Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Castle Update
Not so much my castle anymore. Here’s a list of fun discoveries we made on Saturday during the building inspection:
- The house has a termite problem which was previously undisclosed by the listing agent.
- The house had 2 crawl spaces under it that the owner attempted to hide. They were not properly treated for moisture, so you can pretty much imagine what they looked like.
- Since the last time we visited, they sealed the ceiling panel leading to the attic (which we were unable to get into the last time because no one had a ladder).
- After busting through the ceiling panel to the attic, we found it had also not been treated for moisture and was full of fuzzy white mold which I am horrifically allergic to.
- (My personal favorite) The roof was being supported by a log. A LOG. The building inspector said people stopped doing that in the mid-1800s so the house was definitely not built in 1926 like the listing agent told us.
So, yeah, we didn’t buy a house this weekend. Even though I was pretty in love with the place before, I’m very over it now. The aforementioned list plus a number of other problems plus the BITCH of a listing agent we had to deal with was enough to turn me off completely. It’s like finding out the hot guy you’ve been dating for a month hasn’t showered in the past year. Maybe you wonder “How the hell did you not notice that he wasn’t showering in the first place?” Axe. That’s how. This house was the real estate equivalent of a whore’s bath.
Though I’m not heartbroken that we rescinded our offer, I’m getting frustrated by 2 months of fruitless searching. Add that to the gloomy, nasty New England weather we’re having today and you’ve got a recipe for a solid funk.
Friday, March 6, 2009
But My Brilliance Cannot Be Contained
I spent a portion of this week reminiscing with Notorious about our good ol’ college days and how we’re now boring people that get excited whenever something remotely interesting happens to us because then it gives us something to blog about. Personally, I’m boring now because I’m too much of a pansy to deal with the consequential hangover from a night of drunken adventure. For example last weekend’s party:
As a result of my own weakness – or maybe the unnaturally fast aging of my liver – my binge drinking has reduced from a daily habit in Oxford to a weekly ritual in Brighton to a monthly treat at my own home. (I like throwing parties at my apartment. It almost guarantees I’ll make it back to my bed before passing out.) Drinking more often even for the sake of a good blog or two is no longer an option. Much sadness. Tear.
But my conversations with Notorious this week reminded me that I have plenty of old amusing exploits to share that the Interweb has not yet heard. They inspired me to reach deep into my iffy memories of an era long past when I could down a liter of Jack and still be up for class at 9am. Let’s start with this one from circa Fall 2005 when one day, I missed the bus.
It wasn’t just any bus that I missed. In the dead of night, I missed the last bus leaving from the densely student-populated apartments just north of campus. With a bottle of Sauza in me, I determined that the walk home could not possibly be worse than spending the night huddled on the sticky floor of a bachelor pad inhabited by 3 foul males while unsuccessfully trying to ignore the inevitable sounds of fornication on the couch across the room. “Hey,” I thought, “a walk might even be refreshing.”
Google insists that refreshing walk is 1.7 miles which may not sound like much to the able-bodied or energetic amongst you, but to a drunk, lazy college student with “put the lime in the coconut” looping through her head, it's almost enough to deter such a quest. One last look at my other option was enough to send me out the door. By the time I reached campus, I had remembered a short cut which I estimated would shave entire minutes from my walk. WHOLE MINUTES that I could spend curled up in the fetal position next to the toilet instead of walking uphill. Here is a map that illustrates my genius:
As a result of my own weakness – or maybe the unnaturally fast aging of my liver – my binge drinking has reduced from a daily habit in Oxford to a weekly ritual in Brighton to a monthly treat at my own home. (I like throwing parties at my apartment. It almost guarantees I’ll make it back to my bed before passing out.) Drinking more often even for the sake of a good blog or two is no longer an option. Much sadness. Tear.
But my conversations with Notorious this week reminded me that I have plenty of old amusing exploits to share that the Interweb has not yet heard. They inspired me to reach deep into my iffy memories of an era long past when I could down a liter of Jack and still be up for class at 9am. Let’s start with this one from circa Fall 2005 when one day, I missed the bus.
