Me? Yes, Me. Me Me Me Me ME!

It's a happy week in the blogosphere. First, I was dicking around on the computer while Beau made me my dinnah the other night and I clicked (for the first time in months) on the long quiet blog of Miss Doxie and found out she's BACK from the black hole of the Interweb. For those who aren't familiar with her writing, Miss Doxie is seriously the funniest female blogger EVER. That is not to be taken lightly coming from me. Humor is the only thing in life that I take seriously. She is so funny I often laugh so hard at work that I tinkle a little bit and it reminds me to do my Kegels. Not really though. I don't need those. My vagina is made of steel.

And on that note, let's talk more about ME. One of my favorite bloggerellas, DG (who I've never actually met in real life, but I still feel like she'd hold back my hair while I vomited in a gutter) gave me an award for my awesomeness! You can look at it, but don't touch. And when you're done, I have to put it back in the cabinet with the other Nice Things.

It's like winning a Screen Actors Guild Award. Yeah, you could win an Oscar, but this one is awarded by one of your people so it means more. Everyone knows that. I don't think there's any better endorsement than another blogger saying of you, "That girl can cut a bitch." I seriously misted when I read that. I'm not even kidding. It may be the nicest, truest thing any stranger has ever said to me. I can cut a bitch. Sniffle.

I'd like to thank DG for giving me the award and I'd like to thank my friends, family, and coworkers for (often) knowingly allowing me to share the intimate details of our communal lives. Specifically, my upmost gratitude to Beau and Bologna for watching my downward spiral into insanity and letting it happen for the sake of this blog. I'd like to thank my afternoon mailman, Murphy, for being an Irish alcoholic with whom I trade daily war stories that often jog my memory for annecdotes to share with you. And, of course, I'd like to thank my liver for holding out this long.

As stipulated in Spanish on the award's homeblog Arte Y Pico it is now my responsibility as the latest awardee to pick a new recipient. Since most of the ones I read are by veteran bloggers who either a) would not respond b) don't need the publicity or c) would remind me of my restraining order, I've chosen to pass the torch on to a close friend, Face of Maison Du Visage. As you've probably gleaned from my stories, Face is an old college buddy (who did not respond to my friendly advances until the THIRD time that I approached her socially over the course of about three years. That story some other time) who recently started a blog. She has a much better vocabulary than me and also a whole category dedicated to vaginal euphemisms. Merry Christmas Face! Thanks for the knitted scarves! Here's what you can have in return!

Disclaimer for the winner:

(I am under the impression that I am to include these terms & conditions for the winner or else the Spanish chick behind Arte & Pico will hunt me down and turn me into salsa and then merengue around my corpse)

1) Pick a blog that you think deserves this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of "Arte y Pico" blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

Please, Mommy, No More Cabbage

Day 30 of Operation: When The Fuck Did I Gain 1/3 of a Person?

Net Loss: 2.4 lbs

Frustration Level: Chewing on my lip

After one month of eating high-fiber English muffins with non-fat cream cheese for breakfast, salads for lunch (involving red cabbage which I am coming to loathe since it makes me try to sneak farts at the office AND THAT ALWAYS ENDS BADLY), one small portion-controlled snack in late afternoon, reasonable dinners of mostly veggies and chicken, and one pathetic, miserable serving of reduced-calorie ice cream for dessert, I have lost approximately 10 pounds (or for the math-retarded, about 2.5 pounds per week). And then every weekend I convince myself that my increased activity level of leisurely strolls, badminton, and doggy-paddling is enough to merit a break. That’s when I screw myself by consuming everything in sight, which has thus far included: entire logs of cheese, bottles of rum, bags of Doritos, and big fat hamburgers with the works. So every Monday morning, I find myself just about returned to my previous week’s weight. Lose 2.5 pounds, gain 2 back. That’s my motto.

