This morning I went to the dentist, got two fillings done and it was entirely uneventful (except that I drooled a little bit on my dress and was too lazy to change when I swung by the house to pick up my lunch before driving to work so am currently trying to sit in such a way that I hide the slobber spot) but it DID remind me that the Saturday before my wedding, I did something even more painful: I got waxed. For the first time. In places other than my eyebrows. And I have opinions.
Before you go thinking this even MORE of an over share than usual, I didn’t get the whole shebang done. Despite the encouragement of most of my female friends, I resisted popular opinion and opted for my thighs and bikini line instead of getting a landing strip in the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It began harmlessly enough with my eyebrows. I chatted with my waxer, Alice, about the wedding. She was cute, not overly-perky, and had a big fake hibiscus behind her right ear. What a coincidence? I also like big fake flowers. We bonded over being chubby and avoiding buying pants until our old ones have holes and how I would likely reward myself with ice cream after my waxing appointment. Alice and I were thick as thieves. Until she stole my pubic hair.
I dropped trou, preparing myself for what I understood would not be a pleasant experience. The first rip wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I thought to myself “I can handle this. I’ve been through worse.” Over the next hour, that would prove to be a terrible, terrible lie. I can honestly say that it was worse than all three of my tattoos combined at the same time. PLUS, unlike the tattoo parlor, there wasn’t a TV playing Labyrinth in the background. Instead, she dimmed the lights and we listened to Sounds of the Ocean: Volume IV on loop. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing but I couldn’t wrap my head around the dichotomy. It would be like playing Enya on the set of Saw. Waves calmly lapping against the shore and getting the hair ripped out of your crotch just don’t go together. It took me DAYS on the honeymoon to stop cringing when we walked on the beach.
What else could I do but attempt to control the volume of my voice during our idle banter and not yell “I WILL KILL YOU” when she asked about my wedding dress. I kept my furiously perspiring hands tightly clasped on my stomach to keep myself from giving in to instinct and begin hitting the person causing me so much pain. In addition to controlling myself, the wet spot under my profusely sweating palms was growing and I stressed about hiding it from this woman with a terrible fake tan who had already seen my ugliest pair of underwear and parts of my lady bits. But the anxiety gave me something to think about other than holding her down and pulling out her fingernails so I accepted it.
To keep myself distracted I made a mental list of those responsible for my situation: I cursed my own propensity for fuzziness. I cursed my genetic information for giving me the fuzzy phenotype. I cursed my parents for those genes. I cursed Italy for my fuzzy heritage. I cursed all of the Mediterranean just to be on the safe side. I cursed my bathing suits and I cursed Old Navy for not having any board shorts in my size that week. I cursed the fashion industry for insisting that females be bald everywhere but their heads. I cursed every dollar I’d spent in support of that industry and I cursed every goddamn Vogue I’d ever read. Then I squinted and I cursed Alice in my mind so vehemently that she caught my eye and started looking scared. So, I stopped playing that game.
But. It. Kept. Going. I ran out of clever little things to think about and my jaw started hurting from grinding my teeth. The sweat spot was out of control. I’d already memorized every detail of the neon painting of a Caribbean beach landscape on the wall and had already drafted a mean letter to the artist in my head belittling his talent. I searched the walls for something else to focus on. Mere feet from the painting was Alice’s waxer certificate. From mid-April. You know when the camera rushes in on a focal point really quickly in a movie and you can tell the main character must be shitting his pants? That’s sort of what it was like. Just then Alice asked “Did you want to do the back of your legs too?” and I responded a little too quickly with an unnaturally high voice “NOTHANKS.ITHINKI’MALLSET.”
In a thinly veiled attempt to restore my karma after an hour of homicidal thoughts, I tipped well despite the fact that I was walking like I’d been riding a horse all day, had wax stuck to my pants, and, as I later found out, still had plenty of patches that she’d missed, making me resemble not a blushing bride but a mangy dog.
