In Which I Do Not Acknowledge My Two Month Absence

I have been known in the past to make rash decisions. Now I spend several minutes reading nutrition labels before committing to a box of crackers. Every once in awhile though, I still do something without thinking it through and it comes back to bite me in the ass, much to the amusement of my loved ones. But not to Verizon techs.

After reading this hilariousness and watching Beau whisper sweet nothings to his Iphone, I decided it was time to join the 21st century and purchase my very own smart phone. My BlackBerry arrived in the mail two days later and I spent an evening playing with it and experiencing something very similar to Nintendo thumbs. Yet I was still intrigued by my brand new blinky, buzzy thinger with Interwebs and email and Facebook.

Shockingly, over the next week, I grew to hate it for all its blinking and buzzing and constant connection. I hid it in my desk drawer. I gave it dirty looks at the dinner table. I said hurtful things to it when we were alone. Despite several opinions to the contrary, I did not want to wait another week to get used to it. I could not love this thing. It was unlovable.

Bright and early Saturday morning, I strapped on my snow boots and dragged Beau to Verizon. I punched my information into the waiting list registry and wandered around the store looking at other hateful blinky things until they called my name. I bee lined to the counter and cheerfully asked the tech to take back my BlackBerry. I explained that I thought I was ready for the 21st century but indeed, I am not and this was just way TOO connected and I miss my paper pocket calendar. He gave me a look that suggested that they paid him to do this on Saturday mornings and he did not, in fact, care about my particular breed of neurosis. My cheerfulness waned until he said he could reactivate my old phone so I wouldn’t have to keep using the terrible, horrible blinky thing that plays Bach when no one calls me.

I slid my gray clunker flip-phone across the counter and enjoyed the revulsion in his eyes, probably in the same way that PETA crazies get a kick out of throwing red paint on ladies in fur coats leaving the opera. Oh yeah, I thought, that’s right. I don’t want your miserable smart phone. I reject it. I am publically declaring my preference for this old, clearly inferior model.

Now all I have to do is send the wretched BlackBerry back and we’ll have this impulse buy behind us. I skipped back to the car as Beau shook his head and said he hoped I learned something. Then I made him take me to the Salvation Army.

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.

Sneak Peak

Oh yes. I painted the master bedroom a particularly vibrant shade of "are you fucking crazy?" blue.

And now I'm wondering where to find a good online tutorial for my Nikon S710 because it's a wonderful little camera and I'm not doing it justice with my lack of photography skills. Also, I would like to avoid having to crop my pictures so close to hide the shame of an obvious flash on window pane glass.

The Password Is "Sussudio"

AHAHAHA... HAHA... HA... ahhhhh

Too bad Beau uses the same few passwords for everything he does. I didn't really break into his Facebook account. More like, used the key that he hid under the decorative urn directly to the right of the front door.

Also, please take note of the tab furthest to the right in my browser. Yes, I had to look up how to take a screen shot and no, I didn’t remove that evidence before taking said screen shot. See, I’m not immune to horrible embarrassment via the Internet either!

Happy April Fools Day everyone! Go glue quarters to the sidewalk.

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.

So, Do I Fill Out a W-4 Now or What?

Since beginning to apply for new jobs for the fall, I’ve been checking my spam filter carefully every day instead of just skimming and chuckling at such messages as “Cheap Viagra Now! Just Give Me Your Credit Card Number!” or “Brittany Spears Screws Angelina Jolie with a Gigantic Purple Dildo Shaped Like Dick Cheney.” To make absolutely sure that the companies I’m applying to aren’t getting caught in the filter (No calls today? Huh. Maybe they’re getting stuck in the spam filter. Yes. Yes, that must be it), I’ve been going through every few hours and reading the subject line of every one of those dirty emails. I've learned more about human sexuality doing this than I have in nearly 25 years of existence.

Early this afternoon while preening said filter, I happened upon a message with my entire full name in the subject line. I figured this must be the one I was looking for since I never ever EVER give out that information out on the Internet. Except to Gap, but I don’t think they count. Do they sell contact info to dirty smut peddlers? Don’t they have enough on their conscience already since all my collared shirts were made in Malaysia by the tiny, nimble fingers of 4-year-olds?

