About the time I stopped updating this blog, I switched my career focus from the Land of Lawyerly Things to something a bit more free spirited. In my new job, as with most positions that are a a few rungs up the corporate ladder, I occasionally have to interview people. And actually, I had to talk to somebody today. But she had an unusual request…

This is an Honest-to-God email that the interviewee sent me yesterday, along with the supporting photographic evidence from earlier tonight.

Katherine,

I wanted to confirm my interview with you, and also ask a strange question–do you have a refrigerator that I could store a turkey in while I’m there?  I think I mentioned that our office is immediately next door to Whole Foods.  I have to pick up our Thanksgiving turkey tomorrow and I either need to come all the way back here after talking with you or bring it with me, so let me know if storing a 12lb turkey in a fridge for the time I’m there is an option.

I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow.

Thanks,

Interviewee

She brought a full dinner, complete with stuffing, cranberries, green bean casserole...

Respect the Turkey!

Stored!

The Big Girl Bed

There are certain consumer-ish milestones people hit on the way to Adulthood. My list included buying a car, owning measuring cups, and coveting a Dyson. By the time I was out of law school, I had reached 99% of the benchmarks. But even after I got the Dyson and managed to have a closet dedicated solely to shoes, there was one seminal Adulthood Marker that eluded me: The Big Girl Bed.

I have this theory that as soon as a person:

1. Supports themselves;
2. Quasi-regularly makes whoopee (or at least aspires to); and
3. Has any self-respect;

then they will acquire a mattress set, any mattress set, bigger than a Twin. It doesn’t matter if it’s purchased from a mattress mega mart, a parental cast-off or from IKEA. As long as it is sized-out of the Transformers sheet set option, it will do.

And for many years, I was the exception to my own rule. Sure I was self-respecting, financially solvent and getting some; I just got it in a Twin bed. Until I was 26. So scratch that self-respecting claim. Anyway, for various reasons I never acquired a larger bed. Things like my shoe collection and vodka took precedent. When I finally did upgrade from the Twin, it wasn’t because I was motivated enough to go purchase a mattress set for myself. Instead, I inherited my brother’s girlfriend’s old bed.

The new-to-me mattress was a Full and I suspect that several generations had previously slept on it. Aside from the sagging and smoke-smell, it came with a rip in the mattress where the stuffing was popping out, forming a bump that never seemed to go away no matter how I flipped it. There were also the broken box springs to contend with. Each night, I had to delicately lie down and avoid shifting around too frequently in my sleep. Because if I didn’t position myself just right, I’d be jolted awake as the bed collapsed into a V-formation centered on where the box springs no longer held together. It got to the point where sex in became a race against the inevitable bed collapse. And with my active sleepover schedule, I was highly motivated to fix the problem. I tired everything from two-by-fours to plywood, but despite my best efforts, in the middle of an intimate moment, the bed would go down. After about five months, some combination of hormones, alcohol and desperation lead to a moment of genius because I finally thought to stack a few law school books under the weak spot. And no matter how much I tried thereafter, the bed never collapsed again.

In retrospect, that bed was craptacular and I might have been better off keeping the Twin. But I didn’t. After all, it still achieved that vital step up the Adulthood Ladder and ultimately, that’s all that matter to my vodka-loving bank account. Until recently. Because something happens after a person turns 30. It’s like a switch flips and all the vitality of youth is sapped from the body. It’s one of those strange things that everybody knows about but science has yet to explain. And at 31, my ability to withstand hangovers, wear four-inch heels and sleep on a horrible, saggy mattress are all things of the past. I’m still willing to give up my entire Sunday to the misery of a hangover. And who in their right mind would give up cute shoes? But the mattress had to go.

This morning, my new, $2500, memory-foam-core and fancy, individually wrapped coil dream bed arrived. When the deliverymen saw my old mattress, one of them started laughing. And as they lifted the infamous box springs, a thud was followed by a yowl and some sort of growl-panting combination. Apparently Number Two was hiding admits the coils. When I finally ripped open the box spring covering to where she was, Number Two flew out, hissing and twice her size. I also found a repository of cat toys, pens and used Kleenex. It seems Number Two is a hoarder.

This new mattress set is everything a Big Girl Bed should be: firm, level, and Queen-sized. Laying on it is akin to orgasmic bliss. Plus, I suspect it can go a few rounds of nighttime fun without the possibility of imminent collapse. I guess that finally, at age 31 and a half, I have reached the last Adulthood milestone. Well, maybe aside from having a robust 401k.

Happiness can be bought.

And one day there will throw pillows, a headboard and even a matching lamp!

The Consequences of Drinking

I’ve been able to legally consume vodka for over a decade. In that time, I’ve learned exactly how many drinks I can have before I want to share the glory of my bosoms with total strangers, and how many more it takes for the urge to be acted on. That particular lesson came one fabled law school night, when I decided to forget experience, ignore the bra-less warning signs and kept on drinking. I eventually reenacted the striptease from Gypsy (complete with boob shake and leg kicks) for an entire bar. Ten years of drinking experience has also taught me when to put the trash can next to the bed and that on very rare occasions, like the Gypsy Night, it is advisable to sleep on the bathroom floor. But between a Typical Weekend Night where I behave myself and hold my naked impulses in check, and the other extreme where Public Nudity Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time, there’s an in-between phase. Its a place where I’m drunk enough to be stupid but not to the point my friends are taking me home, demanding I keep my clothes on at least during the cab ride. Its these in-between nights where Droids get broken (like Friday), shoes get lost (also on Friday) and nail polish disasters occur (clearly Friday was eventful).