So, yeah, I have opinions. Here's one: cavities are more fun than waxing appointments.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hitched
Stay tuned for TONS of photos and stories (oh the stories!) of the wedding and honeymoon coming up in the next few weeks. I’m trying to hold out for the DVD from our wedding photographer before I get rolling. Till then, here’s a sneak peak from the fabulously charming and talented Kate Haus of Alpine Moon Photography.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bachelorette Party - Part II: Seth's Girls
Correction from previous entry: The overwhelming page hits that I accused Bologna of are indeed NOT being perpetrated by Bologna. She introduced my blog to one of her coworkers who has taken a shining to my work. It is my pleasure to introduce her as My First Unrelated Admitted Fan (or Mfuaf for short... kind of sounds like if you tried to say “mofo” with a Ugandan accent). Hi, Mfuaf! Today’s post is dedicated to you!
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
Good morning, America / How are ya?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Bachelorette Party - Part I: The Road
First of all, I’d like to say how tremendously flattered I am that after more than a month of no entries, my site meter says I’m still getting a whopping ten hits a day. Granted, eight of those are coming from Bologna’s IP address, but to my two other fans, thank you ever so much. You give me the warm fuzzies. Bologna, you give me the warm fuzzies but also sort of a chill down my spine that you get when you can feel someone watching you. At nighttime, I check under the bed for you.
Beau was kidnapped by his groomsmen yesterday afternoon for his four day bachelor party extravaganza in Montreal. That means I’ve spent the last twelve hours crapping with the bathroom door open, eating nothing but pizza, and sleeping in the middle of the bed without him complaining about my elbow being in his face. What better time to tell you about my own bachelorette party which occurred two UNFORGIVEABLE weeks ago? I actually did a complete write up at work yesterday but found that too many of the important details were left out in a one part entry. The humor is all in the details, my friends. So, before Bologna pops out of one of my closets frothing at the mouth, wielding a laptop, and shrieking at me for an entry, let’s begin.
Two INEXCUSEABLE Saturdays ago, Chairsy pulled up to my house in her brand spanking new SUV. I hopped in and threw my bag in the back which contained (among many other things that Bologna insisted that I bring) a bathing suit, five pairs of underwear, and a sturdy pair of walking shoes. I immediately asked if there were snacks. Shocker.
Chairsy instructed me to look at the bag at my feet and to also note the two bottles of soda that had clearly been tampered with. I was to consume those. Trusting that Chairsy wouldn’t slip me a roofie (and frankly, not caring if she did – free drugs for everyone!) I opened the first bottle and tentatively took a sip. I was chugging the sweet nectar of rumndietcoke before we’d even left my street.
Though Chairsy was supposed to blindfold me from the get go, she understood that the combination of binge drinking in a moving vehicle in pitch blackness might cause my now notoriously (NO-NO-NO-NOTORIOUS) weak stomach to expel its contents all over her brand spanking new dashboard causing her husband to kill her in a gruesome fashion. Thus, I was allowed to skip the blindfold and secretly begin guessing where we were going. Yes, I can talk myself out of almost everything. I would have been a lawyer but that requires work and I am decidedly against work.
After my first bottle of darling rumndietcoke (sweet Jesus, how I’ve missed you, my poppet) I convinced my chauffeur to let me out of the car to pee. Everyone is happy to pump me full of liquid but the minute the necessary bodily function need occur, it’s all OH LOOK AT DK WITH HER TILTED WALNUT BLADDER. Sorry for my petite organs. I can’t help that they aren't gargantuan like yours.
Rest stops are much more fun when you’re tipsy. Before you start thinking I’ve gone lightweight, let me say that Chairsy mixes a hefty drink and had prefaced my first sip with “Sorry… that might be a little strong. I got carried away.” Carried away indeed. I skipped into the turnpike restroom, nearly stopping to ask what appeared to be a living anime character to take a picture with me. I clicked the lock on the stall while pulling down my pants and spun around in ballerina fashion before flopping down on the toilet. I immediately jumped up in my least graceful way, pseudo-waddling in the seated position so as to hide my lady bits to slam the door shut before any errant Pokémon saw my shame. Guess the lock was faulty. Must have been.
I skipped back out to the parking lot ready to relate my close encounters with Japan and stopped short on the curb. Instead of seeing Chairsy usual red beater, I saw a sea of unfamiliar vehicles. What color was her new car? Black? Dark blue? Steely Gray? Shit. Well, I knew it was a Toyota SUV. That narrowed it down to only 90% of the cars. I peeked in a few vehicles and inadvertently gave one elderly woman the scare of her life when I was certain I’d found Chairsy’s car and popped up next to the passenger’s side window with that HERE’S JOHNNY face and enthusiastic jazz hands only to find that indeed, I had not found the right Toyota at all.
