My morning was not off to a fantastic start. I didn’t get a great night’s sleep in the guest room where I was relegated because Beau took Nyquil and was snoring in a way that proved it. I had to wake up earlier than usual to get to my first HR class and overslept by 10 crucial minutes. My entire morning routine was rushed as a result. I shook my face moisturizer without checking the lid and an arc of lotion sprayed across the carpet, furniture and walls. Finally, I sat down to eat my breakfast in begrudging silence and roll my eyes continuously at the sportscast that came on thanks to my altered schedule instead of my usual morning news. Shortly after I finished my cereal, something walked out from under the red Man Chair in the corner, casually walked across the floor and entered the gloom under the TV console.
No, I don’t have mice again. The something appeared to be an ant, roughly 2 inches long, of the variety one sees on documentaries about the Amazon, carrying entire sparrows into its den. My shock wore off after I lost sight and I immediately started shrieking to Beau. He appeared (after an inexcusable pause, mind you) and stood halfway down the stairs looking at me calmly with shaving cream all over his face. It’s as if he’s getting used to me and my early-morning blood-curdling screams. Actually, he was entirely too nonchalant about the situation.
From where I stood across the room, I explained that an Ant of Epic Proportions had infiltrated our home and was now camping out under the TV stand. Beau ever-so-coolly stood there in his boxers and informed me that he “couldn’t do anything about it at this moment” before heading upstairs. Within a second, I had leapt off the sofa and was tailgating him to the second floor. I sure as shit wasn’t staying downstairs with that thing.
Teary eyed and verging on hysteria, I begged Beau to fumigate its lair in hopes of killing it or at least scaring it out. I really ought to buy a can of Raid. The number of times I’ve hairsprayed or Febreezed an insect to death is just obscene. While I did my hair (pausing occasionally to blow dry the doorway to protect against sneak attacks), Beau followed orders with household sprays of mass destruction. The ant didn’t come out but if it shits out a sparrow down there, I’m confident the scent will be masked by half a bottle of Glade.
Showing posts with label things that go bump in the night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things that go bump in the night. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
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?”
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?”
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Close Only Counts In Horseshoes & Hand Grenades
I just… I don’t even know where to start. I have spent the past five days trying to decide where to start. I’ve started and then stopped and erased everything because it was not to my liking. I take my blogging very seriously. In short, some things happened on the trip and those things were surrounded by a lot of…. quiet. I don’t know if those events were actually eventful or just seemed eventful because they were not, in fact, cornfields. So, before another week goes by and my relations in New Jersey get their collective panties in a twist over the lack of posting, I’m going to go ahead and just start at the beginning. If you don’t mind.
Our wagon ride occurred mostly without incident which goes against everything I know about the Oregon Trail. There was no typhoid or blocked mountain passes or bear hunting (not yet anyway… that’s foreshadowing, folks. You gotta pay attention to my foreshadowing. T, are you paying attention??) We managed to fit almost every one of our worldly belongings in the barely-existent trunk of an Audi TT. Then we drove five hours west with four pit stops because seriously, at any minute we were about to fall off the face of the earth and I was reluctant to pee on a farmer’s front yard. Also, Beau needed tater tots in Troy, NY.
Finally, we approached our destination in West Bumble. We zoomed past the farmstead (going entirely too fast, eh hem) where Bologna was standing outside frantically waving her arms. That made me start flapping my own arms and squawking. Beau, probably because he was going entirely too fast, was one step ahead of me and was already turning around in the driveway of someone who might have run out of their home with a shotgun. Instead of an angry yokel, we next encountered a loose cow that proceeded to race the convertible for a short distance. It’s as if we went to the zoo and found a tiger walking around outside its enclosure. These things aren’t supposed to happen. Tigers are supposed to stay in their cages, and cows are supposed to stay inside their fenced pastures.
Our wagon ride occurred mostly without incident which goes against everything I know about the Oregon Trail. There was no typhoid or blocked mountain passes or bear hunting (not yet anyway… that’s foreshadowing, folks. You gotta pay attention to my foreshadowing. T, are you paying attention??) We managed to fit almost every one of our worldly belongings in the barely-existent trunk of an Audi TT. Then we drove five hours west with four pit stops because seriously, at any minute we were about to fall off the face of the earth and I was reluctant to pee on a farmer’s front yard. Also, Beau needed tater tots in Troy, NY.
Finally, we approached our destination in West Bumble. We zoomed past the farmstead (going entirely too fast, eh hem) where Bologna was standing outside frantically waving her arms. That made me start flapping my own arms and squawking. Beau, probably because he was going entirely too fast, was one step ahead of me and was already turning around in the driveway of someone who might have run out of their home with a shotgun. Instead of an angry yokel, we next encountered a loose cow that proceeded to race the convertible for a short distance. It’s as if we went to the zoo and found a tiger walking around outside its enclosure. These things aren’t supposed to happen. Tigers are supposed to stay in their cages, and cows are supposed to stay inside their fenced pastures.
We spent the remainder of the day wandering around cornfields, taking pictures of deer poop, and getting acquainted with the holiday’s cast of characters. In addition to the family, we met two cats, Sweet and Pooh, so named for their individual temperaments. Sweet was particularly awesome. She’s twenty years old and noticeably blind. When she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking through you directly into your soul and reading your inner most thoughts. Then she would go and wreck my theory of feline wisdom by walking into walls and meowing peevishly at them as if it was the wall’s fault. According to Mr. T (T, that is your dad’s official blog name. I just wrote it with the intention of circling back and writing something more clever, but then I was all, “Mr. T?! YES.” These things just come to me) Sweet still goes outside and hunts. AND ACTUALLY KILLS STUFF. So, yeah, she may be a little clumsy and we may have found her standing in a toilet one night, but it’s all a part of the cosmic feline wisdom that I detected in her spacey stare.
