I’ve finally caught up with enough work to even consider sneaking off to the internet for a little blog action. These past two weeks? Madness. Absolute insanity. Tonight? I’ll be sitting behind the dugout at the Sox game spilling beer on innocent bystanders just to fit in with the crowd. Tomorrow? Taking Notorious out for a belated birthday dinner. Friday? Mistress’ birthday party in the city. MADNESS.
These past few weeks will probably need to be cordoned off into multiple segments to cover the many layers and levels of lunacy that I experienced. I will now diligently begin writing about them and glaring at the banana that I bought last night for my breakfast this morning that I haven’t eaten yet because as much as I don’t want to admit it, I really hate bananas.
Showing posts with label weekend highlights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weekend highlights. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Weekend Highlights: I Interrupt This Belated Post
I took a dozen pictures of an ominous sky this weekend but the much-hyped Hurricane Bill passed by without much more excitement. Allegedly, there was rain but I slept through it. Awful convenient.
I snuck away from the office yesterday to interview for an awesome position but never made it there because I spent an hour getting lost on the south shore. Even if I got the directions down, I’d never manage to commute so far on a daily basis. From the parking lot of gas station, I cancelled while choking back tears and spent the rest of the day being a sad little rock. I’d seen the light at the end of the work tunnel and just as quickly had it ripped away. WHY?? Is this because I doubted the power and majesty of Hurricane Bill?!
Now, I could care less and it has absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine sitting in my kitchen. I got a call while catching up with work this morning. It was Bologna. At 5:00 am, she sprung (sprang? spranged? springed?) a leak and by the time I sat down to my morning coffee, she was on her way to the hospital. The majority of my day was spent in true bipolar fashion, alternately shrieking at vendors and pestering Bologna for updates. At last check, they estimated Nugget would be birthed tomorrow.
Which means, my sister made a human. Seriously. She hasn’t been faking it this entire time like we all suspected. She made an entire person and science suggests that that person will one day grow a personality and perhaps even roll his eyes at me. Also, T may have been involved.
Now, I could care less and it has absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine sitting in my kitchen. I got a call while catching up with work this morning. It was Bologna. At 5:00 am, she sprung (sprang? spranged? springed?) a leak and by the time I sat down to my morning coffee, she was on her way to the hospital. The majority of my day was spent in true bipolar fashion, alternately shrieking at vendors and pestering Bologna for updates. At last check, they estimated Nugget would be birthed tomorrow.
Which means, my sister made a human. Seriously. She hasn’t been faking it this entire time like we all suspected. She made an entire person and science suggests that that person will one day grow a personality and perhaps even roll his eyes at me. Also, T may have been involved.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Weekend Highlights: Second One (Booya!)
I’m back to reality after another lovely weekend spent down the Cape. I thrifted again…
Most of Sunday was spent tethered to a boat playing with my favorite floaty.
Everyone else prefers the adult sized tubes and rafts but I adore my $1 children’s toy from the Tree. Sometimes I stand on it, sometimes I sit on it, sometimes I see how long I can balance in a dhanurasana pose before ever so gracefully flopping into the water. The balancing effort is an ab workout and it keeps me pseudo-treading water for hours. Or at least until the big, bad red jellyfish start showing up in droves. We counted almost a dozen in the span of an hour.
Now back to work which is increasingly annoying. More so than a normal Monday. This ranks as at least a Tuesday in my book.
Hoarded glassware for eventual center pieces (the candles will eventually be white or blue)
…except this time, the elderly cashier accidentally put an extra item in my bag: a horrible decorating book printed in the late 90s. After thumbing through it, Mama Beau nodded her head and declared the designs “grounds for divorce.” One project suggested I hang pink tulle from my bedroom windows. Shudder. So, now I’m terrified that I’m going to be banned from my favorite thrift store as a shoplifter all for a crappy book that I would never have shoplifted in the first place. He couldn’t have inadvertently thrown in a trashy romance novel instead?
Saturday night we watched beach fireworks from the comfort of the yacht club. I may finally be getting the hang of using my new camera.
Most of Sunday was spent tethered to a boat playing with my favorite floaty.