Eventually, I found Chairsy in the next row and told her about my adventures. We continued our journey while I wondered aloud whether the turnpike went east-west or north-south and started nursing my second bottle of refreshing, beautiful rumndietcoke (sigh of yearning). I became convinced that we were not going a roundabout way to Boston when some of the town names became vaguely familiar from my college years. We left the highway and not long after, pulled onto a bona fide dirt road. I felt so complimented that Chairsy bought an offroading vehicle just for this moment. Until she pulled over and told me to get out.
I stepped out, making sure to leave the door open so that if the engine kicked back on, I’d have time to hop back in. Chairsy told me to turn around. I faced the farmer’s field, surveyed the recently sown rows, and asked if we were trespassing on private property because getting shot at by a man in overalls was not really my idea of a good time. Chairsy giggled from somewhere near the trunk of the car. While I continued to form a contingency plan, she blindfolded me, pinned something to the back of my head, and shoved me back in the car. While this may sound like the starts to a promising porno, I assure you, it is not going in the direction that you think it is.
Though blindfolded, I could sense from Chairsy sudden reticence and the many K turns that we were ever so slightly lost. Could there be a more convenient time that when you’re lost in the unfamiliar land of Deliverance to need a bathroom? I think not. I demanded she return me to the dirt path so I could tinkle in the bushes. Instead, ten minutes later when it became evident that a phone call was necessary for assistance, she pulled over at a gas station.
I cheerfully hopped out, resolving to look at the bathroom lock BEFORE undressing (see, I’m a quick learner) and walked in with a jaunty step, smiling at the many admirers who watched me go by. By many, I mean the toothless man who held the door for me and the Pakistani cashier. I was pleased to see my favorite type of public lavatory (a single room instead of a prison of stalls in which I could see my neighbors’ ankles), secured the door, double checked the lock, and enjoyed a private smile before looking up at my fabulousness in the mirror. Looking back was a smug, slightly intoxicated woman with a fringe of veil showing around her face. The smile broadened as I checked myself out. The smile faded as I realized my admirers outside may not have been admiring me so much as staring at the many neon penises bedazzling the back of my veil.
Instead of slinking past my new found friends, I strode past with my head held high, genital-covered veil flowing behind me. I returned to the car, ready to say “very funny” in my best dripping-with-sarcasm-but-secretly-incredibly-amused voice but Chairsy was ready for me with one of my weaknesses in hand: a big red balloon with a note attached that read “Clue #1.”
That’s where I’ll leave you for today. See what I mean? I couldn’t do the sheer awesomeness of my bachelorette party justice if I didn’t tell you how it really went down and there’s just too much for one day’s work. I swear on my penis veil that I’ll get the entire story written by the time I leave for the wedding next Wednesday. But for now, I need to get to my wedding chores and prepare for the arrival of Lulu who has generously offered to drive up for the weekend to help with crafting. That means I’m spending my last weekend as a single lady the same way I spent them from 1992 to 2002: having a slumber party with Lulu, gossiping about boys, watching chick flicks, and getting into myfather’s liquor cabinet. I guess that means no more open door pooping.
Beau was kidnapped by his groomsmen yesterday afternoon for his four day bachelor party extravaganza in Montreal. That means I’ve spent the last twelve hours crapping with the bathroom door open, eating nothing but pizza, and sleeping in the middle of the bed without him complaining about my elbow being in his face. What better time to tell you about my own bachelorette party which occurred two UNFORGIVEABLE weeks ago? I actually did a complete write up at work yesterday but found that too many of the important details were left out in a one part entry. The humor is all in the details, my friends. So, before Bologna pops out of one of my closets frothing at the mouth, wielding a laptop, and shrieking at me for an entry, let’s begin.
Two INEXCUSEABLE Saturdays ago, Chairsy pulled up to my house in her brand spanking new SUV. I hopped in and threw my bag in the back which contained (among many other things that Bologna insisted that I bring) a bathing suit, five pairs of underwear, and a sturdy pair of walking shoes. I immediately asked if there were snacks. Shocker.
