The Show Down

When I weighed myself this morning I was a full 2.5 lbs heavier than I was yesterday, though to the best of my knowledge, I did not eat an additional 2.5 lbs of food yesterday. This is the first time in my life that I’ve religiously applied to a scale for a sense of my own self worth. If I had even casually monitored my weight in the past year, I would probably not be in this situation. I would have seen the numbers climbing and made appropriate adjustments. Instead, I scorned owning a scale in favor of owning an additional 30 lbs of woman-flesh adhered delicately to my abdomen.

I rampaged around the house taking my fury out on everything in sight: Beau for trying to drink the last of the coffee, Beau for putting his shoes up on the coffee table, Beau for not agreeing to come home early to make me dinner… mostly just Beau. I finally calmed down and conjectured that it could be either a combination of the rum cake from last night and part of Grasshoppah’s buffalo chicken wrap from yesterday’s lunch or water weight. Beau offered that perhaps I just had to take a massive pooh.

Since his idea was the only one I had any control over, I began chugging coffee as soon as I got to work to, ya know, speed things up. Finally the time came and I bustled off to my favorite bathroom stall. Mid-ya know, someone walked in: my new arch nemesis, Amy Wineouses’ Doppelganger. In Bertha’s wake, I was left with this over-kempt girl of twenty-something who appears to pull her wardrobe directly from the pages of Cosmopolitan. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just be aware that wearing a snug vest over a long white button-down with a pencil skirt and 5-inch stilettos, pancake makeup, a jet-black bouffant, and a perpetual pout of disdain will cause me to judge you. Harshly. And on the internet.

So, it was fairly easy to identify Doppelganger when she tottered into the room in stilts and planted herself in front of the mirror where she proceeded to apply cosmetics, and, I assume, feed the raging goblins that dwell within with a mixture of heroin and Chiclets. Next, armed with a wet paper towel (yes, this much I ascertained from vigilant listening and also looking through the door gap) she seated herself in a stall somewhere to my left. Then the furious sounds of reams of toilet paper being pulled from the roll. Enough to wrap a small child in. Then silence. Then more silence.

I sat there patiently waiting for her absence in order to resume activity since there is nothing worse than a prolonged bathroom silence interrupted by a deafening plop. If you are the type of person to do this, then I must ask you to stop reading my blog and never come back. That one thing is perhaps the only thing that I find truly offensive. Pooping in a quiet room of strangers. Shudder. But I digress.

Finally, it became apparent that she was also waiting for my absence. Oh Doppelganger, don’t try to outwait me, I thought. I am a receptionist. I spend all day waiting for something to happen. If I need to spend that time waiting in a bathroom stall instead of at my desk, so be it. More to the point, I was there first and frankly, I was in the middle of something important.

Happily, she did her thing and vacated. I won. With just 10 days left at this job, I have finally triumphed in a bathroom that was a battleground for a year and a half: coworkers trying to discuss paperwork while we were both otherwise occupied, creepy Indian ladies trespassing in the buffer stall, Bertha’s digestive stench. Today, 2 weeks from my permanent departure, I am victorious. I am also probably 2.5 pounds lighter.

Logic of the Year Award

Scene: AIM conversation during business hours

Unspecified Friend: I'm sleepy

Dangerous K: are you stoned again?

Unspecified Friend: nope, I've stopped smoking!

Dangerous K: like on principle or because you ran out of weed?

Unspecified Friend: weeeeeeeell...both

Her Bags Are Packed, She's Ready To Go

Three years ago while studying abroad in Oxford I met Notorious, Face, and Grasshoppah. Since then, we’ve referred to ourselves as The Quatro (yes, we named our foursome and shame on Carrie Bradshaw for not doing the same). Those three years have seen more action than a Denny’s parking lot. There have been parties, bars, street corners, gutters, fights, make ups, hugs, heart-to-hearts, laughs, and, maybe the worst of it, moves. Actually, it seems we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together since the good ol’ Oxford days. England and Arkansas robbed us of Notorious for years, London and Jersey stole me away for a time, but finally we all collected in and around Boston for a second coming of the golden age, though granted, a far tamer, more gentle version. Alas, once again, a member is moving on: Grasshoppah leaves us on Saturday for western Massachusetts. In homage to our wise, advice-giving, ever patient, understanding, and empathetic friend, I give you a pictorial representation of Grasshoppah through the years (we'll miss you hon!):

Me, Face, and Grasshoppah on New Year's Eve 2008

Grasshoppah playing drunken Jenga with the German

Grasshoppah and Notorious talking in the gardens at Oxford

Face, Notorious, and Grasshoppah clubbing in England

The Quatro in Scotland

Grasshoppah and me, showing the love at our favorite bar

'Hoppah, consider it a going away present that I didn't post the innumerable pictures that I have of you passed out on various bar stools, kitchen counters, sofas, and assorted ditches. Now go get into trouble where we can't keep an eye on you and come back soon!

There’s One in Every Neighborhood

I was not pleased at 7:30 this morning when my doorbell rang. First of all, I have a doorbell? Second, I was halfway through an iced coffee watching the morning news in my pajamas. Third, Beau was in the shower still so I couldn’t send him downstairs to answer it.