It wasn’t just any bus that I missed. In the dead of night, I missed the last bus leaving from the densely student-populated apartments just north of campus. With a bottle of Sauza in me, I determined that the walk home could not possibly be worse than spending the night huddled on the sticky floor of a bachelor pad inhabited by 3 foul males while unsuccessfully trying to ignore the inevitable sounds of fornication on the couch across the room. “Hey,” I thought, “a walk might even be refreshing.”
Google insists that refreshing walk is 1.7 miles which may not sound like much to the able-bodied or energetic amongst you, but to a drunk, lazy college student with “put the lime in the coconut” looping through her head, it's almost enough to deter such a quest. One last look at my other option was enough to send me out the door. By the time I reached campus, I had remembered a short cut which I estimated would shave entire minutes from my walk. WHOLE MINUTES that I could spend curled up in the fetal position next to the toilet instead of walking uphill. Here is a map that illustrates my genius:
You’ll note that the red line represents the Google-suggested way home along major thoroughfares and that the blue line represents my hypothesized shortcut along a footpath in the woods. The pink dotted line is where the trouble began. As I paused to catch my breath at the intersection of pink and blue, I caught sight of my dorm through the trees and determined I would forsake the footpath for a beeline.
This plan was going well until I came upon a mystifying chain link fence in my way. I sniffled quietly to myself, clinging to the fence like one of those depressing refugees on the commercials. After a few failed attempts at scaling it, the obstruction proved to be insurmountable in my inebriated state. I sniffled again and turned around to head back to the path.
Once about-faced, I was confronted with a large house looming ominously in front of me. I scratched my head wondering who put a big lovely house here and why I’d never noticed it before. It was a sobering moment when it dawned on me that I had seen the house before from the front on my way to classes. Somehow, I was standing in the Chancellor’s fenced backyard. Several more panicked attempts were made at scaling the fence, but eventually I was forced to follow it out of the gloom and onto his well lit drive way where I ran as I have never run before.
Though my confinement lasts a mere two paragraphs here, in reality, it lasted an excruciating quarter of an hour. When I finally got back to my room, I was visibly shaken with twigs in my hair and scratches on my arms. My roommate, having lived with me for some time and witnessed the M&M incident, didn’t ask a single question.
This plan was going well until I came upon a mystifying chain link fence in my way. I sniffled quietly to myself, clinging to the fence like one of those depressing refugees on the commercials. After a few failed attempts at scaling it, the obstruction proved to be insurmountable in my inebriated state. I sniffled again and turned around to head back to the path.
Once about-faced, I was confronted with a large house looming ominously in front of me. I scratched my head wondering who put a big lovely house here and why I’d never noticed it before. It was a sobering moment when it dawned on me that I had seen the house before from the front on my way to classes. Somehow, I was standing in the Chancellor’s fenced backyard. Several more panicked attempts were made at scaling the fence, but eventually I was forced to follow it out of the gloom and onto his well lit drive way where I ran as I have never run before.
Though my confinement lasts a mere two paragraphs here, in reality, it lasted an excruciating quarter of an hour. When I finally got back to my room, I was visibly shaken with twigs in my hair and scratches on my arms. My roommate, having lived with me for some time and witnessed the M&M incident, didn’t ask a single question.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Zen Master
It’s safe to say Bologna has always been a little… on edge. I mean, you won’t get knifed if you make a sudden movement around her but if she catches you improperly folding a bed sheet, she might go ballistic and start screaming.
Lots of things serve as irritants to Bologna but that’s just because she is a sensitive soul, unlike your beloved Dangerous K who once ate an M&M from behind her college roommates’ desk even after realizing that that particular candy had not been brought into the room in the 2 years of cohabitation. But it was a brown one and I really like the brown ones because I’m always afraid they’ll be the next to be discontinued after the tan ones so we should enjoy them while we have them. Or maybe the shell had eroded and I was looking at raw chocolate innards. Whatever. It was delicious. Anyway.
Now that Bologna is pregnant (read: engorged with hormones) she is slightly more sensitive than usual (read: a fucking whack job that WILL knife you). So her husband T and I have formed a sort of unspoken 24-hour patrol – he takes the in-person night shift from 6pm to 7am and I have the day shift via AIM from 8am to 5pm. We spend her unsupervised travel time in between our shifts praying for the safety of other commuters.