Chairsy instructed me to look at the bag at my feet and to also note the two bottles of soda that had clearly been tampered with. I was to consume those. Trusting that Chairsy wouldn’t slip me a roofie (and frankly, not caring if she did – free drugs for everyone!) I opened the first bottle and tentatively took a sip. I was chugging the sweet nectar of rumndietcoke before we’d even left my street.
Though Chairsy was supposed to blindfold me from the get go, she understood that the combination of binge drinking in a moving vehicle in pitch blackness might cause my now notoriously (NO-NO-NO-NOTORIOUS) weak stomach to expel its contents all over her brand spanking new dashboard causing her husband to kill her in a gruesome fashion. Thus, I was allowed to skip the blindfold and secretly begin guessing where we were going. Yes, I can talk myself out of almost everything. I would have been a lawyer but that requires work and I am decidedly against work.
After my first bottle of darling rumndietcoke (sweet Jesus, how I’ve missed you, my poppet) I convinced my chauffeur to let me out of the car to pee. Everyone is happy to pump me full of liquid but the minute the necessary bodily function need occur, it’s all OH LOOK AT DK WITH HER TILTED WALNUT BLADDER. Sorry for my petite organs. I can’t help that they aren't gargantuan like yours.
Rest stops are much more fun when you’re tipsy. Before you start thinking I’ve gone lightweight, let me say that Chairsy mixes a hefty drink and had prefaced my first sip with “Sorry… that might be a little strong. I got carried away.” Carried away indeed. I skipped into the turnpike restroom, nearly stopping to ask what appeared to be a living anime character to take a picture with me. I clicked the lock on the stall while pulling down my pants and spun around in ballerina fashion before flopping down on the toilet. I immediately jumped up in my least graceful way, pseudo-waddling in the seated position so as to hide my lady bits to slam the door shut before any errant Pokémon saw my shame. Guess the lock was faulty. Must have been.
I skipped back out to the parking lot ready to relate my close encounters with Japan and stopped short on the curb. Instead of seeing Chairsy usual red beater, I saw a sea of unfamiliar vehicles. What color was her new car? Black? Dark blue? Steely Gray? Shit. Well, I knew it was a Toyota SUV. That narrowed it down to only 90% of the cars. I peeked in a few vehicles and inadvertently gave one elderly woman the scare of her life when I was certain I’d found Chairsy’s car and popped up next to the passenger’s side window with that HERE’S JOHNNY face and enthusiastic jazz hands only to find that indeed, I had not found the right Toyota at all.
Eventually, I found Chairsy in the next row and told her about my adventures. We continued our journey while I wondered aloud whether the turnpike went east-west or north-south and started nursing my second bottle of refreshing, beautiful rumndietcoke (sigh of yearning). I became convinced that we were not going a roundabout way to Boston when some of the town names became vaguely familiar from my college years. We left the highway and not long after, pulled onto a bona fide dirt road. I felt so complimented that Chairsy bought an offroading vehicle just for this moment. Until she pulled over and told me to get out.
I stepped out, making sure to leave the door open so that if the engine kicked back on, I’d have time to hop back in. Chairsy told me to turn around. I faced the farmer’s field, surveyed the recently sown rows, and asked if we were trespassing on private property because getting shot at by a man in overalls was not really my idea of a good time. Chairsy giggled from somewhere near the trunk of the car. While I continued to form a contingency plan, she blindfolded me, pinned something to the back of my head, and shoved me back in the car. While this may sound like the starts to a promising porno, I assure you, it is not going in the direction that you think it is.
Though blindfolded, I could sense from Chairsy sudden reticence and the many K turns that we were ever so slightly lost. Could there be a more convenient time that when you’re lost in the unfamiliar land of Deliverance to need a bathroom? I think not. I demanded she return me to the dirt path so I could tinkle in the bushes. Instead, ten minutes later when it became evident that a phone call was necessary for assistance, she pulled over at a gas station.
I cheerfully hopped out, resolving to look at the bathroom lock BEFORE undressing (see, I’m a quick learner) and walked in with a jaunty step, smiling at the many admirers who watched me go by. By many, I mean the toothless man who held the door for me and the Pakistani cashier. I was pleased to see my favorite type of public lavatory (a single room instead of a prison of stalls in which I could see my neighbors’ ankles), secured the door, double checked the lock, and enjoyed a private smile before looking up at my fabulousness in the mirror. Looking back was a smug, slightly intoxicated woman with a fringe of veil showing around her face. The smile broadened as I checked myself out. The smile faded as I realized my admirers outside may not have been admiring me so much as staring at the many neon penises bedazzling the back of my veil.