Since I wouldn’t dare accuse Gap of further indiscretions, I assumed the only people that know my real name must know it because I gave it to them. Like written in size 50 font across the top of my resume. The excitement was short lived. The e-mail went on to inform me that I have been nominated for the Montclair Registry of Who’s Who in North America which catalogues our continent’s “industry leaders” in such fields as marketing, law, healthcare, and even administration and customer service. Sadly missing from their list is a category for Receptionists Who Blog When They Ought to Be Pushing Paper and In General, Not Being a Bitch to Whoever Points That Out. I mean this in the least self deprecating, pitiful way possible: I belong on the OPPOSITE of the Who’s Who list. I belong on the Who’s Not list. Or the Who’s Chosen To Work a Crumby 9-5 Gig Instead of Starting a Career That Could Potentially Interfere with Her Drinking list.

Yet, this company (who has a seemingly legitimate website) knows my full real name. This leads me to conclude that either a) one of my friends has pranked me in which case, my hat is off to you and while we’re at it, which one of you was it? Or b) Houghton Mifflin is subtly trying to tell me that they will permit me to mop their floors.

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.

Dangerous K Unplugged

Long story short I forgot to mention I'm leaving for a cruise to Bermuda in... 2 hours. I've been told that there should be internet access, but no promises. If that is the case, I'll try to post a picture a day for your amusement. If not, I'll be back late next Sunday.

Til then, enjoy the heat wave, Boston. I'm out!

Flace’s Bedgling Flog! Bace’s Bleggling Flodge! Lace’s Gangling Bog!

Face’s fledgling blog appeared on the interweb today! You can visit it to hear even more stories of 20-something mischief. Or alternately, to hear some of the same stories but from a slightly different perspective. Or alternately, to fill in the blanks for times that I black out and can’t remember what happened at the bar. Or alternately, to cheat on my blog. Or alternately, to feel superior to others by translating and then learning to pronounce the title which is in fact, in French.

At any rate, congrats to Face on the birth of her new blog. If I had a bottle of champagne, I would smash it on the hull and slurp the contents off of your new baby.

Ain’t No Friend of Mine

In one of my manic fits, spurred by boredom at work and an unsafe amount of iced coffee, I joined a random online social network for bloggers in what I was quite sure was a brilliant scheme to increase my site traffic thereby disseminating my Incredibly Important Drivel to the masses. But what group to choose? Which category do I belong to? Do I fall into a category? In high school, I was part of the misfit group which is actually another phrase for “miscellaneous.” It just happens we were all miscellaneously awesome and all hated the cheerleaders. And smoked a lot of pot. Maybe I was a pothead and not a misfit?

After several tense minutes of serious contemplation I decided I should belong to a group called “Seriously Awesome Twenty-Something Female Bloggers with No Career Aspirations but a Strong Inclination Towards Rum, Fuzzy Animals, Trouble Making and Books.” Unable to find such a group, I slowly eliminated key words until I was left with Twenty-Something Bloggers. I joined it and waited for fame to erupt and Houghton-Mifflin to offer me a book deal while apologizing for rejecting me five times for their editorial assistant positions.

That didn’t so much happen. A day in, I was slammed with friend-requests from cute blond 21-year-old college kids (and I could very well be alienating them right now if any of them actually read this but in all fairness, Princess, you are a 21-year-old blond college girl) with no discernable commonalities other than our gender and general age group. I poked around on some of the members’ blogs and, granted, found a few that I would consider admitting to my imaginary club, but for the most part they appeared to be slightly older versions of the high school crowd that I despised. What in God’s name was I doing in the girl’s locker room after cheerleading practice let out?? I should be out back smoking a joint!

With chagrin, I realized I’d fallen into the same social network trap I’d neatly avoided on AIM and Facebook: granting friendship status to complete strangers for the sake of having more “friends.” It’s nothing new. It predates online social networks by decades, centuries even, if you consider what the life of a courtier in medieval Europe was like. Just back in high school, the tendency was evident in the types portrayed by Melissa Joan Heart in Can’t Hardly Wait who must, must, MUST have everyone in the school sign her yearbook. Online networks have just made it more obvious, what with the email notifications filling up your inbox and the pictures of people you’ve never heard of displayed under a banner reading “My Friends.” The visual queues certainly brought it to MY attention if no one else’s.

The original point of these networks, diluted as that purpose may be, was to stay in touch with those you know, maybe pick up a few new buddies along the way, but either way to form some sort of genuine albeit shallow connection to another human. Not to gather an immense bundle of names to display as evidence of your own self-importance and popularity.

I’m moderately embarrassed to admit I joined for the same reason I assume many others did: to shamelessly advertise my blog while barely glancing at the others. So, unlike my AIM and Facebook accounts (both of which I routinely purge to eliminate those who I am not, in fact, friends with), I went ahead and canceled the whole damn thing. So, sorry for being a cock tease, Twenty-Something Bloggers. You’ll have to enjoy the pep rally without me.

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.