The important part here is that I realize what the problem is. I gave up on the food journal after day three, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. I need to stop binging on the weekends even though it’s probably one of my favorite activities. It’s negating all the boring salads I’m suffering through [Tangent: Salads are my only option. It takes at least two Lean Cuisines to fill me up so I end up supplementing my Salisbury steak/desiccated broccoli with a bag of Chex Mix and it’s all downhill from there. You think I should just bring a bag of carrot sticks to keep myself away from the vending machine? Well, I think you should mind your own business.]

While I grumble to myself in a corner, Beau, who actually has some restraint, has lost six pounds. Not for long though, because I’m going to start pouring molasses in his mouth when he sleeps. Also on a lighter note, despite what the scale says, my pants are fitting looser. Either those were the fattest 2.4 pounds on my body or I’ve lost fat and gained muscle, which I find completely acceptable. Our fancy scale has a body fat percentage function (determined by sending a light electrical current through your feet – how awesome is that?) that I’m going to start tracking.

All in all, I think we’re off to a good start. I’ve revamped many of my eating habits in a way that didn’t seem possible before. I’ve stopped snacking incessantly when bored, I’ve stopped eating cookies from Bell’s desk at work, and I’ve encouraged Beau to pump up our dinners with veggies instead of cheese. This month I’m going to work on not completely dropping the ball on the weekends, tracking my body fat percentage, and (most frightening of all) exercising more. This is particularly scary because Beau’s sister has invited me to join her and their cousin on a split-triathlon. She’s going to take the biking portion, their cousin will take the run, and I’m theoretically going to swim 1/4-mile. That’s nowhere near as much distance as those two need to cover, but if we consider this in terms of fitness level, it’s probably proportionate to what we all can handle. Since I never got a gym membership (color me guilty) I’m trying to find a reasonably priced pool in the area so I can begin training. I would swim laps when I'm on the Cape but I’m afraid to swim more than 10 feet from the boat due to rip tides, jellies, and gigantic man-eating fish. Especially now that I’ve just reminded myself that I am a juicy morsel of human flesh that likes to splash around like a small animal in distress.

The $100 Haircut

You can always count on Notorious to have a good opening line. Last night when we met at the Prudential Center it was “Sorry I’m late. I was vomiting.” No, she wasn’t drunk. Heat and dehydration just do funny things to New Englanders. My own blood has coagulated from its former thinner version down in tropical New Jersey in order to cope with the brutal winters up here. There was a time I could happily exercise outdoors in the height of a South Carolina summer at my father’s retirement village. That was when I had human blood. Now my veins course with a viscose fluid the consistency of Jägermeister and pudding. Jägermeister pudding? Has anyone done that yet? Dear President of Jello: I has an idea. Let me share it with you…

Anyway, I also tossed my cookies earlier this week on Monday and went home early to consume roughly five quarts of water, so I was sympathetic. We jaunted down the block to Whiskey’s where we proceeded to refill her tummy with chicken fingers and Magners. This seemed like a good combination to me but then again, I am not a physician.

After dinner, I walked five blocks to Jerel at 119, the only salon in Boston that I trust after the horrifying Joan Jett Hair Fiasco of 2006.

Five blocks down Newbury Street, just five tiny little blocks in the shade which is BARELY half a mile, and three flights of stairs later, I was covered in a fine mist of dew. Why am I always that person at a fancy event with parsley between her teeth? Or that girl who walks into Bottega Veneta after unknowingly leaning against a wet counter in a public restroom making it look like she peed herself? Is this why we can’t have nice things?

The receptionist was wearing an outfit that was probably more expensive than my college education. She looked downright horrified at my apparent state of… moisture. I splashed cold water on my face, I took deep breaths while dangling upside down over the air conditioner in the dressing room, I chugged the last of my lukewarm Dasani, but nothing was really helping. My body has apparently had enough of the heat and chose RIGHT THEN to let me know how it felt. Luckily, the shampooer had a sense of humor and listened to my request that she use freezing cold water.