Instead of slinking past my new found friends, I strode past with my head held high, genital-covered veil flowing behind me. I returned to the car, ready to say “very funny” in my best dripping-with-sarcasm-but-secretly-incredibly-amused voice but Chairsy was ready for me with one of my weaknesses in hand: a big red balloon with a note attached that read “Clue #1.”
That’s where I’ll leave you for today. See what I mean? I couldn’t do the sheer awesomeness of my bachelorette party justice if I didn’t tell you how it really went down and there’s just too much for one day’s work. I swear on my penis veil that I’ll get the entire story written by the time I leave for the wedding next Wednesday. But for now, I need to get to my wedding chores and prepare for the arrival of Lulu who has generously offered to drive up for the weekend to help with crafting. That means I’m spending my last weekend as a single lady the same way I spent them from 1992 to 2002: having a slumber party with Lulu, gossiping about boys, watching chick flicks, and getting into my
Friday, April 16, 2010
A Fabric Cage of Emotion
The wedding is coming up fast (50 days to be exact but who’s counting? I certainly don’t have half a dozen countdowns that I update daily). Last night, I went to my first dress fitting. Both Mama Beau and Chairsy were able to make it to David’s Bridal in Natick with me. They helped me carry my trousseau in from the car and then deposited me in the fitting room. The seamstress (who was named Nina, I believe) came in and asked me if I knew how to get into the bridal bra. I said, “No, not really.” She said, “OK well, I’ll show you.” So, I stripped and held the new one up to my chest and called her in. She instructed me to bend over slightly while she hooked the back. It was very Mammy-pull-tighter-I-want-to-look-ravishing-at-the-barbeque until she kind of gave up and said, “This is the wrong size.”Nina ran out to get a new loaner bra to use for the fitting and I poked my head out of the dressing room to chat with Chairsy and Mama Beau. Now, my bridal bra is one of those seamless molded corsets. It doesn’t show through the dress but it holds my womanflesh firmly in place. I like it in all its simplicity. It reminds me of my grungy cotton bras when they first arrive in the mail from Victoria’s Secret. But, of course, last night they didn’t HAVE a loaner seamless one in my size so Nina brought back a monstrosity out of Frederick’s of Hollywood. There was lace and wire ribbing and those little strings that you hook to your stockings and OH MY GOD IS THAT A PALE PINK BOW?!
After Nina strapped me into the The Moulin Rouge corset, Chairsy came in and helped me into the petticoats which GOODNESS GRACIOUS poof like nobody's business once you pull them out of the original packaging. She managed to get the dress over my head and I waddled out to the little stage while Mama Beau sniffled and smiled. I realized I had left my shoes in the dressing room. Chairsy brought them out and placed them at the edge of the stage. As I found out, there is no bending over in a wedding gown. Try as I might, the shoes remained steadfastly several feet away from me. As I approached them, one of two things would happen: the dress would push them further away or they would get consumed by my petticoats and I would begin fearing for their safety up in there.
Instead, Chairsy, ever the good brideslave, lifted the hem of my dress, guided my foot towards the shoe and then even acted as my own personal shoehorn. I stood there petting my dress as Nina showed my entourage how to properly close it up. She hemmed what felt like several thousand layers of skirt. Time passed. I spun in lots of circles, talked about bridezillas, and found out that my toes go numb when I stand still too long (I guess we know what will happen during the ceremony – that will make for a graceful exit down the aisle). The seamstress gossiped with us about girls coming to David’s Bridal for prom dresses and buying skimpy one that barely cover their bosoms and we all shook our heads and said “Kids these days.” Once she was all done, I got to walk up and down a little hallway while everyone watched to test the hem length. It’s fun taking up an entire corridor with a voluminous dress. It’s just fabric but it feels like sheer POWER. At one point a woman, I assume a scullery maid, needed to get down the hallway and I stepped aside and magnanimously gestured that she may pass my magnificence.