Thanksgiving morning, before I woke up, the menfolk (T [Hi T!], his dad, my dad, and my Beau) went into the woods with guns and tried to kill things. Real guns. With like, real bullets. My boyfriend and my father with his iffy hearing and his poor eyesight went deep into a secluded forest, somewhere south of the Adirondacks, with loaded guns and little supervision. But happy times! They all came back alive and empty handed. Apparently, a few shots were fired but, as Mr. T told us, “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” They should have brought Sweet with them. She would have felled a buck with telekinesis and plaintive mewing.
We rounded out our visit to the middle of nowhere with a trip to the closest town which was a thirty minute drive through the woods and fields and farms. And at that, it was still the middle of nowhere. We wandered and visited a used book store and looked at Christmas decorations. All very peaceful, pleasant activities but you don’t want to read about that. You want to read about Beau pitching a hissy fit at a bakery which was really slow in that not-a-Starbucks-in-Boston way so we left before he got a cookie and complained about it until we got him a beer at a dive bar on the edge of town instead where he nearly got us all shot by loudly announcing that “those guys really suck at darts.”
That night we had an Oregon Trail style send off. Mr. T made us a bonfire in the backyard and sharpened sticks so we could roast cocktail wieners and marshmallows. We were having a merry ol’ time setting things on fire and stuffing our faces, when a mile down the road, the dogs at a neighboring farm began barking. Hysterically. The T’s all looked at each other and were quiet for a moment before forcefully starting conversation again. I was not so easily fooled so I asked what all the racket was about. They told me it was nothing to worry about. The dogs probably just smelled… something. Something? Yes, something. Like a coyote. Nothing to worry about.
I’d already been worrying about that for days. Ever since Mr. T said that the coyotes were originally introduced into the area in order to keep the deer population at bay, but they weren’t big and mean with drooly fangs enough, so local officials introduced a coyote/timber wolf cross breed. How is everyone ignoring the wolf part?! That’s like ignoring the part of me that’s Polish. Yeah, I’m mostly Italian, but that doesn’t cancel out all the Polish qualities. You should see me try to do simple common sense tasks like open a box of frozen chicken nuggets. The Polish is in there, festering, and it makes a difference. Except, generally speaking, those genes don’t make me snatch unsuspecting city folk from camp fires and feed them to my young.
Needless to say, despite attacking a bush with my pointy stick in self defense and nearly soiling myself twice, the predators stayed at bay long enough for us to wrap things up and return to the comfort of the indoors and the protection of Sweet.
Truly, this was a proper Dangerous holiday. I was nearly run down by a cow, pitch forked by angry locals, and eaten by a coyote in the span of 72 hours. Oh, and my dad almost shot my boyfriend which would have been a particular inconvenience because there was absolutely no room left in the trunk of the car for a body.
Thanksgiving morning, before I woke up, the menfolk (T [Hi T!], his dad, my dad, and my Beau) went into the woods with guns and tried to kill things. Real guns. With like, real bullets. My boyfriend and my father with his iffy hearing and his poor eyesight went deep into a secluded forest, somewhere south of the Adirondacks, with loaded guns and little supervision. But happy times! They all came back alive and empty handed. Apparently, a few shots were fired but, as Mr. T told us, “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” They should have brought Sweet with them. She would have felled a buck with telekinesis and plaintive mewing.
We rounded out our visit to the middle of nowhere with a trip to the closest town which was a thirty minute drive through the woods and fields and farms. And at that, it was still the middle of nowhere. We wandered and visited a used book store and looked at Christmas decorations. All very peaceful, pleasant activities but you don’t want to read about that. You want to read about Beau pitching a hissy fit at a bakery which was really slow in that not-a-Starbucks-in-Boston way so we left before he got a cookie and complained about it until we got him a beer at a dive bar on the edge of town instead where he nearly got us all shot by loudly announcing that “those guys really suck at darts.”
That night we had an Oregon Trail style send off. Mr. T made us a bonfire in the backyard and sharpened sticks so we could roast cocktail wieners and marshmallows. We were having a merry ol’ time setting things on fire and stuffing our faces, when a mile down the road, the dogs at a neighboring farm began barking. Hysterically. The T’s all looked at each other and were quiet for a moment before forcefully starting conversation again. I was not so easily fooled so I asked what all the racket was about. They told me it was nothing to worry about. The dogs probably just smelled… something. Something? Yes, something. Like a coyote. Nothing to worry about.
I’d already been worrying about that for days. Ever since Mr. T said that the coyotes were originally introduced into the area in order to keep the deer population at bay, but they weren’t big and mean with drooly fangs enough, so local officials introduced a coyote/timber wolf cross breed. How is everyone ignoring the wolf part?! That’s like ignoring the part of me that’s Polish. Yeah, I’m mostly Italian, but that doesn’t cancel out all the Polish qualities. You should see me try to do simple common sense tasks like open a box of frozen chicken nuggets. The Polish is in there, festering, and it makes a difference. Except, generally speaking, those genes don’t make me snatch unsuspecting city folk from camp fires and feed them to my young.
Needless to say, despite attacking a bush with my pointy stick in self defense and nearly soiling myself twice, the predators stayed at bay long enough for us to wrap things up and return to the comfort of the indoors and the protection of Sweet.
Truly, this was a proper Dangerous holiday. I was nearly run down by a cow, pitch forked by angry locals, and eaten by a coyote in the span of 72 hours. Oh, and my dad almost shot my boyfriend which would have been a particular inconvenience because there was absolutely no room left in the trunk of the car for a body.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
S&M Rodents
**Written Sunday, November 16:
Silently mouthing “Help me” at my laptop does not seem to be improving my current situation. I am being held hostage in my bedroom with the door barricaded by an animal in my sitting room. And it is most certainly not Ninja Mouse. Allow me to backtrack for a moment.
Saturday night, Beau and I held one of our increasingly popular dinner parties in which he gets to show off his gourmet cooking skills and I get to socialize for free. Everyone wins! After plying our guests with an Italian feast and plowing through several bottles of wine, we retired to the sitting room for board games and the Top Gun soundtrack and additional wine. I was in the middle of what I’m sure was a very urbane, witty joke when people began yelling and jumping out of their seats and pointing emphatically at the baseboards. For a moment, I got very defensive. I spent a lot of time dusting those baseboards and if they weren't clean enough for my friends then maybe they should try staying home all day scrubbing and sweating over a hot stove and not buying me nice things.