Since the butler was busy, I trounced down two flights of stairs picking at the wedgie my booty shorts were giving me (I only wear them in the privacy of my own home and that is my prerogative), hoping to God that this wasn’t a religious official trying to convert me when I was still braless and thereby, at my most defensive. Through the glass in the front door, I saw a very shabbily dressed older gentleman. I cracked the door and said, “Can I help you?” in a tone that best conveyed my intended message “Get the fuck off my porch.”

As he opened his bearded face to explain exactly why he was still standing on my landlord’s New York Times, I was overwhelmed with the smell of festering garbage and unwashed human. I ascertained he was homeless and come to beg tuppence of me. I was about to shut the door in his face when he said “Do you own a sports car?”

Don’t nobody threaten my baby’s convertible.

In an unprecedented move, I skipped from the usual Jersey attitude directly to the tone and demeanor of Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. It was something angry, feral, bestial, JURASSIC even and probably had a lot to do with my Cheerios getting soggy as I stood there talking to a man that appeared to have slept in a dumpster.

I cracked the door farther and barked “Yeah.” He then asked (quite politely considering my general bearing) if I could move said sports car so that they could remove a dumpster from my neighbor-across-the-street’s driveway. The car was in the way of the truck. Apparently he didn’t sleep in a dumpster, he just worked with one.

I rolled my eyes in a way I haven’t done since I was 15-years-old and gave him one last “Yeah” before slamming the door. But since I can’t drive stick, I had to run upstairs and scream to Beau (who was just getting out of the shower) that he needed to move his car because some construction guy told me so. Hell hath no fury like a Beau bothered before 8 am. I immediately started eating my Cheerios in front of the window to see if Beau ran someone over.

When he returned, I described to him the sheer grossness of the construction worker who rang our door bell. “That wasn’t part of the construction crew,” Beau responded, “That was our neighbor.” The same neighbor who left a nasty gram on the car this past winter causing me to call down the fury of coyote poop on his backyard. The same neighbor who actually confronted Beau in person once about our car being parked in front of his house instead of our house (even though at the time there were clearly no spot available on our side of the street). Yes, that neighbor has now asked that we not park in front of our own house either. And also he smells bad.

Grumble Grumble Grumble

I find it monstrously unfair that though I stayed in last night doing laundry and reading instead of imbibing my usual Thirsty Thursday quota, I have a headache. I don’t get non-hangover-induced headaches. Doesn’t happen to me. When I’m not hung over, my brain is so grateful not to be drained of all hydration that it behaves itself. Until today when it suddenly became a whiner. Shape up buddy or I’ll really give you something to cry about. It’s Friday. I’ll do it. Don’t mess around with me, Brain. I have an override button that allows me to put rumndietcokes into my mouth with or without your help as evidenced by so many previous black outs.

Really, I should probably blame Neck and not Brain because that’s where this trouble started. I have a crick from reading last night with my head in Beau’s lap. I don’t know how to threaten a neck, but I’m open to suggestions unless they involve a guillotine. That’s the only neck punishment I could think of, but it doesn’t seem fair to take disciplinary action against Shoulders and Pretty Little Face both of whom I’m sure would be marred as a result. Back to the drawing board, readers.

Speaking of Lessons Learned

As I leaned against the kitchen wall just now, fixing myself a cup of coffee and swallowing my second helping of Advil to counter my early afternoon hangover, I thought to myself, when will I learn? When will I learn that staying out half the night drinking ends the same way EVERY TIME? A small voice in my head ventured never. I may NEVER learn to curb my thirst in the interest of not feeling like pond scum the following day. I’m sure we’ve all sworn after a particularly bad night that we were never drinking again (see St. Patty’s Day 2007). I certainly have no intention of following through to a state of teetotalism but a little restraint might go a long way. Developing the ability to say “I’d love to go to another bar for more drinks after dinner, but it’s a weeknight and I’m broke” instead of “Hells fuckin’ YEAH I want a shot of tequila” would be advantageous at this juncture of my life.

Instead, here I am squinting under fluorescent lights thinking of how that plate of nachos from the Cask & Flagon circa 10 pm will manifest. Perhaps as another dimple on my already ample bottom? A third chin to keep the other two company? A pooh that waits until my commute home to try to leave the mother ship? It is a mystery.

Besides the weight gain and the hangovers, my wallet runs dry as my poor, desiccated bladder (something to keep in mind since I’ll be officially unemployed as of September 1). Yet this trifecta of reasons NOT to get drunk enough to pinky-swear that I will reread Wuthering Heights is somehow not enough to sink into my brain.

Lately, I’ve actually grown bored of the boozing lifestyle but you wouldn’t know it, would you? I whine that I want to go out for a nice adult dinner but then I’m the first one to order a rumndietcoke… or seven. I make plans for innocent day trips but then cancel on account of a hangover. If I wasn’t too lazy to go out most nights, I’d be an alcoholic by now. Apparently, sloth is my saving grace.

So, I returned to my desk with my coffee and my obstinate refusal to learn from my mistakes. And also the memory of Grasshoppah buying a steak and cheese sandwich for a homeless guy sitting outside the 7-11.

And I Haven't Learned a Damn Thing Since

Without going into any further detail, I would like to share with you a remarkable cure for the hiccups: hold onto the hiccuper’s nose until the afflication has ended. Keep a firm hold despite their attempts to shake you off, wipe snot on your hand, or get their drink back up to their mouth. For example:

Thanks, Mistress!