Everyone else prefers the adult sized tubes and rafts but I adore my $1 children’s toy from the Tree. Sometimes I stand on it, sometimes I sit on it, sometimes I see how long I can balance in a dhanurasana pose before ever so gracefully flopping into the water. The balancing effort is an ab workout and it keeps me pseudo-treading water for hours. Or at least until the big, bad red jellyfish start showing up in droves. We counted almost a dozen in the span of an hour.
Now back to work which is increasingly annoying. More so than a normal Monday. This ranks as at least a Tuesday in my book.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Weekend Highlights
My weekends are always packed with fun tidbits to share but come Monday, I’m usually too busy at work to post, so they get lost in the melee. So, instead of a lengthy recitation of every time I scratched my ass this weekend, I’m going to start posting a few highlights (I’m formally declaring a new project – that’s like a death warrant for it. Let’s see if I even make it through the first one).
Per usual, we went down the Cape where I started pillaging thrift stores for wedding centerpieces. I’m planning on candle gardens of mismatched glassware with a few big blooms similar to the ones below. Yes, I’m ambitious enough to attempt cross stitching all the table numbers as well.
Grasshoppah came out to visit looking like a cast member of Twilight thanks to a no-sun policy and a new hair color. We ate lunch at the BBC in Hyannis, dropped by the yacht club where Beau and I will be married next June, and took an evening cruise on the boat.
Per usual, we went down the Cape where I started pillaging thrift stores for wedding centerpieces. I’m planning on candle gardens of mismatched glassware with a few big blooms similar to the ones below. Yes, I’m ambitious enough to attempt cross stitching all the table numbers as well.
Grasshoppah came out to visit looking like a cast member of Twilight thanks to a no-sun policy and a new hair color. We ate lunch at the BBC in Hyannis, dropped by the yacht club where Beau and I will be married next June, and took an evening cruise on the boat.
Friday night I made it through 14 innings of the Sox-Yankees game that would not die thanks in large part to rum’s newest rival, Firefly, a sweet tea infused vodka that pairs deliciously with lemonade to make a spiked Arnold Palmer.
Booya! Made it to the end. No promises for next week, but we’ll see.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A Whole Gaggle O' Trouble
I'm down in Jersey for the weekend. Will update on Sunday or Monday with pictures and stories from the Dangerous family reunion!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
The Morning After
The damage
Yes, I washed the dishes in my sunglasses. That window was really bright.Thursday, May 8, 2008
Le baguette, le baguette? LE FROMAGEEE
For the first time since Christmas break, Beau was granted a day off by the Evil Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. He spent all week muttering to himself and secretly researching on his laptop with shiftier eyes than usual. This suggested he was up to no good. You see, when I have a day off, I like to do things like putter around the apartment, read in a corner, or watch 11 hour marathons of ANTM. Not Beau – his precious little free time is spent outside the house engaging in normal human activities. And that’s how I ended up in Canada last weekend.
Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:
1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).
2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.
3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”
4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.
5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.
I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.
We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.
A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.
Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.
I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.
In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.
The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.
A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?
No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.
“Where are my penguins, Beau?”
“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”
“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”
“We’ll find your penguins, honey”
Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.
15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?
After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).
It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.
Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.
We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?
Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:
1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).
2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.
3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”
4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.
5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.
I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.
We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.
A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.
Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.
I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.
In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.
The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.
A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?
No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.
“Where are my penguins, Beau?”
“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”
“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”
“We’ll find your penguins, honey”
Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.
15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?
After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).
It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.
Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.
We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Dangerous K Goes On A Field Trip: The Exciting Conclusion
When we last left our heroes…
Grasshoppah was a responsible girl and went to all her appointments with nifty specialists who ran more tests on her (I assume things like holding a crucifix up to her face and checking to see if she had a reflection). Amongst the doctors she visited was one who diagnosed her with a minor condition that explains all of her bizarre symptoms (repeated sinus infections, severe migraines that cause nausea, muscle spasms in the head and other parts of the body, head spinning, projectile vomiting, climbing down stairs backwards): TMJ.
And (good times!) it can be easily fixed with a mouth guard worn while she sleeps… for the modest price of $500. Jigga what?! $500?! Yes. I can’t really fathom spending so much money on something I put in my mouth. Not including my rum budget. Even better? Her insurance won’t cover it.