That was when I saw it: a very small gray mouse streaking across the floor. A miniature version of Ninja Mouse. One might say a baby version. It was immediately apparent that my arch nemesis has spawned and sent a legion of offspring to continue the reign of terror. Adding insult to injury, this implies that Ninja Mouse has not left my home as suggested by the past quiet month of poopless counters. No, she’s been shacked up behind my kitchen cabinets fornicating. Who knows what sick, sick acts were perpetrated mere inches from my collection of holiday appropriate dinnerware.
I climbed to the safety of the back of my couch as chaos erupted in my apartment. Our guests assembled into a cohesive regiment and began brainstorming an attack plan. Battle supplies in the form of umbrellas and large wooden bowls were quickly procured as the rodent continued to run willy-nilly around my sitting room and I began shrieking in my most helpful manner. It occurred to me that the super-genius gene seems to have skipped a generation, evidenced by the offspring’s willingness to leave the safety of the mouse hole for a brightly lit room filled with very large, loud, drunk beasts.
Large, loud, drunk beasts
During an eerie moment of quiet, I was shooed off the couch and forced to put my feet on the floor where they remained briefly as I ran to the safety of the bathroom and climbed on top of the toilet. Someone generously collected a bottle of rum from the kitchen and handed it to me in my ivory tower from which I alternately moaned in anguish and called, “Don’t hurt it!”
Silently mouthing “Help me” at my laptop does not seem to be improving my current situation. I am being held hostage in my bedroom with the door barricaded by an animal in my sitting room. And it is most certainly not Ninja Mouse. Allow me to backtrack for a moment.
Saturday night, Beau and I held one of our increasingly popular dinner parties in which he gets to show off his gourmet cooking skills and I get to socialize for free. Everyone wins! After plying our guests with an Italian feast and plowing through several bottles of wine, we retired to the sitting room for board games and the Top Gun soundtrack and additional wine. I was in the middle of what I’m sure was a very urbane, witty joke when people began yelling and jumping out of their seats and pointing emphatically at the baseboards. For a moment, I got very defensive. I spent a lot of time dusting those baseboards and if they weren't clean enough for my friends then maybe they should try staying home all day scrubbing and sweating over a hot stove and not buying me nice things.
That was when I saw it: a very small gray mouse streaking across the floor. A miniature version of Ninja Mouse. One might say a baby version. It was immediately apparent that my arch nemesis has spawned and sent a legion of offspring to continue the reign of terror. Adding insult to injury, this implies that Ninja Mouse has not left my home as suggested by the past quiet month of poopless counters. No, she’s been shacked up behind my kitchen cabinets fornicating. Who knows what sick, sick acts were perpetrated mere inches from my collection of holiday appropriate dinnerware.
I climbed to the safety of the back of my couch as chaos erupted in my apartment. Our guests assembled into a cohesive regiment and began brainstorming an attack plan. Battle supplies in the form of umbrellas and large wooden bowls were quickly procured as the rodent continued to run willy-nilly around my sitting room and I began shrieking in my most helpful manner. It occurred to me that the super-genius gene seems to have skipped a generation, evidenced by the offspring’s willingness to leave the safety of the mouse hole for a brightly lit room filled with very large, loud, drunk beasts.
Large, loud, drunk beastsDuring an eerie moment of quiet, I was shooed off the couch and forced to put my feet on the floor where they remained briefly as I ran to the safety of the bathroom and climbed on top of the toilet. Someone generously collected a bottle of rum from the kitchen and handed it to me in my ivory tower from which I alternately moaned in anguish and called, “Don’t hurt it!”
Next to cowardice in the dictionary
But they didn’t catch it, let alone tie it to a chair and pull out its toenails. They managed to chase it out of the apartment and continue to not be too skeeved when the second littermate appeared to check out the commotion. While Loaded Questions is still my favorite party game, I can safely say that Mouse Hunt has its own merits. Though, when you lose at LQ, the game pieces generally don’t get up and chase you around.
So, now, while Beau is out purchasing Starbucks to ease my thundering red wine headache, I am a captive of Seed of Ninja Mouse who may still be hiding under my coffee table waiting to shank me on my way to the refrigerator.
**Update from Tuesday morning: We’ve been (theoretically) mouse-free since Sunday evening. The apartment looks like a scene from Home Alone. There are half a dozen traps set with peanut butter and three plug-in devices that supposedly make an inaudible high-frequency noise that drives rodents insane but actually also make a faint buzzing noise that is quickly driving ME insane… and paranoid, because I’m fairly certain that these gizmos are part of a Beau plot to get me out of the house more often.
I’m onto you.
Friday, September 26, 2008
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’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.”
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
1) Making plans with the ladies to grab dinner near Boston Common and see Atonement in the chichi movie theater with the escalators.
2) Meeting Face before Grasshoppah gets out of work to troll through H&M in search of an umbrella while discussing the rain/poofy hair situation.
3) Leaving H&M with a little, retarded umbrella that breaks a block later and also an accidental cardigan (for some people, gum is an impulse purchase – for me, it’s sweaters).
4) Settling into a table at the Beantown Pub with a nice, funny waiter who promptly brings me a rumndietcoke while I peruse the menu and watch commuters get drenched by the downpour.
5) Being happily surprised when Grasshoppah, who is physically incapable of finding her way around the city, makes it to the restaurant without incident.
6) Watching Grasshoppah order a beer and a shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
7) Discussing books classified as guilty pleasures with Face only to discover that she secretly loves the works my favorite trashy novelist’s other penname (I’m a fan of Barbara Michael’s daunting ghost/romance thrillers while Face prefers Elizabeth Peters’ Egyptological mysteries. Doesn’t matter. Same person. Very exciting. I squealed. People stared).
8) Watching Grasshoppah order a grilled cheese, a beer and another shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
9) Eating a reasonable Greek salad with grilled chicken (and only a few of Face’s nachos) to balance the caloric content of the jumbo popcorn in my near future.
