It’s Gone Now. I Ate It While Trying to Think of a Title.

After a post-lunch trip to the vending machine today, I settled back into my cubicle with a prized bag of Cheez-Its. The lunch crowd was emptying out of the kitchen which is directly behind my desk, so I had to wait before opening Facebook and continuing to scrutinize Beau’s profile (listen, I am marrying this man. I need to make confirm that what he puts out into cyberspace is an approved representation of his person. Sometimes he wears stripes and plaid together. It makes me nervous).

I clicked on my favorite pretend-I’m-working screen which is my loaded and color-coded work calendar. Coworkers continued to filter out of the break room individually. I opened my bag of snacks and began munching. Two girls stopped to wrap up a conversation. I squinted at my computer in that way that suggests concentration and serious thought. Really, I was looking at the list of alternate calendars and thinking, “I wonder if I still have access to the President’s calendar” because I thoroughly enjoy putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. My right hand continued to dig through the contents of the bag which was firmly held by my left hand. Then the President’s calendar opened up. I almost choked on a Cheez-It.

I immediately closed his calendar and informed Bologna that I have telekinesis because being able to control things with your mind is more interesting than my boss’ doctor’s appointments. After 26 years, Bologna has grown accustomed to my reports of brain aneurisms, bird flu symptoms and Sasquatch sightings so she tends to approach my claims with a reserved tone. This time I got a “wow” with TWO exclamation points. That’s how moving my proof was.

She demanded scientific testing. I put a cracker on my desk and worked on levitating it to my mouth by making the same squinty face. After a few seconds of wasted energy, I gave the Cheez-It a little boost by putting it on my keyboard (don’t judge – it’s my first exercise in levitation). I hovered menacingly and opened my mouth really wide but to no avail. I moved the cracker to higher ground again and continued concentrating.

Bologna and I kept talking while the stubborn cracker refused to fly into my mouth. Maybe telekinesis is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. You can burst a blood vessel straining your eyes or you can kind of let them cross and the picture will appear. But how to distract myself while a lush Cheez-It, the last of the bag, sits unmolested and easily within reach? I checked my email. I lined up other objects on my desk. I wrote an entire blog entry. Still, 45 minutes later, the cracker remains steadfastly on my stapler like Mufasa overlooking his kingdom. That is the longest that an undefended food product has ever remained on my desk.

None of This is Exaggeration

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.

Things I’ve Learned About Myself

1) While the pace of my job has been picking up lately, it has not picked up enough to entirely eschew blogging.

2) Even when I am busy at work, I’m still bored because office management is only slightly more interesting than eating plain Wasa crackers.

3) Despite having a box of Wasa crackers in my desk drawer, I am still more likely to hit the vending machine for Cheez Its.

4) Writing about food and taking pictures of flowers makes me want to vomit harder than I did last Sunday

5) Flower appreciation and burgeoning culinary skills aside, I am still not an adult. See #4.

6) It’s really hard to not say the f word or talk about my bowel movements for an entire month.

7) I’d rather have a blog in which I can talk about my fucking poops than a blog in which I show you pictures of quinoa even if I know I’ll neglect it when I get moody.

Fin

Over the past year, my life has changed in a very positive way. It's time for me to stop fighting it and openly acknowledge that I like the changes. I haven't been blogging much lately because I felt like it wasn't worth mentioning the parts of my life that aren't slap-stick comedy. Like I'd be letting down my three fans if I included the other parts of my life. Really though, I started this blog for my own entertainment and I've missed it. I don't want to feel pressured to live up to my old lifestyle or any arbitrary expectations that I set for myself but I want to continue writing. So, this is it. I've decided to retire Dangerous K and migrate elsewhere. If you're one of my friends or relatives (or you're a curious stranger) you can now find me at rose ribbon and carbon.

Every now and then I still miss my wild days but really, I had a good run. I'm going to keep my old blog here as a record because while there may not be many more bar fights in my future, I'll always think fondly of the past ones.

In Which I Do Not Acknowledge My Two Month Absence

I have been known in the past to make rash decisions. Now I spend several minutes reading nutrition labels before committing to a box of crackers. Every once in awhile though, I still do something without thinking it through and it comes back to bite me in the ass, much to the amusement of my loved ones. But not to Verizon techs.