Chairsy helped me out of the dress and I managed not to put an eye out on one of the thousand pins. I left behind my red light district corset and was able to make an exchange for the correct size in the correct style. Everyone and their mother made a point of profusely apologizing for getting me the wrong size in the first place. I assume they’re used to dealing with bridezillas. Say what you will about David’s Bridal, but I think the customer service is phenomenal.
As we were collecting our things to leave, another girl came out of the dressing room next to me and went up on the stage. Mama Beau, still looking a little misty, complimented her dress (which was ivory silk and one of those pretty mermaid shapes that only looks good on size 2 figures) and asked her when the big day was. The girl replied, “I’m not getting married. This is my prom dress” and proceeded to concentrate on pulling the dress lower on her chest. Kids these days.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Jell-O Mug
The past week has comprised of INTENSE preparation of the condo for this weekend when my loved ones will descend (or I should say ascend since they’re almost all coming from points further south) on the metro Boston area for my shower and a big thanks-for-hauling-ass-to-a-state-in-which-the-National-Guard-was-recently-deployed BBQ. Despite having sat still for about 15 minutes in the past week, I made time on Wednesday night to prepare for one of my favorite holidays: April Fools. Are you really all that surprised?
Office BFF is a die-hard Office fan and prides herself on being our office’s version of Dwight. So, this year’s inspiration came from the pilot episode. As luck would have it, Office B took a vacation day on March31. Why someone would leave their personal belongings unprotected the day before April Fools with me around, I’ll never know. Suffice it to say, she did and I took advantage by abducting her favorite mug…
… and asking Beau to buy as many packages of strawberry Jell-O that he could find on his way home from work. Shortly after dinner, I was in the kitchen setting this up: 
Figure 2
2. Jell-O will stain white counter tops. Lesson Learned: Work over the sink or (like I did) make sure you have a serious stain remover on hand. Beau had to the leave the room when I cleaned though because the stain remover reminded him of cleaning up vomit in college.
3. Before pouring in the liquid Jell-O, I greased the interior of the bowl with cooking spray in the clever hopes that it would make removal easier. It did nothing of the sort. When I pulled it out of the fridge and shook it over a plate, it didn’t fall out. I thought that maybe the top edge of the Jell-O was preventing it from sliding out easily since it was clearly adhered* to the side of the bowl. I slid a knife about an inch down around the mold. The next time I shook it, a chunk fell out but not the whole mold. Major fissure # 2. Thanks to the foul, clingy nature of Jell-O, I was able to stuff it back in the bowl and make it sort of whole again. Lesson Learned: I eventually shoved a long boning knife as far as it would go between the bowl and the Jell-O. Then it finally came out.
4. For transportation purposes, I put the upside down bowl back over the plated mold and harnessed it in place with tape. If the Jell-O hadn’t already split, this may have worked. Since it did split, bits of Jell-O were preventing the bowl from making contact with the plate. Lesson Learned: either don’t let the Jell-O split or even better, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination so that transportation is not an issue. I didn’t want to bring a big honkin knife to work but what the hell. What’s one more weapon in my cubicle?
5. I put the plated mold with the bowl covering on the floor of the front passenger seat where it jiggled at me horrifically**. My commute was longer than normal thanks to flooded roads and the Jell-O continue to wiggle and ooze out from under the bowl. When I finally got to the highway, I floored it in an attempt to get the wretched thing out of my car before it touched the carpet. Lesson Learned: I reiterate, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination. Jell-O was not meant to go 80mph.
6. Jell-O smells really bad on its own and if you’re anything like me, the odor will make your stomach turn as you relive memories from high school of your first attempt at Jell-O shots. Lesson Learned: Do not mix tequila and lime Jell-O even if you’re in high school and it’s the only thing you and your friends can steal from your parents’ liquor cabinets without getting busted because no one ever drank the tequila and you could tell from the amount of dust on the bottle. The memory will haunt you well into your 20s.
I hope my pointers serve to help you in your own future pranks. I know this time next year, I’ll be references them myself.
*This shit is so gross. How is it considered dessert?