10) Hearing the words “So, I have something I need to tell you guys…” come out of Face’s face followed by a brief explanation that she is [now freshly censored because SOOO many people read my blog some have begun to fear social fall out and political upheaval].
11) Scrapping the movie and immediately ordering another round of drinks.
12) Outpacing the girls’ drinks by a 2 to 1 ratio because tumblers of rumndietcoke are much smaller volume-wise than beers.
13) Demanding the first cab that pulled up due to a state of mild inebriation and actually getting it because I have the most wonderful, patient friends on earth who understand my complete lack of social etiquette (especially when intoxicated) and, dare I say, even find it a bit charming at times.
14) Having a cabbie who actually knows where he’s going in Suburbia.
15) Coming home to veggie tempura and an episode of Family Guy.
16) Having a fitful sleep of nightmares consisting of a dream in which the house catches fire and I have to rescue my downstairs neighbors’ dogs which ends with the ceiling collapsing, thereby trapping me in the house with an armful of assorted terriers. Then having another nightmare in which I’m on a Food Network challenge show where they’ve teamed me up with my evil ex-boyfriend and he keeps yelling at me because I don’t know how to cook goose livers properly. (Note: this is not actually one of my favorite things but for sequential continuity, I’ve included it anyway and for that, I apologize).
17) Waking up with a headful of big, bouncy curls as a result of going to bed with wet hair.
18) Realizing as I walk out the door that I already lost my little, retarded umbrella because I am a little, retarded person.
2) Meeting Face before Grasshoppah gets out of work to troll through H&M in search of an umbrella while discussing the rain/poofy hair situation.
3) Leaving H&M with a little, retarded umbrella that breaks a block later and also an accidental cardigan (for some people, gum is an impulse purchase – for me, it’s sweaters).
4) Settling into a table at the Beantown Pub with a nice, funny waiter who promptly brings me a rumndietcoke while I peruse the menu and watch commuters get drenched by the downpour.
5) Being happily surprised when Grasshoppah, who is physically incapable of finding her way around the city, makes it to the restaurant without incident.
6) Watching Grasshoppah order a beer and a shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
7) Discussing books classified as guilty pleasures with Face only to discover that she secretly loves the works my favorite trashy novelist’s other penname (I’m a fan of Barbara Michael’s daunting ghost/romance thrillers while Face prefers Elizabeth Peters’ Egyptological mysteries. Doesn’t matter. Same person. Very exciting. I squealed. People stared).
8) Watching Grasshoppah order a grilled cheese, a beer and another shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
9) Eating a reasonable Greek salad with grilled chicken (and only a few of Face’s nachos) to balance the caloric content of the jumbo popcorn in my near future.
10) Hearing the words “So, I have something I need to tell you guys…” come out of Face’s face followed by a brief explanation that she is [now freshly censored because SOOO many people read my blog some have begun to fear social fall out and political upheaval].
11) Scrapping the movie and immediately ordering another round of drinks.
12) Outpacing the girls’ drinks by a 2 to 1 ratio because tumblers of rumndietcoke are much smaller volume-wise than beers.
13) Demanding the first cab that pulled up due to a state of mild inebriation and actually getting it because I have the most wonderful, patient friends on earth who understand my complete lack of social etiquette (especially when intoxicated) and, dare I say, even find it a bit charming at times.
14) Having a cabbie who actually knows where he’s going in Suburbia.
15) Coming home to veggie tempura and an episode of Family Guy.
16) Having a fitful sleep of nightmares consisting of a dream in which the house catches fire and I have to rescue my downstairs neighbors’ dogs which ends with the ceiling collapsing, thereby trapping me in the house with an armful of assorted terriers. Then having another nightmare in which I’m on a Food Network challenge show where they’ve teamed me up with my evil ex-boyfriend and he keeps yelling at me because I don’t know how to cook goose livers properly. (Note: this is not actually one of my favorite things but for sequential continuity, I’ve included it anyway and for that, I apologize).
17) Waking up with a headful of big, bouncy curls as a result of going to bed with wet hair.
18) Realizing as I walk out the door that I already lost my little, retarded umbrella because I am a little, retarded person.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Coyoday
Tuesdays are worthless. They contribute nothing to the week. Even Mondays with that fresh-start feeling have a solid position. Wednesdays mark midweek, Thursday through Saturday are designated drinking days and Sunday is for lounging about with a hangover. But Tuesday? Fucking useless.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cock bar? Huzzah!
What do you discuss with your friends over a quiet lunch in a family restaurant? Politics? The weather? Genital piercings? Us too. Or at least that's what we discuss when the German comes to town. I quite nearly choked on a nacho when he said "I got a piercing" because it was clearly not located on his face. Ever hopeful of seeing a man with a belly button ring, I asked about its location. That was the first mistake I made on Saturday.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Abacus from Hell, Part II
You will fear me or I will steal your boyfriend away and make him color in alternating cells of an infinite spread sheet FOR ALL ETERNITY Thursday, January 10, 2008
YOU CANNOT SILENCE THE PROLETARIAT
Sometimes the promise of the snooze button is the only thing that convinces me to set my alarm at night. Sometimes I get a little carried away with it. In college, I was known to snooze my way through class by hitting the button for upwards of 3 hours. This morning, I did justice to the golden days by snoozing until 7:30, which gave me 20 minutes to make myself presentable to the outside world before running out the door.
Despite the time constraints, I flicked on the morning news to keep me company as I bustled about brushing my teeth and making a slap dash breakfast of a round veggie burger in a hotdog bun. While I struggled into my boots I caught the end of possibly the greatest segment ever to appear on Fox’s morning news: a report of a green organism with tentacles found living in the sewers.
Whilst discussing said monster with coworkers over a cup of coffee, it became apparent that no one else had seen the report. As the quiet shuffling of feet began, it also became apparent that no one believed that this news story existed. I started catching those side long glances that your superiors throw to one another when their underling is flapping her arms and describing the gelatinous creature dwelling under the sidewalks. When I complained to Bologna early this afternoon, she likewise, called me crazy, which is not unlike her because what’s more important than siding with your only full blooded sibling? Oh I don’t know. Maybe EATING OUT OF THE MAN’S HAND!