I’d been toying with the idea of cutting off all my hair for the past few weeks. Beau is a big fan of short hair (I think because that's what I had when he first got the hots for me back in college). Plus, long hair feels an awful lot like wearing a wool blanket around your neck in 90° humid heat. So, I mustered up my courage and my oft absent cojones, and told my stylist to chop it all off. She gasped for a few minutes, mourning the loss of my curls, but then started asking the usual questions. We determined a little below shoulder length would work. As she tinkered behind me, I heard her mumble something about almost having enough to donate. Turns out, Locks of Love requests ten inches of hair for their wigs, but Pantene’s Beautiful Lengths program requires only eight. She showed me where my hair would fall and before I let myself chicken out, I told her to do it. So what if it was shorter than I originally wanted? Doing something genuinely unselfish once in awhile builds character.

After she’d finished cutting, she started blow drying my hair which caused my head to resume perspiration production. There came a point where she was almost done that I got increasingly fidgety thinking, “Any minute now she’s going to realize that that last inch of moisture is really sweat and she’s going to ask me not to come back ever again.” Somehow, that didn’t happen. And I guess the universe was happy with my donation because in the end, it was a faaaaabulously adorable haircut. Beau took a picture of it with his Crackberry this morning which is horrible and makes me feel bad about myself but I will share it with the Interweb for the sake of posterity.

Please don't judge it by the quality of this photo. The picture does NO justice to the haircut because my face is so distracting (Hi, when did I become so lopsided? The one squinty eye, the off kilter grin? What’s that about?). I'll have a photo shoot later this weekend to get a more flattering shot that I'm less embarassed by. And for $49.99 plus the cost of shipping and handling, I'll send you the lifesize portrait. Just give me your home address. And your social security number.

Happy Birthday, America! Let’s Blow Stuff Up!

My closest friends and family can tell you that I’ve been known to send birthday wishes and presents months after the actual event, so really, my entry concerning the Fourth of July is much timelier than might otherwise have been expected.

Last week, Beau and I escaped the stifling heat of our third floor oven for the Cape, which is cooler and offers many enticing forms of entertainment such as floating on a raft, drinking on the cheap, and molesting puppies. Yes, you heard me right. His aunt and uncle from down south brought their immensely cute golden retriever, Nelly, who quickly learned that I could be counted on for ear massages and slipping steak tips under the dinner table. We bonded up until the point we went for what was advertised as a “quick tinkle walk” and she crapped. Twice. Within a block. On someone’s front lawn. We’re currently seeking counseling.

Most of the week there (I asked for time off around 3:30 on Tuesday and then didn’t show up for the rest of the week – whatev, I already quit) was spent doing Capey things like buying $1 records at the flea market and barbequing meat. We saved the really good stuff for the Fourth.

Along with a dog, Beau’s extended family also brought fireworks. After an afternoon of drinking in celebration of our country, we decided it would be an excellent idea to set them off in broad daylight on the front lawn. Once we’d properly drawn all the neighbors from their houses with the racket, Beau’s mother got mischievous. This is the woman who once used the word “dildo” during a Scrabble game on Thanksgiving. Just give Mama Beau three fingers of whiskey and she turns into a frat boy. For example…

Across the street from the Beaus’ summer house is a rental property owned – and poorly maintained – by an extremely wealthy, eccentric couple who are “in oil.” Outside the vacant house this weekend was a leather arm chair from the mid-1950s and two brass lamps circa the Roosevelt administration. Propped on the chair was an old pizza box with the word “FREE” scrawled across it. Nearby, their junk car sat with a heavily duck taped sunroof and an antenna bent to a 90-degree angle. Mama Beau assessed the situation and determined the only appropriate course of action would be to place the arm chair on top of the vehicle. For this purpose, Beau and I were recruited.

Barefoot and under the watchful eyes of 10 to 15 neighbors, we repositioned the offending piece of furniture at its new altitude and scuttled back to the safety of the front lawn where we continued to set off fireworks and be judged by the folks next door. There are a series of pictures that I can offer as proof but SOMEBODY left the camera on the Cape so I won’t be able to until next week.

And so it is that we celebrated the birth of this great nation by doing those things that a proper American should do: drink excessively, play with explosives and invade neighboring pieces of property.

Just a Quick One. Stop Reading Over My Shoulder, Beau.