So this afternoon I was not surprised to hear her ask for a dose of Zen to sooth an apoplectic fit induced by a lazy secretary in her office. In my most calming typing tone, I talked my sister down from a ledge. Deep breath in…. and release that big guy back into the wild. Very good everyone! I’m seeing progress here.
But if there is one thing I am learning from this whole fetus-incubating-sister thing, it is that logic means nothing to the impregnated masses. There are no rules. This IS ‘Nam, Smokey. And if Bologna says turkey bacon on a bagel she MEANS turkey bacon on a bagel and GOD HELP YOU IF YOU BRING HER A PLAIN ONE (Hi T! Remember that time you brought her a plain bagel? That was fun). Meltdowns will ensue. Since things like reason can no longer be counted on to pacify Bologna, I find the best option is distraction. My best method of distraction is apparently humor. So when my conversational tactics failed today, I turned to whale noises which top scientists say are very soothing in their OOOOoooooOOO’y kind of way. I detected giggling (I can detect these things through a computer). I pushed on, idly threatening to call her office and sing Enya to her if she didn’t immediately get happy.
Don’t threaten pregnant ladies. Just don’t. Because they will in turn refuse to become happy until you call them and sing Enya. They won’t be swayed by excuses like “I forgot my cell phone at home” and “I can’t sing to you from my cubicle – everyone in the office will hear me” or even “But I’m the new girl and I still have them mostly convinced that I’m normal!” Why not? Because TURKEY BACON NOW.
So I peaked over my cubicle wall, ascertained that the desks nearest to me were empty, dialed with shaking hands and as soon as the phone was answered, began softly crooning “storms in Africaaaaaa.” Giggles from the other end. Bologna was appeased. I stopped. Bologna was no longer appeased. I made a thunder/tribal drum noise. Giggling continued. I hissed, “I’m sorry, that is all I have time for” while attempting to contain a guffaw that would surely be heard in the executive offices.
As I was hanging up and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, one of my coworkers appeared with a quizzical look on her face. She had been in a conference room around the corner from my desk, easily within earshot. I smiled my best I-am-SO-not-certifiable smile. She asked if I was OK. She’d heard a disturbance and now there appeared to be tears on my face. In order to save my reputation, I gave her the abridged version of this blog and explained that they were tears of laughter, not pain.
But they would have been tears of pain had I not called Bologna and sung Enya in my most humbling and self-mortifying way. Because she would have knifed me. And don’t you forget that.
Lots of things serve as irritants to Bologna but that’s just because she is a sensitive soul, unlike your beloved Dangerous K who once ate an M&M from behind her college roommates’ desk even after realizing that that particular candy had not been brought into the room in the 2 years of cohabitation. But it was a brown one and I really like the brown ones because I’m always afraid they’ll be the next to be discontinued after the tan ones so we should enjoy them while we have them. Or maybe the shell had eroded and I was looking at raw chocolate innards. Whatever. It was delicious. Anyway.
Now that Bologna is pregnant (read: engorged with hormones) she is slightly more sensitive than usual (read: a fucking whack job that WILL knife you). So her husband T and I have formed a sort of unspoken 24-hour patrol – he takes the in-person night shift from 6pm to 7am and I have the day shift via AIM from 8am to 5pm. We spend her unsupervised travel time in between our shifts praying for the safety of other commuters.
So this afternoon I was not surprised to hear her ask for a dose of Zen to sooth an apoplectic fit induced by a lazy secretary in her office. In my most calming typing tone, I talked my sister down from a ledge. Deep breath in…. and release that big guy back into the wild. Very good everyone! I’m seeing progress here.
But if there is one thing I am learning from this whole fetus-incubating-sister thing, it is that logic means nothing to the impregnated masses. There are no rules. This IS ‘Nam, Smokey. And if Bologna says turkey bacon on a bagel she MEANS turkey bacon on a bagel and GOD HELP YOU IF YOU BRING HER A PLAIN ONE (Hi T! Remember that time you brought her a plain bagel? That was fun). Meltdowns will ensue. Since things like reason can no longer be counted on to pacify Bologna, I find the best option is distraction. My best method of distraction is apparently humor. So when my conversational tactics failed today, I turned to whale noises which top scientists say are very soothing in their OOOOoooooOOO’y kind of way. I detected giggling (I can detect these things through a computer). I pushed on, idly threatening to call her office and sing Enya to her if she didn’t immediately get happy.