So, I committed a solid hour of company time to hunting down the story. I was unable to find a lead on the Fox-Boston website or by googling any of the following word combinations: “organism living in Boston sewer”, “creature Boston tentacles”, or “Boston sewer monster”. Since I am well aware of my own sanity, there was only one explanation for the sudden disappearance of the story that I witnessed with my own eyes only hours earlier: a government cover up. The Feds came in and hushed the brave local journalists of Fox with threats of audits and shin-breaking or possibly with the donation of an exorbitant sum of unmarked bills. These possibilities loomed on the horizon as I railed against the Man by typing lengthy IMs to Bologna in all capital letters while she called me a lunatic.
Ever hateful of admitting defeat, I continued my research by expanding my search until, lo and behold, I stumbled upon the truth. It was hiding in Denver’s sewer not Boston’s, but the details do not concern me so long as the overall idea is the same. They identified the monster as a Bryozoan, a 350-million year old primitive animal species. It is reportedly not harmful so they’ve decided to allow it to continue living in the sewer WHICH IS FUCKING AWESOME.
Tomorrow morning, I will cheerfully wake up on time knowing that there are Bryozoans possibly living in my sewer too because if that’s not a reason to live, I don’t know what is.
Despite the time constraints, I flicked on the morning news to keep me company as I bustled about brushing my teeth and making a slap dash breakfast of a round veggie burger in a hotdog bun. While I struggled into my boots I caught the end of possibly the greatest segment ever to appear on Fox’s morning news: a report of a green organism with tentacles found living in the sewers.
Whilst discussing said monster with coworkers over a cup of coffee, it became apparent that no one else had seen the report. As the quiet shuffling of feet began, it also became apparent that no one believed that this news story existed. I started catching those side long glances that your superiors throw to one another when their underling is flapping her arms and describing the gelatinous creature dwelling under the sidewalks. When I complained to Bologna early this afternoon, she likewise, called me crazy, which is not unlike her because what’s more important than siding with your only full blooded sibling? Oh I don’t know. Maybe EATING OUT OF THE MAN’S HAND!
So, I committed a solid hour of company time to hunting down the story. I was unable to find a lead on the Fox-Boston website or by googling any of the following word combinations: “organism living in Boston sewer”, “creature Boston tentacles”, or “Boston sewer monster”. Since I am well aware of my own sanity, there was only one explanation for the sudden disappearance of the story that I witnessed with my own eyes only hours earlier: a government cover up. The Feds came in and hushed the brave local journalists of Fox with threats of audits and shin-breaking or possibly with the donation of an exorbitant sum of unmarked bills. These possibilities loomed on the horizon as I railed against the Man by typing lengthy IMs to Bologna in all capital letters while she called me a lunatic.
Ever hateful of admitting defeat, I continued my research by expanding my search until, lo and behold, I stumbled upon the truth. It was hiding in Denver’s sewer not Boston’s, but the details do not concern me so long as the overall idea is the same. They identified the monster as a Bryozoan, a 350-million year old primitive animal species. It is reportedly not harmful so they’ve decided to allow it to continue living in the sewer WHICH IS FUCKING AWESOME.
Tomorrow morning, I will cheerfully wake up on time knowing that there are Bryozoans possibly living in my sewer too because if that’s not a reason to live, I don’t know what is.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
My Supreme Dissapointment In "28 Weeks Later"
I have a profound interest in all things zombie. Zombie culture, zombie repellent, zombie attack contingency plans. Unlike my dinosaur enthusiasm which stems mostly from a desire to see carnivorous reptiles eat members of my own species, my affinity for this particular genre of monster leads deep into the inner psyche of Dangerous K - the portion that truly believes that an outbreak of zombism is the most frightening thing that could happen to our planet.
As such, I took time out of my busy Christmas Eve schedule of eating things and puttering around in my new slippers to rent 28 Weeks Later, the sequel to one of my favorite zombie movies, 28 Days Later. Now, imagine my dismay when Part 2 of the 28 Units Later series failed to live up to the hopeful expectations set by the first.
***SPOILER WARNING: Do not continue reading if you have not yet seen 28 Weeks Later and still plan on it despite my urging otherwise***
The opening scene introduces us to Don (Robert Carlyle of Trainspotting fame) and Alice, a British couple who are holed up in a charming English cottage with strangers. Naturally, zombies break in about 4 minutes into the movie and corner them in an upstairs bedroom where Don abandons Alice to her fate of being eaten alive by mutants while he escapes via speed boat. So, now the audience knows that Don is the main character and that we also really dislike him. A promising beginning.
Flash forward to a burrough of London (post-outbreak of zombism) which has been secured by American military forces and cleared of such pesky problems as zombies, zombie virus, and corpses. Enter implausible plot hole #1: we're to believe that less than a year after the incident, the Americans are reintroducing humans into the environment. I find it difficult to accept this course of action for a number of reasons but mainly because America would not pass up this stellar excuse to first nuke Britain like it's always wanted, thereby eradicating the virus and also this sequel.
In the repopulation efforts, Don's children, Andy and Tammy, return from a conveniently timed school trip to Spain where they were far from harm's way and come back to Don, the sole survivor of the attack on the charming English cottage. No mention of Don's speed boat.
After a brief and dramatically restrained scene in which Don lies through his teeth to the children about being unable to save Alice, the kiddies leave the compound against the warnings of the US military. They return to their childhood home where they collect personal possessions and photos of their mother. At this point, we are meant to wax poetic about the sentimental though ill-thought actions of Andy and Tammy. Instead, this is where my intense dislike of them began. Such actions are akin to the phrase "I'll be right back" in a slasher movie and I just can't sympathize with the stupid.
In said tenement, Andy discovers his mother hiding behind a couch, moderately loony but otherwise unharmed despite bearing human bite marks. Hello, Carrier. As always, the military busts in at the exact right time to rescue the protagonists. In addition, they take in Alice for further testing as her immunity may hold the key to a vaccine or cure against zombism.