After reading this hilariousness and watching Beau whisper sweet nothings to his Iphone, I decided it was time to join the 21st century and purchase my very own smart phone. My BlackBerry arrived in the mail two days later and I spent an evening playing with it and experiencing something very similar to Nintendo thumbs. Yet I was still intrigued by my brand new blinky, buzzy thinger with Interwebs and email and Facebook.

Shockingly, over the next week, I grew to hate it for all its blinking and buzzing and constant connection. I hid it in my desk drawer. I gave it dirty looks at the dinner table. I said hurtful things to it when we were alone. Despite several opinions to the contrary, I did not want to wait another week to get used to it. I could not love this thing. It was unlovable.

Bright and early Saturday morning, I strapped on my snow boots and dragged Beau to Verizon. I punched my information into the waiting list registry and wandered around the store looking at other hateful blinky things until they called my name. I bee lined to the counter and cheerfully asked the tech to take back my BlackBerry. I explained that I thought I was ready for the 21st century but indeed, I am not and this was just way TOO connected and I miss my paper pocket calendar. He gave me a look that suggested that they paid him to do this on Saturday mornings and he did not, in fact, care about my particular breed of neurosis. My cheerfulness waned until he said he could reactivate my old phone so I wouldn’t have to keep using the terrible, horrible blinky thing that plays Bach when no one calls me.

I slid my gray clunker flip-phone across the counter and enjoyed the revulsion in his eyes, probably in the same way that PETA crazies get a kick out of throwing red paint on ladies in fur coats leaving the opera. Oh yeah, I thought, that’s right. I don’t want your miserable smart phone. I reject it. I am publically declaring my preference for this old, clearly inferior model.

Now all I have to do is send the wretched BlackBerry back and we’ll have this impulse buy behind us. I skipped back to the car as Beau shook his head and said he hoped I learned something. Then I made him take me to the Salvation Army.

Decaffeination

I was shooting for an entire month between entries but I can’t hold out. I just couldn’t stay away. I can’t quit you (no homo).

It’s been characteristically busy since my last check in. That’s becoming routine so I’ve stopped feeling surprised by work demands and my overwhelming popularity. For now I’m going to skip over Beau’s first Thanksgiving turkey, cramming 6.5 people into our wee little condo, Nugget projectile crapping in my bedroom, the purchase of my very own wedding dress, and the solid 40 man-hours I’ve devoted to crafting in the past two weeks to update you on my digestive health. Again.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I started having the same weird stomach pains I had back around Bologna’s baby shower this summer. I suffered through them for a few days before heading to the doctor who ordered blood work and other fun tests to screen for the lead suspect: an ulcer. While waiting for the results, she said to temporarily treat it like an ulcer and see if it got any better. No carbonation, no caffeine, no alcohol, no OTC pain medications. Pretty much no reason to live. I immediately began looking for pointy things to jab into my eyes.

Like 90% of red blooded Americans, I depend on caffeine to keep me going about my humdrum office life. Eliminating it resulted in a solid week of throbbing headaches, massive irritability, and mild retardation. Simple fifteen-minute tasks took an hour to complete as I tried to wrap my shriveled brain around arithmetic. I almost threw a computer at a coworker for walking too close to my desk. I couldn’t take my usual four Advil pills to counteract the epic migraine that was worse – I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY – than any hangover I’ve ever had, including the morning after Pleasure Island, the morning after St. Patty’s Day 2007, and that time I woke up in a tent in the bathroom. I was in the throes of caffeine withdrawal for seven days. That much was clear.

Sure enough, the stomach pains went away and though the tests did not reveal an ulcer, she said to continue treating it that way since it seemed to be working. How could I possibly have gotten a Ninja ulcer that hates on everything and hides from ultrasounds? The first person to suggest half a decade of the triple-punch of rumndietcokes which contain three of my delectably forbidden food groups will be eaten alive.

Bologna, who went through this ordeal in her mid-20s, advised me on the subject. Caffeine and carbonation are not a part of my future. Though I gnawed on the phone a bit when she told me that, really the worst was over. The headaches had subsided and I regained normal brain function. I still want to throw rotten fruit at my coworkers but at least Happy F left the company. That helps. And I can still drink alcohol in moderation (whatever the hell that means).

Unfortunately, as we usher out 2009, I will need to say goodbye to my long beloved rumndietcokes. In honor of them, friend, lover, soul mate, I present this tribute to be viewed while listening to “You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Farewell my little friend. I'll see you again at my bachelorette party.

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?”