Don’t threaten pregnant ladies. Just don’t. Because they will in turn refuse to become happy until you call them and sing Enya. They won’t be swayed by excuses like “I forgot my cell phone at home” and “I can’t sing to you from my cubicle – everyone in the office will hear me” or even “But I’m the new girl and I still have them mostly convinced that I’m normal!” Why not? Because TURKEY BACON NOW.
So I peaked over my cubicle wall, ascertained that the desks nearest to me were empty, dialed with shaking hands and as soon as the phone was answered, began softly crooning “storms in Africaaaaaa.” Giggles from the other end. Bologna was appeased. I stopped. Bologna was no longer appeased. I made a thunder/tribal drum noise. Giggling continued. I hissed, “I’m sorry, that is all I have time for” while attempting to contain a guffaw that would surely be heard in the executive offices.
As I was hanging up and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, one of my coworkers appeared with a quizzical look on her face. She had been in a conference room around the corner from my desk, easily within earshot. I smiled my best I-am-SO-not-certifiable smile. She asked if I was OK. She’d heard a disturbance and now there appeared to be tears on my face. In order to save my reputation, I gave her the abridged version of this blog and explained that they were tears of laughter, not pain.
But they would have been tears of pain had I not called Bologna and sung Enya in my most humbling and self-mortifying way. Because she would have knifed me. And don’t you forget that.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Ella Ella Eh Eh Eh
There’s pretty much NO way I can work today because:
a) It is currently 59° outside.
b) It’s Friday.
c) We made an offer on a house this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from the owners.
d) One of my oldest Jersey friends, Pilipoy, is visiting Boston tomorrow.
e) Beau and I are hosting a dinner party (read: shit show) tomorrow night and when my liver hears the word “party” it starts sending chemical signals out to my brain that say “HOLLAHHH - CRANK UP UMBRELLA AND START DANCING AROUND!!”
I’m forcibly resisting the urge to take my swivel chair outside in order to tailgate in the parking lot. It’s taking all my will power just to stay in this cubicle. I have no energy left over for silly tasks like counting or filing or doing anything else that I’m currently being paid to do. So instead, I'll tell you a random story.
Earlier this afternoon, the controller, president, and vice president took me out for lunch (technically my welcome lunch which has been postponed for a couple of months because they have real jobs, which I totally understand). Here’s a sample of our conversation which may help explain why I love this freakin’ place:
VP: So what kind of wines do you like?
Me: Cheap ones… pretty much anything with an animal on the label. I bought an expensive one recently that tasted horrible so, now I pretty much stick to Yellow Tail.
Controller: I love Yellow Tail!
VP: Are you more of a cocktail person? What’s your signature drink?
Me: Bacardianddietcoke [Yes, I told this to senior management without any hesitation whatsoever and practically before the vice president had finished his sentence]
President: I love Mt. Gay rum. I could drink that stuff straight.
Then the conversation turned to a discussion of rum and rum-based drinks for the next 5 minutes and I kept grinning from ear to ear and thinking “I am never going to leave this place.” At the end of our meal, we clinked our sodas together in cheers and they welcomed me to the company again.
Me: Just pretend there’s rum in here
President: We should start bringing flasks to lunch.
LOVE THIS PLACE. Anyway, have an awesome weekend! Full report of party shenanigans on Monday. And for any of the invitees who read this, don’t you dare flake out! We have Guitar Hero and a camera all set up.
a) It is currently 59° outside.
b) It’s Friday.
c) We made an offer on a house this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from the owners.
d) One of my oldest Jersey friends, Pilipoy, is visiting Boston tomorrow.
e) Beau and I are hosting a dinner party (read: shit show) tomorrow night and when my liver hears the word “party” it starts sending chemical signals out to my brain that say “HOLLAHHH - CRANK UP UMBRELLA AND START DANCING AROUND!!”
