect. I can. So can the hookers that hang around Chinatown.

In other news, I’ve been increasingly nervous about the rickety Ikea bookshelf that holds half of my book collection. The laws of physics suggest it should have fallen over by now:
So, Beau and I went to Target on Saturday where we purchased a nice, heavy bookshelf made of solid wood which looks like actual grown up furniture! I spent Sunday evening moving the contents of the old bookcase to the new one and warily eyeing the old one who I assume is planning a violent coup which I will be drastically unprepared for since Beau is back in Florida for the work week and therefore unable to defend me against renegade Ikea furniture.