Luckily, Master Debater in his wisdom suggested she try the cheap CVS version before splurging on something that costs practically an entire month’s rent. That one costs around $30 which is an amount of cash I can easily imagine covering in saliva without much regret. Now, Grasshoppah could go purchase this much more reasonable device out of pocket, or, for the sake of being supportive (and making a scene in public) I suggest an alternative: The TMJ Awareness Walk 2008. I will personally pack a picnic lunch and donate t-shirts for anyone willing to pitch in a few bucks and take a walk down the Charles River with me screaming “T-M-J! GO-A-WAY!” and other such encouraging slogans.
I am completely serious. Tentative date: Sunday, May 4 around noon. Anyone willing to tackle this terrible affliction with me, please leave a note in the comments section.
Free picnic and t-shirts for any who join.
Grasshoppah was a responsible girl and went to all her appointments with nifty specialists who ran more tests on her (I assume things like holding a crucifix up to her face and checking to see if she had a reflection). Amongst the doctors she visited was one who diagnosed her with a minor condition that explains all of her bizarre symptoms (repeated sinus infections, severe migraines that cause nausea, muscle spasms in the head and other parts of the body, head spinning, projectile vomiting, climbing down stairs backwards): TMJ.And (good times!) it can be easily fixed with a mouth guard worn while she sleeps… for the modest price of $500. Jigga what?! $500?! Yes. I can’t really fathom spending so much money on something I put in my mouth. Not including my rum budget. Even better? Her insurance won’t cover it.
Luckily, Master Debater in his wisdom suggested she try the cheap CVS version before splurging on something that costs practically an entire month’s rent. That one costs around $30 which is an amount of cash I can easily imagine covering in saliva without much regret. Now, Grasshoppah could go purchase this much more reasonable device out of pocket, or, for the sake of being supportive (and making a scene in public) I suggest an alternative: The TMJ Awareness Walk 2008. I will personally pack a picnic lunch and donate t-shirts for anyone willing to pitch in a few bucks and take a walk down the Charles River with me screaming “T-M-J! GO-A-WAY!” and other such encouraging slogans.
I am completely serious. Tentative date: Sunday, May 4 around noon. Anyone willing to tackle this terrible affliction with me, please leave a note in the comments section.
Free picnic and t-shirts for any who join.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Weapon of Choice
Establishment: Good Time Emporium
Location: The sketchy side of Somerville, MA
Attractions: Laser tag, skee ball, arcade games, bumper cars, batting cages, pool tables, too many children, etc
Bar tab: $26ish for 2 rounds of 3 people!
Here's a picture of Beau and Mistress playing a video game involving the destruction of men in military uniform and also what appeared to be scarabs. I still don't understand how the two are related. All I know is that I was very frightened that the 17-year-old punk who was accidentally struck by our air hockey puck which ricocheted off the table was going to sneak up behind Beau and shank him. But, on the bright side, if enthusiasm alone could win an arcade game, Beau would have this one in the bag.
And here's the kiddie carousel that I lingered near until all the under aged hooligans had finished. That's me pouting on the left because we couldn't figure out how to make the damn thing work and by the time we did, the camera had died. Suffice it to say, there was a lot of turning motion, a lot of up-and-down motion, and a lot of giggling and clapping my hands motion.
Location: The sketchy side of Somerville, MA
Attractions: Laser tag, skee ball, arcade games, bumper cars, batting cages, pool tables, too many children, etc
Bar tab: $26ish for 2 rounds of 3 people!
Here's a picture of Beau and Mistress playing a video game involving the destruction of men in military uniform and also what appeared to be scarabs. I still don't understand how the two are related. All I know is that I was very frightened that the 17-year-old punk who was accidentally struck by our air hockey puck which ricocheted off the table was going to sneak up behind Beau and shank him. But, on the bright side, if enthusiasm alone could win an arcade game, Beau would have this one in the bag. And here's the kiddie carousel that I lingered near until all the under aged hooligans had finished. That's me pouting on the left because we couldn't figure out how to make the damn thing work and by the time we did, the camera had died. Suffice it to say, there was a lot of turning motion, a lot of up-and-down motion, and a lot of giggling and clapping my hands motion.
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