I did that thing again where one minute I'm quietly typing away at my desk in Boston and the next I've skipped town. I took off the rest of the week to go hang around at Beau's parents' Cape house. But lucky me! Their yacht club has internet access. And also Big Girl Rumndietcokes.

BUI (Blogging Under the Influence)

Beau's at a work thang tonight that I wasn't invited to so I spent the evening getting into the Portuguese wine that Mrs. First Floor brought me for watching her adorable dog earlier this week. Then I accidentally stumbled face first into four or five rumndietcokes. Whoops! Sorry Friday morning! Anyway, here are some important notes that my brain made during the course of these events:

- Stephen Colbert is a poignant blinker.

- iTunes says I played Coldplay's Viva la Vida 17 times. Since I remember looping it while dancing around the apartment, that means it was on for a little over an hour ... straight.

- Misappropriation of Bon Jovi songs as pertains to So You Think You Can Dance. OK, so that's not a sentence. They still misused Bon Jovi for a shitty dance routine. And yes, I AM the Bon Jovi police. I'm from Jersey. He's all we have.

- What is this receipt from Amazon? I bought Under the Tuscan Sun???? Really? Well, it's about time. Man, that movie is awesome.

- I know exactly why Jordan Sparks is a failure: she's like watching an after school special in motion. Don't you make hand gestures at me in the shape of a heart while making horribly written love metaphors. That makes you lamer than the kid i saw on the subway today that had a tattoo of "freaks are born into their own tragedy" on his arm (PS punk: you'll regret that in like three years MAX. I speak from experience. Just a heads up). And also don't underestimate the power of Kelly Clarkson. You can't just win American Idol and BE HER. She is a mystical force of nature.

- Why am I never this sexy when I'm dancing sober? Being sloppy drunk makes me sexified? OK. That sounds about right. Maybe i should start drinking more.

- I'm mad at my landlord for being a douchebag. He told me that I can't have a dog because it would be too loud on the hardwood floors above his apartment... and then he had his friend over for the evening... and his friend's dog... that spent two hours howling. But that's OK. I didn't hear much of the howling after the first half hour because I found the raunchiest gay porn I could on the Internet and blasted it through the open window. I mean during Coldplay breaks.

Or Maybe We Could Just Listen To The Radio

Scene: Sitting in traffic on way home from work last night.

Beau: How’s the jaw?

Dangerous K: It still hurts. Bologna thinks it’s because Grasshoppah has TMJ and my hypochondria demons like the sound of it. Like that time I thought I was having a brain aneurism but it was really just a hangover. But this is real. It still hurts to open my mouth and chew and talk at length…

Beau: Maybe you caught it from Grasshoppah.

Dangerous K: … so I tried to get an appointment with the dentist who took out my wisdom teeth. You remember him? The guy that yelled at me for making him knock me out for the operation?

Beau: I think you caught The TMJ from her.

Dangerous K: It’s not contagious, baby. So I’m like, “I’m in pain! Food won’t go in my mouth” and the receptionist is all, “The next available appointment is September 3.” September 3?! Are you fucking serious? Whatev. I didn’t like him anyway.

Beau: Now I’m going to catch it.

Dangerous K: It’s not an STD, honey. So instead I self-diagnosed on the Interweb and WedMD says it will most likely go away in a few weeks on its own. But maybe I shouldn’t be taking so much Advil when I drink.

Beau: (falsetto) I have The TMJ. (deeper voice) But I don’t.

Dangerous K: WebMD said to sleep on my back and maybe that would help but I really prefer to sleep on my tummy.

Beau: (clearly pleased with himself) Valtrex does not prevent you from giving your partner The TMJ.

Dangerous K: Sweety, it’s not a communicable disease. The website also said I should not eat corn on the cob while the pain is still bad and I should try an icepack. Do we have any ice packs at home?

Beau: You shouldn’t be intimate with your partner when you’re experiencing an outbreak of The TMJ.

Dangerous K: (Sighs. Gives up. Tenderly rests hand on Beau’s arm) It’s OK. We’ll use protection.