Also, I Behaved Myself In God’s House

Yep, I know I haven’t written about Chairsy’s wedding yet. Nope, I probably never will. I’ll add it to the list of major life events that never got proper blog representation. I just never walk out of the big things with a napkin full of notes. The ladies restroom on the other hand… usually I've mentally drafted an entry by the time I leave. I don’t want to leave you completely empty handed though.

Somewhere around the seven rumndietcoke mark when the bartenders began marveling at my ability to stand up right, we busted out the glow bracelets to rave to Sandstorm. I’m pretty sure the glow sticks can be blamed for my illuminated boobs. Or maybe I’ve finally gone radioactive from all the Splenda pooling in my liver.

My Neurosis Knows No Bounds

My bathroom and the next closest bathroom are currently occupied by custodians and my bladder is ready to burst due to a cup of soup at lunch, a glass of water, and most of a can of Diet Coke which I continue to drink because I’m TEMPTING THE GODS. To keep my mind off of my dangerously distended lower abdomen, I will now furiously relate to you the textual panic attack that I sent Bologna while she was away from the computer to change a dirty diaper (probably Nugget’s, not her own). I can’t believe how out of whack her priorities are. Can’t the kid sit in a pile of his own feces for five minutes? I HAVE A CRISIS.

Everyone knows that I have severe stage fright when it comes to peeing in the presence of others but I flat out refuse to enter a bathroom inhabited by janitors. They are the ultimate, silent enemy. There’s no Mexican Stand Off that can deter them. They will wait for you to vacate because they need to finish cleaning that room. You can’t just curl up in the fetal position on the toilet, put your fingers in your ears and hum gently to yourself because it’s not a personal thing for them – it’s professional. They are professional Mexican Stand Offers. They’re paid to wait for you to move your ass so they can scrub the toilet under it.

As I have just demonstrated, waiting is not an option. I could just go in there are pee but the last time I did that, I imagined the custodian polishing the sink faucets, shaking her head and thinking “Seriously?! I JUST cleaned that and now I have to fucking do it again.” Except for the recleaning she’d have to scrub a freshly soiled toilet with loose urine particles still hanging in the air. And GOD FORBID the seat still be warm when she goes back to reclean it. I would not be able to live with the knowledge that there was a transfer of ass heat.

Anyway, after that played through my head last time I had to wash my hands while standing next to her, full of shame for my own biological insufficiencies. I almost apologized. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sprint across the building to find a safe haven before I follow Nugget’s example.

When We Last Left Our Hero

First of all, I turned my squash into soup and I want you to know that it was fan-freakin-tastic so I’ve actually purchased another butternut squash to pulverize into liquid for tonight’s dinner. Second, wow. It’s been two and a half weeks? A lot happened. A lot. Oodles. I will now summarize for any interested parties who may or may not have attacked my Facebook wall with wails of rage over my lack of blog attention due to brides-slave duties and also doing someone else’s project at work. The only thing I’ll leave out is when I was almost attacked by zombies. That’s a story for another time.

So where did I leave off? Ah yes. The two-foot inflatable penis. It was implemented as it should have been. Meaning shortly before the bachelorette party guests began arriving at my hotel room to pregame, I sat around in my underwear watching Food Network and blowing it up. Then we posed with it and repeatedly tossed it at our token gay guy. Much joviality was had by all. After polishing off a bottle of vodka, all sixteen of us piled into the rickety old elevator (because it looked like a REALLY good idea at the time) and had a collective panic attack when it started jerking a bit and showing other signs of strain.

We stormed Sissy K’s (which will put you on the guest list, waive the cover charge, and let you skip ahead of the line if you call ahead for a bachelorette party reservation) and did all the things good little single ladies should do: threw back test tube shots, asked young gentlemen for their underwear for a scavenger hunt, danced so much our legs hurt for the next two days and handed out mardi gras beads. Oh. And I also may have almost gotten into a fist fight when some bitch shoved Chairsy, the bride, on the dance floor. But Chairsy is made of sugar and spice and everything nice so she didn’t even realize the girl had shoved her on purpose. She just kept on smiling and bopping along to the music while I got up in the chick’s face with that wide-armed you-messed-with-the-wrong-brides-maid stance but the bitch ran away so I didn’t get to throw punches after all.