I’m forcibly resisting the urge to take my swivel chair outside in order to tailgate in the parking lot. It’s taking all my will power just to stay in this cubicle. I have no energy left over for silly tasks like counting or filing or doing anything else that I’m currently being paid to do. So instead, I'll tell you a random story.
Earlier this afternoon, the controller, president, and vice president took me out for lunch (technically my welcome lunch which has been postponed for a couple of months because they have real jobs, which I totally understand). Here’s a sample of our conversation which may help explain why I love this freakin’ place:
VP: So what kind of wines do you like?
Me: Cheap ones… pretty much anything with an animal on the label. I bought an expensive one recently that tasted horrible so, now I pretty much stick to Yellow Tail.
Controller: I love Yellow Tail!
VP: Are you more of a cocktail person? What’s your signature drink?
Me: Bacardianddietcoke [Yes, I told this to senior management without any hesitation whatsoever and practically before the vice president had finished his sentence]
President: I love Mt. Gay rum. I could drink that stuff straight.
Then the conversation turned to a discussion of rum and rum-based drinks for the next 5 minutes and I kept grinning from ear to ear and thinking “I am never going to leave this place.” At the end of our meal, we clinked our sodas together in cheers and they welcomed me to the company again.
Me: Just pretend there’s rum in here
President: We should start bringing flasks to lunch.
LOVE THIS PLACE. Anyway, have an awesome weekend! Full report of party shenanigans on Monday. And for any of the invitees who read this, don’t you dare flake out! We have Guitar Hero and a camera all set up.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Game’s Up, Scarlet. There’s No More Bullets Left In That Gun
I simply cannot wait for the end of the year to summarize the awesomeness that is 2009, so let me share with you what’s going on in the life and times of Dangerous K:
New Jobs = 2
As you already know, I now have a job that doesn’t suck ass and I’m very pleased to announce that Beau officially resigned this morning from the Evil Accounting Firm in order to join Happy- Fun-Time-Angels-Singing Company in two weeks.
House Purchases = 1
Since Landlord Man unofficially evicted us after our tame little Christmas party, we decided to take the plunge and buy a place while the market was tanking and the government is giving a sizeable tax credit to first time home buyers.
Puppies to Adopt = 1
About 5 minutes after we move into our new yet-to-be-determined house, I’ll be supplementing our family with a new character: a mutt. I’m now accepting name suggestions.
Baby Showers to Plan = 1
I’ve been put in charge of Bologna’s baby shower. Normally I’m not put in charge of anything because I’m irresponsible, lazy, and usually drunk, but regardless – in what I can only assume was a fit of hormone induced tenderness – Bologna asked me to spear head the thing so here I am, interviewing strippers and placing orders for an immense supply of cocaine when who should step in to help? My big fat Italian family from Long Island which is sure to cause lots of drama.
So, sorry Misty. Looks like we won’t need you this time.
Weddings to Attend = 2
Jay Aitch proposed to Chairsy in December and they will wed in October AND I get to be a bridesmaid! Yay more inclusion!
Beau’s sister She-ra is also getting married this fall and she’s doing so …
Humans to be Birthed = 1
… the same week of Bologna’s due date which means I should probably refrain from get tanked at her wedding just in case I get the call at 2 am and need to start driving to Jersey in my Sunday best. I can already envision that police stop: me in a pink taffeta gown with mascara running down my cheeks while I explain to the officer that I am driving at 90 mph down the Merit Parkway because my Bologna is hatching her Nugget RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT AND I NEED TO BE THERE WITH A BASEBALL MIT TO CATCH THE EMISSION.
So all in all, that gives this year a total of (two plus one plus one plus one plus two plus one) EIGHT!! Eight which happens to be my favorite number and doesn’t even include the charity walk that I’m doing with the Quatro this April or the numerous visits from out-of-town friends over the next few months or any other events that might pop up.
Best year ever!
New Jobs = 2
As you already know, I now have a job that doesn’t suck ass and I’m very pleased to announce that Beau officially resigned this morning from the Evil Accounting Firm in order to join Happy- Fun-Time-Angels-Singing Company in two weeks.
