Bermuda, Land of My People

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

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

Waiter: And madam what can I get for you?

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

Beau: Beer.

Waiter: Black rum, madam?

Dangerous K: Yes, please.

Beau: BEEEEEERRRRRR.

Waiter: Anything else, madam?

Dangerous K: No, thank you.

Beau: BEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

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

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

Heh heh heh. Booty.

I'm Backkkkk

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

More news tonight from the comfort of my couch.

Dangerous K Unplugged

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

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

The Morning After

The damage

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

My Broken Toe, Let Me Show It To You

Your Boss Knows You Too Well When...

Yesterday, 4:55 pm:

RING RING RING

Dangerous K: Good afternoon, Nerd Herd Magazine.

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

Dangerous K: Luanne?

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

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

To which I naturally responded:

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

Karma

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

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

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