Next we stumbled, skipped, and piggy backed over to the Grand Canal where we had another connection that allowed us to jump the line for free. Once inside we realized it was a pseudo classy bar which we were adulterating with our boisterous shouting and Chairsy’s loud complaints that the bartender didn’t know how to make a blow job shot. Then the night got fuzzy and I think I made friends with a hooker in the ladies’ bathroom. She looked like Bret Michaels in a gold lame mini dress and she was using the hand dryer to make her hair bigger. Love at first sight.

Eventually, the night wound down and our drunken bride began demanding her comfy shoes so we shuffled back to the parking garage to retrieve her Uggs from the trunk of her car but the thing about parking garages? Really tricky to get into when you’re drunk. The security guard yelled at us when we attempted to hoof it down the ramp meant for incoming vehicles. Finally we found a staircase which took us to the right place but the second we emerged from the stairwell, the door slammed shut and an ominous sign said “No Readmittance” which wouldn’t have stopped us except it also had the audacity to lock. Once Chairsy had appropriated the preferred footwear, we found an operating elevator and cheered and high fived all the way to the floor marked with a star. That floor ended up being the grand marble-clad lobby of 75 State Street where a gaggle of drunk girls wearing matching neon pink shirts look ever so slightly conspicuous at two in the morning. We certainly weren’t returning to the creepy depths of Mordor though, so instead, we attempted the front door which was locked and guarded by two police officers behind a line of yellow tape. So, um. I knocked. Politely. And then a little bit more insistently.

Eventually they overcame their surprise and opened the doors to yell at us as we scampered outside. After 10 or 15 seconds of trying to respectfully explain the stairwell situation to calm their belligerent scolding, we grew bored and Chairsy started to wander so I closed the conversation by yelling “Well, we’re outside now, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it, officer?” and followed the entourage down the street.

Shortly after, we parted ways so the bride could attack a McDonalds on the way to her own hotel. Apparently I know Boston better than I previously assumed because I found my way back to my hotel without incident and in celebration, purchased a large bag of snacks from the 711 next door. I then proceeded to stand on the street corner eating Combos from my purse while texting Beau.

I woke up relatively early the next morning in relatively good shape. I pulled down streamers and popped about thirty balloons with a pen to avoid getting charged for trashing the room before smuggling all of the remaining penis accoutrement in the bag that Chairsy left with me for safe keeping. Including a deflated two-foot wang.

Your Own. Personal. Jesus.

I currently have a butternut squash and a two-foot-long inflatable penis in my car and they are, in some strange way, related thanks to Chairsy’s upcoming wedding. The wiener is one of many inappropriate objects destined for her bachelorette party this Saturday. The produce. Well.

As you may remember, I was incorrectly measured for my bridesmaids dress. I have since learned that it was ordered a full THREE sizes too small. I’d lost a size by the time it was delivered so by the time I was hopping up and down trying to squeeze into it, it was only TWO sizes too small. Only. After briefly exercising in an attempt to shed 30 pounds in 2 months, I came to the conclusion that I much prefer drinking vodka alone at my kitchen counter to sweating. She-Ra recommended I go to the uber-Italian seamstress who altered her wedding gown, proclaiming her a bonafide miracle worker. She works (and apparently lives) in the basement of her big, beautiful house, I assume because Italians have a strict no-touch policy when it comes to having nice things (thus the plastic couch covers so prevalent in popular movies). I’m used to this because my aunt in Long Island has a white couch in her mirrored front parlor guarded by a porcelain jaguar. In a quarter of a century, I have NEVER seen anyone sit on that couch. Anyway, that’s why the basement thing didn’t weird me out.

Last month, after a bit of prodding and yanking on the zipper, the seamstress asked for more fabric to complete the sash around the middle of the dress. I ordered a yard of it from China which was finally delivered last weekend. I didn’t make it to the seamstress until today because I’m having a REALLY hectic week month year. I forgot the fabric at home on Tuesday, postponed my fitting till Wednesday, forgot the shoes on Wednesday, postponed the fitting till today and finally made it to her house basement, flustered, red-faced, and extremely apologetic.