**SERIOUSLY – HOW COULD SOMEONE EVER WILLINGLY IMBIBE THIS VIAL SUBSTANCE?
Office BFF is a die-hard Office fan and prides herself on being our office’s version of Dwight. So, this year’s inspiration came from the pilot episode. As luck would have it, Office B took a vacation day on March31. Why someone would leave their personal belongings unprotected the day before April Fools with me around, I’ll never know. Suffice it to say, she did and I took advantage by abducting her favorite mug…
Figure 1
… and asking Beau to buy as many packages of strawberry Jell-O that he could find on his way home from work. Shortly after dinner, I was in the kitchen setting this up:
Figure 2 When I pulled it out of the fridge on Thursday morning, it was magnificent. Sadly, it did not survive my commute as well as I had hoped:
Figure 3
Regardless, many laughs were had by all and Office B shouted “I’ve been Dwighted” when she got to work so I consider it a success. If anyone would like to try it out themselves, learn from my mistakes:
1. I positioned the mug horizontally instead of vertically on purpose but in retrospect, it was probably my first mistake. I was hoping to create the illusion of suspension since it was too big to touch the bottom of the bowl (see Figure 2). This way when I took the block of Jell-O out of the bowl, the mug appeared to float a couple of inches from both the top and bottom. The problem lay (lie? Laid? Lied?) in the contact points in which the mug touched the sides of the bowl. Those created weak spots in the outside of the mold which eventually turned into larger fissures. Lesson Learned: A better way was to suspend an object in Jell-O can be found at (where else?)
http://www.jellostapler.com/stapler-in-jello.html.1. I positioned the mug horizontally instead of vertically on purpose but in retrospect, it was probably my first mistake. I was hoping to create the illusion of suspension since it was too big to touch the bottom of the bowl (see Figure 2). This way when I took the block of Jell-O out of the bowl, the mug appeared to float a couple of inches from both the top and bottom. The problem lay (lie? Laid? Lied?) in the contact points in which the mug touched the sides of the bowl. Those created weak spots in the outside of the mold which eventually turned into larger fissures. Lesson Learned: A better way was to suspend an object in Jell-O can be found at (where else?)
2. Jell-O will stain white counter tops. Lesson Learned: Work over the sink or (like I did) make sure you have a serious stain remover on hand. Beau had to the leave the room when I cleaned though because the stain remover reminded him of cleaning up vomit in college.
3. Before pouring in the liquid Jell-O, I greased the interior of the bowl with cooking spray in the clever hopes that it would make removal easier. It did nothing of the sort. When I pulled it out of the fridge and shook it over a plate, it didn’t fall out. I thought that maybe the top edge of the Jell-O was preventing it from sliding out easily since it was clearly adhered* to the side of the bowl. I slid a knife about an inch down around the mold. The next time I shook it, a chunk fell out but not the whole mold. Major fissure # 2. Thanks to the foul, clingy nature of Jell-O, I was able to stuff it back in the bowl and make it sort of whole again. Lesson Learned: I eventually shoved a long boning knife as far as it would go between the bowl and the Jell-O. Then it finally came out.
4. For transportation purposes, I put the upside down bowl back over the plated mold and harnessed it in place with tape. If the Jell-O hadn’t already split, this may have worked. Since it did split, bits of Jell-O were preventing the bowl from making contact with the plate. Lesson Learned: either don’t let the Jell-O split or even better, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination so that transportation is not an issue. I didn’t want to bring a big honkin knife to work but what the hell. What’s one more weapon in my cubicle?
5. I put the plated mold with the bowl covering on the floor of the front passenger seat where it jiggled at me horrifically**. My commute was longer than normal thanks to flooded roads and the Jell-O continue to wiggle and ooze out from under the bowl. When I finally got to the highway, I floored it in an attempt to get the wretched thing out of my car before it touched the carpet. Lesson Learned: I reiterate, pull the mold out of the bowl at its final destination. Jell-O was not meant to go 80mph.
6. Jell-O smells really bad on its own and if you’re anything like me, the odor will make your stomach turn as you relive memories from high school of your first attempt at Jell-O shots. Lesson Learned: Do not mix tequila and lime Jell-O even if you’re in high school and it’s the only thing you and your friends can steal from your parents’ liquor cabinets without getting busted because no one ever drank the tequila and you could tell from the amount of dust on the bottle. The memory will haunt you well into your 20s.
I hope my pointers serve to help you in your own future pranks. I know this time next year, I’ll be references them myself.
*This shit is so gross. How is it considered dessert?
**SERIOUSLY – HOW COULD SOMEONE EVER WILLINGLY IMBIBE THIS VIAL SUBSTANCE?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
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.
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.
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