The children are understandably TOed and begin with the accusatory "You said you watched her die" comments while Don makes shallow attempts at defending himself. Minutes later, we follow him through the medical unit (where he has inexplicable access to everything with a nifty swipey ID card though he seems to serve no authoritative purpose on the compound [aka plot hole #2]) and directly into Alice's room.
This rapidly progresses into plot hole #3 in which Don apologizes for leaving his wife to be torn limb from limb by the infected and she... forgives him? Seriously? No matter how you slice this one, you cannot expect a woman to forgive for such a grievous offense. At the very least, not this quickly. I've seen females freak out over forgotten anniversaries and moldy cheese. No way in hell this chick is going to forgive a man for abandoning her TO BE EATEN ALIVE BY ZOMBIES.
Anyway, in their brief bought of make-up tongue-kissing, Alice, the carrier, passes the virus onto Don, the douche bag, via saliva and the outbreak begins anew inside the confines of the medical unit. Don starts by attacking Alice who is strapped to a hospital gurney. Now, I take no issue with a zombie attacking a helpless human but I do have a problem with the method of assault which includes (plot hole #4) punching and eye-gouging NEITHER of which facilitate in the digestion of human flesh by Don The Zombie. There is an inherent simplicity in the zombie motivation for human brains and absolutely nothing else. Yet Don The Zombie makes a half-hearted attempt at being multi-dimensional by bludgeoning his wife to death (and also later a young female military official... with the butt of her own rifle) instead of eating her internal organs.
Blah blah blah, it spreads quickly, blah blah blah, the kids get separated, blah blah blah, the kids get airlifted out by a helicopter after several scary scenes of adversity.
Thankfully, the movie ended on a high note when the foreshadowing comes full circle and Andy, a carrier like his mother, leaves the quarantined island of England for the mainland of Europe. The final shot is of zombies running around under the Eiffel Tower which would give the US a chance to make up for previous indiscretions and nuke France.
Merry Christmas and don't waste $4 on 28 Weeks Later.
As such, I took time out of my busy Christmas Eve schedule of eating things and puttering around in my new slippers to rent 28 Weeks Later, the sequel to one of my favorite zombie movies, 28 Days Later. Now, imagine my dismay when Part 2 of the 28 Units Later series failed to live up to the hopeful expectations set by the first.
***SPOILER WARNING: Do not continue reading if you have not yet seen 28 Weeks Later and still plan on it despite my urging otherwise***
The opening scene introduces us to Don (Robert Carlyle of Trainspotting fame) and Alice, a British couple who are holed up in a charming English cottage with strangers. Naturally, zombies break in about 4 minutes into the movie and corner them in an upstairs bedroom where Don abandons Alice to her fate of being eaten alive by mutants while he escapes via speed boat. So, now the audience knows that Don is the main character and that we also really dislike him. A promising beginning.
Flash forward to a burrough of London (post-outbreak of zombism) which has been secured by American military forces and cleared of such pesky problems as zombies, zombie virus, and corpses. Enter implausible plot hole #1: we're to believe that less than a year after the incident, the Americans are reintroducing humans into the environment. I find it difficult to accept this course of action for a number of reasons but mainly because America would not pass up this stellar excuse to first nuke Britain like it's always wanted, thereby eradicating the virus and also this sequel.
In the repopulation efforts, Don's children, Andy and Tammy, return from a conveniently timed school trip to Spain where they were far from harm's way and come back to Don, the sole survivor of the attack on the charming English cottage. No mention of Don's speed boat.
After a brief and dramatically restrained scene in which Don lies through his teeth to the children about being unable to save Alice, the kiddies leave the compound against the warnings of the US military. They return to their childhood home where they collect personal possessions and photos of their mother. At this point, we are meant to wax poetic about the sentimental though ill-thought actions of Andy and Tammy. Instead, this is where my intense dislike of them began. Such actions are akin to the phrase "I'll be right back" in a slasher movie and I just can't sympathize with the stupid.
In said tenement, Andy discovers his mother hiding behind a couch, moderately loony but otherwise unharmed despite bearing human bite marks. Hello, Carrier. As always, the military busts in at the exact right time to rescue the protagonists. In addition, they take in Alice for further testing as her immunity may hold the key to a vaccine or cure against zombism.
The children are understandably TOed and begin with the accusatory "You said you watched her die" comments while Don makes shallow attempts at defending himself. Minutes later, we follow him through the medical unit (where he has inexplicable access to everything with a nifty swipey ID card though he seems to serve no authoritative purpose on the compound [aka plot hole #2]) and directly into Alice's room.
This rapidly progresses into plot hole #3 in which Don apologizes for leaving his wife to be torn limb from limb by the infected and she... forgives him? Seriously? No matter how you slice this one, you cannot expect a woman to forgive for such a grievous offense. At the very least, not this quickly. I've seen females freak out over forgotten anniversaries and moldy cheese. No way in hell this chick is going to forgive a man for abandoning her TO BE EATEN ALIVE BY ZOMBIES.
Anyway, in their brief bought of make-up tongue-kissing, Alice, the carrier, passes the virus onto Don, the douche bag, via saliva and the outbreak begins anew inside the confines of the medical unit. Don starts by attacking Alice who is strapped to a hospital gurney. Now, I take no issue with a zombie attacking a helpless human but I do have a problem with the method of assault which includes (plot hole #4) punching and eye-gouging NEITHER of which facilitate in the digestion of human flesh by Don The Zombie. There is an inherent simplicity in the zombie motivation for human brains and absolutely nothing else. Yet Don The Zombie makes a half-hearted attempt at being multi-dimensional by bludgeoning his wife to death (and also later a young female military official... with the butt of her own rifle) instead of eating her internal organs.
Blah blah blah, it spreads quickly, blah blah blah, the kids get separated, blah blah blah, the kids get airlifted out by a helicopter after several scary scenes of adversity.
Thankfully, the movie ended on a high note when the foreshadowing comes full circle and Andy, a carrier like his mother, leaves the quarantined island of England for the mainland of Europe. The final shot is of zombies running around under the Eiffel Tower which would give the US a chance to make up for previous indiscretions and nuke France.