House Purchases = 1
Since Landlord Man unofficially evicted us after our tame little Christmas party, we decided to take the plunge and buy a place while the market was tanking and the government is giving a sizeable tax credit to first time home buyers.
Puppies to Adopt = 1
About 5 minutes after we move into our new yet-to-be-determined house, I’ll be supplementing our family with a new character: a mutt. I’m now accepting name suggestions.
Baby Showers to Plan = 1
I’ve been put in charge of Bologna’s baby shower. Normally I’m not put in charge of anything because I’m irresponsible, lazy, and usually drunk, but regardless – in what I can only assume was a fit of hormone induced tenderness – Bologna asked me to spear head the thing so here I am, interviewing strippers and placing orders for an immense supply of cocaine when who should step in to help? My big fat Italian family from Long Island which is sure to cause lots of drama.
So, sorry Misty. Looks like we won’t need you this time.
Weddings to Attend = 2
Jay Aitch proposed to Chairsy in December and they will wed in October AND I get to be a bridesmaid! Yay more inclusion!
Beau’s sister She-ra is also getting married this fall and she’s doing so …
Humans to be Birthed = 1
… the same week of Bologna’s due date which means I should probably refrain from get tanked at her wedding just in case I get the call at 2 am and need to start driving to Jersey in my Sunday best. I can already envision that police stop: me in a pink taffeta gown with mascara running down my cheeks while I explain to the officer that I am driving at 90 mph down the Merit Parkway because my Bologna is hatching her Nugget RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT AND I NEED TO BE THERE WITH A BASEBALL MIT TO CATCH THE EMISSION.
So all in all, that gives this year a total of (two plus one plus one plus one plus two plus one) EIGHT!! Eight which happens to be my favorite number and doesn’t even include the charity walk that I’m doing with the Quatro this April or the numerous visits from out-of-town friends over the next few months or any other events that might pop up.
Best year ever!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
They’re Lethal At Eight Months, and I Do Mean Lethal.
Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to keep a secret? It’s hard. Like REALLY hard. I’m not a secretive person. It’s just not part of who I am. I have no air of mystery about me. I like to share every thought that crosses my mind with everyone I know. I told the entire class the day I got my first period. Jabbering to my loved ones and practical strangers in person isn’t enough anymore. Now I feel the compulsion to publically discuss my bowel movements with the internet via blog.
ANYWAY. My point is that I have been harboring a secret for two whole weeks and it has been gnawing at my innards with such vehemence I thought it was going to chew its way out of my brain and expose itself to the world without my permission. Now I have official written consent to share and let me tell you, it is as cathartic as a hangover pooh:
BOLOGNA DONE GOT HERSELF KNOCKED UP.
Technically, she’s not knocked up because she is lawfully married in the eyes of Yahweh and also the state of New Jersey but that does not change the fact that she is growing a human life form in her private parts which will join us on the outside on September 3, 2009. The rest is just semantics.
I obtained this intelligence when I went to visit her for her birthday last month in the Jerz. While I hung around imbibing my post-sketchy-Amtrak-regional-train rumndietcokes, she showed me her ultrasound which looked something like this:
ANYWAY. My point is that I have been harboring a secret for two whole weeks and it has been gnawing at my innards with such vehemence I thought it was going to chew its way out of my brain and expose itself to the world without my permission. Now I have official written consent to share and let me tell you, it is as cathartic as a hangover pooh:
BOLOGNA DONE GOT HERSELF KNOCKED UP.
Technically, she’s not knocked up because she is lawfully married in the eyes of Yahweh and also the state of New Jersey but that does not change the fact that she is growing a human life form in her private parts which will join us on the outside on September 3, 2009. The rest is just semantics.
I obtained this intelligence when I went to visit her for her birthday last month in the Jerz. While I hung around imbibing my post-sketchy-Amtrak-regional-train rumndietcokes, she showed me her ultrasound which looked something like this:
So it is with great pleasure (and my sincerest apologies to my future niece/nephew) that I introduce Nugget, my sister’s fetus who she thought resembled a dino chicken nugget on the sonogram. Everyone give Bologna a hearty congrats for doing what Michael Crichton envisioned and prepare yourselves for an overload of Jurassic Park quotes!
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