I wiggled into the dress which already fit thanks to her wizardry and wobbled out to the pedestal where she spun me around in circles while marking the hem and patiently listening to my outpouring of gratitude for fixing a dress that previously had a 4-inch gap to overcome via its zipper. I paused for breath at one point and she calmly said while holding pins between her lips, “That’s life. Nothing to get upset over. Don’t you worry. This is nothing.” It made me pause mid-hyperventilation and reevaluate my entire life. Wow. So what if I came inches (4 to be exact) from walking down a church aisle at one of my best friend’s weddings with a gapping hole in the back of my dress? It’s not the end of the world. No biggy. She fixed it. Just like that. I wanted to take her with me to say it over and over again the next time I’m stuck in traffic thinking about following a tailgater home so I can egg their house and key their car.

While I stood there dumbstruck by my existential epiphany, her husband wandered through the studio to ask about lunch. They exchanged a few words in Italian and he smiled and said to me, “I still have to ask her how to cook everything.” I smiled. Then he asked “You like these?” and pointed to the squash in his hand. I answered “Of course!” He could have been holding a pound of rancid meat and I would have said yes at that moment. “Then I give you one before you go.” True to his word after I’d changed clothes again, he took me to the garage to display his garden’s bumper crop and insisted I pick out a butternut squash for dinner. I almost hugged the seamstress when she walked me to the door. We’ve shared philosophy and squash. In the Italian culture, that practically makes us family now.

Even Bigger Yawns

Christ almighty. I’m now getting over round THREE of the ailment that will not die and now work refuses to settle down. Turns out I have a real job. Weird… good thing I don’t show up hung over anymore. Well, except the day after Nugget was born but that was situational intoxication. I was innocently drinking red wine at a dinner party when suddenly Bologna sent me a picture of him and I was SO excited to a) be an aunt and b) figure out how to open a picture text that I may have accidentally gotten into the bottle of rum. Half the bottle of rum. Anyway. As I was saying: Nug.

via Flutter Productions

While we were in the Jerz, a photographer stopped by to take some family portraits. I’m pumped to see the rest of her set because in addition to the usual formal pictures, there's also a series of about 50 shots of Nugget crapping his pants while sitting on T’s knee. You would not believe the faces that this kid pulls. First it’s a look of consternation, followed by effort, then relief, utter shock, disgust, confusion, and finally delight. I’m going to make it into a flip book and show his girlfriends when he’s a teenager.

Great Big Yawns

I’m back from round two of the cold that will not die. Lounging this past weekend probably would have been a better option than drinking in the city, shopping at the new Dedham mall, catching a late showing of Julie & Julia, cleaning the entire house , and then hiking and picnicking in the Blue Hills but at least I’ve committed myself to slothfulness this coming weekend to teach myself a lesson.

I realize that I’ve neglected to go into any amount of detail concerning the events of the past few weeks, but instead of chronicling every moment of madness, I thought I’d just drop some pictures and brief explanations over the next few days. Is good? Yes? Does anyone even read this thing? Good, then I can do whatever I want instead of catering to my imaginary fans. Starting tomorrow.

A Mexican Standoff of Epic Proportions

Maybe you’ve noticed I avoid discussing work these days. I know I’m flattering myself but it’s because I’m afraid that should my real name ever get out, I’ll get fired for online snarkiness and since I have no marketable skills, I will remained unemployed for many moon while my savings wither away. But the following story? This I must share with you.

To preface this, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had about six hours of sleep in the past two days. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because that busyness is exhausting me and when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in my narcotic of choice, Advil PM. I haven’t gotten there yet since it’s only been two nights of insomnia. I’m still firmly planted in the phase that oscillates between crankiness and glazed-over, vacant staring.

So, when I entered the ladies room earlier today and saw that my favorite stall was occupied, I got a little ornery. I was forced to take the handicapped stall at the end to provide a buffer. Hate that stall. My feet swing because my legs are short. Grumble grumble.