Merry Christmas and don't waste $4 on 28 Weeks Later.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Ghosts Don’t Pay Rent - Unless You Count the Price of Your Immortal Soul
Before beginning this most spectacular story, we must set the stage. The stage is my super cute lofty apartment with vaulted mile high ceilings, tons of skylights, and adorable French doors leading to the bedroom. If it was located in Boston proper, we’d never be able to afford it, which is why we live in the outskirts of Suburbia. Please enjoy the included grainy photo that appears to have been taken using a low budget security camera at a 7-11.
Last night, circa 3 am, I snuffled awake from my golden slumber and instead of rolling over, burrowing, and going back to sleep, I was distracted by the large overhead light shining through my adorable French doors. Two things appeared out of place:
1) The light. In my eyes. When I should be sleeping.
2) The absence of Beau sleeping next to me.
In my usual fashion, I assumed that there had been a massive emergency and that Beau had fled the house in his Knight in Shining Armor fashion to save the day (like the time he rescued my sister from sleeping on a bench at Logan airport). I then ran around in little circles calling “Beauuuu!” and panicking mostly because I was confused not only by the situation but also by my lack of vision. My glasses weren’t where they should have been and I’m nearly blind without them.
I ran from couch to bathroom to hallway and finally to 2nd bedroom where I found Beau curled up in a cute little ball on the bed.
Dangerous: What are you doing in here?
Beau: I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning and didn’t want to wake you up.
Dangerous: Well, thanks, but did you have to turn on all the lights to come in here?
Beau: I didn’t turn on any lights.
For a split second we looked at each other before slowly craning our necks to peer out the doorway into the blazing daylight of the sitting room. This is when I whimpered and Beau flew out the door to look in the closets for ax murderers and boogey men. Strangely enough, the doors were all secured, there were no serial killers hiding in the laundry basket, and the windows appeared intact (besides, we’re on the 3rd floor and the house is covered in ice. Ain’t nobody climbing up there).
What else could we do but turn off the light and the ominously rotating fan and go back to bed. In the same room obviously. With the bedroom door tightly shut. And the bureau in front of it.
This morning we dragged ourselves from bed and spent several minutes attempting to debunk the light/fan phenomena ala the Ghost Hunters (if you haven’t seen this SciFi show, you should immediately go watch it in a dark room by yourself and get all spooked). We concluded from our research that the fan and light are irrevocably controlled by two separate switches. There is no way to press one of these buttons to control the entire mechanism. In addition, Beau was not half asleep when he moved from one room to the other. Being the clever girl that I am, I accused him of turning on the light in a sleepy stupor. He reminded me of what he had said on the Night of the Incident which was that he was wide awake and tossing. Thus the leaving the room for another bed.
Shortly after making this discovery we sojourned to the bedroom where I selected today’s mediocre ensemble (I really have nothing to wear) and Beau made faces at the mirror. We were discussing our findings when something crashed in the bathroom. I assumed it was the cheap suction cup hook that holds my shower poof. Upon further investigation I found that it was actually a low flat container of body butter (mmm mmm Body Shop). Physics says this shouldn’t have lost its balance and fallen off my sink, but the ever rebellious Body Shop apparently defies gravity.
Or, much more likely, we have a ghost. A ghost who turns on lights, throws lotion, and steals glasses. If it were a dog, I would have rubbed its nose in the mess by now.
Last night, circa 3 am, I snuffled awake from my golden slumber and instead of rolling over, burrowing, and going back to sleep, I was distracted by the large overhead light shining through my adorable French doors. Two things appeared out of place:
1) The light. In my eyes. When I should be sleeping.
2) The absence of Beau sleeping next to me.
In my usual fashion, I assumed that there had been a massive emergency and that Beau had fled the house in his Knight in Shining Armor fashion to save the day (like the time he rescued my sister from sleeping on a bench at Logan airport). I then ran around in little circles calling “Beauuuu!” and panicking mostly because I was confused not only by the situation but also by my lack of vision. My glasses weren’t where they should have been and I’m nearly blind without them.
I ran from couch to bathroom to hallway and finally to 2nd bedroom where I found Beau curled up in a cute little ball on the bed.
Dangerous: What are you doing in here?
Beau: I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning and didn’t want to wake you up.
Dangerous: Well, thanks, but did you have to turn on all the lights to come in here?
Beau: I didn’t turn on any lights.
For a split second we looked at each other before slowly craning our necks to peer out the doorway into the blazing daylight of the sitting room. This is when I whimpered and Beau flew out the door to look in the closets for ax murderers and boogey men. Strangely enough, the doors were all secured, there were no serial killers hiding in the laundry basket, and the windows appeared intact (besides, we’re on the 3rd floor and the house is covered in ice. Ain’t nobody climbing up there).
What else could we do but turn off the light and the ominously rotating fan and go back to bed. In the same room obviously. With the bedroom door tightly shut. And the bureau in front of it.
This morning we dragged ourselves from bed and spent several minutes attempting to debunk the light/fan phenomena ala the Ghost Hunters (if you haven’t seen this SciFi show, you should immediately go watch it in a dark room by yourself and get all spooked). We concluded from our research that the fan and light are irrevocably controlled by two separate switches. There is no way to press one of these buttons to control the entire mechanism. In addition, Beau was not half asleep when he moved from one room to the other. Being the clever girl that I am, I accused him of turning on the light in a sleepy stupor. He reminded me of what he had said on the Night of the Incident which was that he was wide awake and tossing. Thus the leaving the room for another bed.
Shortly after making this discovery we sojourned to the bedroom where I selected today’s mediocre ensemble (I really have nothing to wear) and Beau made faces at the mirror. We were discussing our findings when something crashed in the bathroom. I assumed it was the cheap suction cup hook that holds my shower poof. Upon further investigation I found that it was actually a low flat container of body butter (mmm mmm Body Shop). Physics says this shouldn’t have lost its balance and fallen off my sink, but the ever rebellious Body Shop apparently defies gravity.
Or, much more likely, we have a ghost. A ghost who turns on lights, throws lotion, and steals glasses. If it were a dog, I would have rubbed its nose in the mess by now.