Normally I would just wiz and leave but because I’m a LITTLE ON EDGE RIGHT NOW I SO CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE SOME FUCKING PRIVACY WHILE I URINATE, I waited. Seconds crept by. The other occupant shuffled and fidgeted a bit. She pulled some paper from the roll and deafeningly wadded it into a ball. I tapped my foot. She made a second toilet paper wad. I sighed. By then I had passed the Awkwardness Barrier which requires that you perform within 20 seconds of seating yourself in a public bathroom when only one other stranger is present. Whether those 20 seconds pass due to stage fright or choice, after that time period it is absolutely prohibited to do your business until the other occupant has vacated. Why is this a rule? I don’t know. Maybe this is how my OCD brain keeps me from tapping things as I walk by them like my father does. Maybe I just can’t stand the sound of pure silence unexpectedly interrupted by the piercing cry of pee on water. Regardless, after this period of time, you enter into a Mexican Stand Off with your opponent. Only one can remain and I was prepared to wait another half an hour or so to prove my point.

I was pulled from my dazed reverie by a cough. With a heavy heart, I recognized it. It was a particular coworker of mine who consistently makes my eye tick. She’s foreign. Even her cough has a thick accent. She’s also the office talker: get caught at the sink with her and you will need to discuss for 15 minutes how you are both in the restroom at the same time and isn’t that SUCH a coincidence. Any slim consideration of getting on with my business vanished. She was going to fucking leave and I was going to get my fucking privacy and oh my god, I think I just burst a blood vessel in my eye.

Please allow me to expand on my vehemence. Office B and I have nicknamed this woman “Happy F” because after her first week here she wished us all a very happy Friday. Each one of us. Individually. And then next week it was “Happy Monday!” and “Happy Tuesday!” etc. etc. until my nails were digging into my palms to keep me from flying at her in a fit of desperate rage. You want more? She has taken it upon herself to be our personal welcome wagon and hug new employees on their first day. HUG. As in full body contact. She asks a series of questions that would be better directed at Google to anyone who demonstrates the slightest shred of competence in a topic. I despise watering the plant next to her desk because inevitably, she prairie dogs out of her cubicle and starts asking me about sun exposure, speckles on foliage, and botanical terminology and I have to stand there and not say, “I’m just watering the fucking plant” which takes immense restraint on my part. She makes me order random office supplies. In one instance, she decided she didn’t like the footstool I got her (footstool – who needs a footstool?!) , she hid it in the storage closet and buried it under other things as if I eventually wouldn’t think, “hmm, I don’t remember leaving all of these previously neatly stacked items in one heap on the floor.” She once told people gathered around the coffee machine that she heard on NPR that laughing has health benefits so if you live alone, they recommend practicing on inanimate objects. Like tea cups. Then she demonstrated. Now I can’t erase the depressing mental image of her standing alone in a tattered bathrobe giggling at her morning cup of tea in an otherwise deserted studio apartment.

So, that’s Happy F. Imagine my relief when she gave up and flushed. Another minute or two and I would be clear to evacuate the three cups of coffee that were keeping my sleep deprived brain semi-useful. She washed her hands. I stared at my boots and imagined that I was somewhere else. Then I heard the sound that will echo through future nightmares. The unmistakable zing of a make-up bag zipper sliding open.

For the next eternity, I sat in silence as she brushed her teeth, rinsed, brushed a few spots she had missed, and rinsed again. I sighed loudly. She flossed. I counted ceiling tiles. She gargled with mouth wash, and rinsed. In a dramatic gesture, I rested my forehead on my right arm which I had stretched out along the metal support bar on the wall. She patted her hands with a paper towel, brushed her hair, wiped down the counter, adjusted her clothing and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. By the end, I had resigned myself to die alone in the handicapped stall and was preparing to scrawl my last will and testament across the wall. I leave my DVDs to Lulu, the condo to Beau, my collection of strangers’ grocery lists to Bologna. But to Happy F, I leave NOTHING.

My head jerked up when the door swung open and another woman entered. I had dozed off somewhere near the end of Happy F’s grooming session and didn’t notice when she left. I finished my business and returned to my desk, having proven my point by spending my entire lunch break in the restroom.