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Harrowing Story of Beau & the Night I Almost Peed Myself
For full pictographic details of my recent "vacation" to Florida, please refer to the link to my flickr account located at stage right. Generally, there are very few details worth reliving or relating to others, so instead I will tell you this much more interesting tale.
This past Monday was a lousy day in the life of Dangerous K due to a previous unforeseeable event this past Sunday in which I drank approximately all the rum on Pleasure Island. This immediately led to (possibly) the worst hangover of the year in which I was confined to my bed except for brief sessions of vomiting and spaghetti consumption. All this instead of going to Epcot on Monday as planned.
ANYWAY, we compensated by going to both Sea World and Epcot on Wednesday in a super-doubleheader which made everyone else go to bed as soon as we got back to the condo. Except for me because Family Guy was on and its like heroin.
But even the wacky antics of Peter Griffin couldn't keep me up past 11:30 when I too headed to sleep. As previously discussed, my bladder is itsy-bitsy so as a general rule, I make time to empty it before bedtime.
I flicked on the bathroom light and immediately froze in the doorway. Looking back at me from a distance of 5 feet was a gigantore 3-inch cockroach sitting on my previously clean bathmat. He looked like this (yes I took a picture):
So, there we were: me, now desperately in need of a potty break and it, a 6-foot tall, slobbering Beelzebug with a semi-automatic weapon. After several minutes of intense eye contact with a creature that I've heard could outlive me in nuclear winter, it dared to wiggle a leg at me, giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and also helping me to determine that despite my righteous feminist ideals and stubborn independence, now was a time to go crying to my boyfriend because there was NO way to kill this thing with a flip flop.
I slowly backed out of the room and headed for Beau who was peacefully snoring in the next room.
Beau: SNOREEE
Dangerous: Beau? (poke, poke) Are you asleep?
Beau: Snore, gurgle.
Dangerous: Baby (poking becomes more urgent) I need you... [*Beau's interjection "Beau wakes up with the hope of late night nookie - not to kill a mutant"]
Beau: Gurgle (half rolls over)
Dangerous: Baby, there's a bug... it's in the bathroom... it's like really big.
Beau: (nodding, sitting up, silently going into bathroom)
DRAMATIC PAUSE
Beau: Holy fuck.
Dangerous: SEE! It's a very big bug!
Beau: I, uh, I think I need to get fully dressed for this.
Beau then armored up like knights of yore and went courageously into battle while I cowered in the fetal position on the bed. Eventually I emerged to find my hero coming in the front door:
Dangerous: It's gone?
Beau: It's gone.
Dangerous: I can pee now?
Beau: You can pee now.
Dangerous: Where did the bathmat go?
Beau: It's outside... there was no saving the bathmat.
You see, like a good Italian In Training, Beau made a clean hit and then rolled the body in a rug for easy disposal. He made me very proud.
It wasn't until the following morning that I discovered that Bologna and her husband, T, had similar experiences. We spent the remaining days very drunk and with all the lights on.
And now, I seek the ultimate retribution by publicly denouncing ON THE INTERWEB that theLiki Tiki has cockroaches of unusual size and if your family offers you a free condo there, you should say "Good day!" and then hang up the phone or slam the door in their face, whichever is most convenient to your particular situation.
This past Monday was a lousy day in the life of Dangerous K due to a previous unforeseeable event this past Sunday in which I drank approximately all the rum on Pleasure Island. This immediately led to (possibly) the worst hangover of the year in which I was confined to my bed except for brief sessions of vomiting and spaghetti consumption. All this instead of going to Epcot on Monday as planned.
ANYWAY, we compensated by going to both Sea World and Epcot on Wednesday in a super-doubleheader which made everyone else go to bed as soon as we got back to the condo. Except for me because Family Guy was on and its like heroin.
But even the wacky antics of Peter Griffin couldn't keep me up past 11:30 when I too headed to sleep. As previously discussed, my bladder is itsy-bitsy so as a general rule, I make time to empty it before bedtime.
I flicked on the bathroom light and immediately froze in the doorway. Looking back at me from a distance of 5 feet was a gigantore 3-inch cockroach sitting on my previously clean bathmat. He looked like this (yes I took a picture):
Maybe you would like a closer close-up, yes?:
So, there we were: me, now desperately in need of a potty break and it, a 6-foot tall, slobbering Beelzebug with a semi-automatic weapon. After several minutes of intense eye contact with a creature that I've heard could outlive me in nuclear winter, it dared to wiggle a leg at me, giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and also helping me to determine that despite my righteous feminist ideals and stubborn independence, now was a time to go crying to my boyfriend because there was NO way to kill this thing with a flip flop. I slowly backed out of the room and headed for Beau who was peacefully snoring in the next room.
Beau: SNOREEE
Dangerous: Beau? (poke, poke) Are you asleep?
Beau: Snore, gurgle.
Dangerous: Baby (poking becomes more urgent) I need you... [*Beau's interjection "Beau wakes up with the hope of late night nookie - not to kill a mutant"]
Beau: Gurgle (half rolls over)
Dangerous: Baby, there's a bug... it's in the bathroom... it's like really big.
Beau: (nodding, sitting up, silently going into bathroom)
DRAMATIC PAUSE
Beau: Holy fuck.
Dangerous: SEE! It's a very big bug!
Beau: I, uh, I think I need to get fully dressed for this.
Beau then armored up like knights of yore and went courageously into battle while I cowered in the fetal position on the bed. Eventually I emerged to find my hero coming in the front door:
Dangerous: It's gone? Beau: It's gone.
Dangerous: I can pee now?
Beau: You can pee now.
Dangerous: Where did the bathmat go?
Beau: It's outside... there was no saving the bathmat.
You see, like a good Italian In Training, Beau made a clean hit and then rolled the body in a rug for easy disposal. He made me very proud.
It wasn't until the following morning that I discovered that Bologna and her husband, T, had similar experiences. We spent the remaining days very drunk and with all the lights on.
And now, I seek the ultimate retribution by publicly denouncing ON THE INTERWEB that the
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