I know exactly how the Droid thing happened. It was about 8 o’clock, several hours into a prolonged work happy hour but still early enough that all the details are clear. For some reason, I had my phone on the corner of the table and it fell from the extended-height tabletop to the concrete patio. My phones generally take a beating and in the three months I’d had it, the Droid was no different. It survived multiple falls, a kitchen sink immersion and 20 pounds of Bionic Kitty sitting on it at every opportunity. But apparently a five foot drop onto pressed concrete was too much. Initially I thought the phone was only cracked, but as the weekend progressed, the hairline screen fracture grew and turned into a flickering screen with limited touch capabilities. Essentially, it is a big brink in my purse that occasionally rings but I can’t answer. This morning, I coughed up $300 and am on the waiting list for an X.

I’m also pretty sure how the shoe casualty went down. On Saturday, when I was trying to establish my Consumption Timeline, I determined the loss was after I left happy hour (I opted to leave six hours after it began, and it was still going strong, by the way) and had met Stella for more drinking. There are parts that get a little fuzzy but I believe at some point, I demanded she put me in a cab. All I know for sure is that I suddenly started to experience the early-onset symptoms of a nudity urge, so logically, I took off my shoes and tried to put my feet out the window of a moving vehicle. Understandably, the cabbie was not happy about this and expressed his displeasure. I have vague recollections of phrases like “stupid white girls and their freaky behaviors” and “get your (deleted), (deleted) feet out of the (deleted) window or I’ll kick your scrawny, white (deleted).” He got me home safely and I tipped him well, in part for putting up with me but also for calling me “scrawny.” I took that as a complement. In addition to the extra cash, it seems the cab driver also acquired one of my shoes. I know I got into the cab with two but by the time I reached my apartment building door, there was only one. If it had gone out the window, I’m confident I would have remembered that; I suspect I just left it behind. Randomly around DC, I’ll come across a single dress shoe or flip-flop. Occasionally there’ll be a nearby sock as well. I’ve never understood where these things came from, but I’m beginning to suspect that I am not the only person with alcohol-induced nudity urges, and these lone shoes are the byproducts.

But I discovered  the biggest calamity of my Drink-A-Thon about 6:40 a.m. on Saturday, when I woke up craving water. After a night of quasi-debauchery, I always get up in the wee hours thanks to an overwhelming need to hydrate. I’ve learned to optimize this time, since it’s the witching hour between drunkenness and the onset of hangover. Usually, all I have to do it get water, take aspirin and choose trash can or toilet. But on Saturday morning, as I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stepped towards the kitchen for my date with the Brita, my foot landed directly in a puddle of something wet and tacky. My initial impulse was I had thrown up and missed the trash can, but when I looked down, I discovered a puddle of nail polish.

My forensic analysis of the scene suggests that at some point after I got home, I decided to be proactive and help mitigate my hangover by drinking a some water and eating. Scattered along the floor, on the side of my bed, was a bottle of water, assorted granola bars, a bag of shredded cheddar and nail polish. The order in which everything occurred is unclear, but the evidence suggests I ate half of at least three granola bars. The bag of cheese was open and strewn over the comforter; I’m not sure where that comes into play. The nail polish is also unexplainable since my mani and pedi were completely intact. But the bottle was clearly open and sitting on the edge of a puddle of OPI’s Atomic Orange. From the epicenter of the spill, which my foot landed directly in when I was getting out of bed, were paw prints radiating out in a systematic pattern, like a cat knowingly went through the polish and then walked until the wet gloss wore off. From the repeated one-way tracks, it looked like the cat did this over and over again, turning around and re-walking through the polish every time it began to dissipate.

Obviously the first thing I did after washing my foot and cleaning the majority of the polish spill was to investigate the cats. Number Two’s paws came up clean but, as expected, there were orange chunks matted in the base of Bionic Kitty’s leg fur. By that point, my hangover had kicked in and I knew I was about to be horizontal for the day. Scraping up the orange prints took almost five hours on Sunday and the entire time, I wished that Friday night had ended with public nudity instead.

Hopefully It Has Been Long Enough That My Mom’s Not Reading Anymore…

There have been a kajillion times in the last year where I’ve added something to my Mental List Of Life Events Worthy Of Blogging About. But there’s never been time to actually take a minute and capture one of those ideas in a post. Because in the last twelve months I’ve been laid off, moved, consumed astonishing amounts of Grey Goose, been hired, decided that sleeping with dating a guy who lives on the fourth floor of my building was a good idea, and stopped sleeping with broken up with Building Boy. More recently, I have spent each morning promising God assorted vodka-related sacrifices if only He’d spare my dignity and let the person on the other side of the elevator door not be Building Boy or his current one night stand. Plus, re-watching Battlestar Galactica and the entire Joss Whedon catalog takes a serious investment of (wo)man hours. All in all, it’s been a busy year. But tonight, the universe gave me a free evening on the exact same day that something happened. You know, one of those humiliating life moments that has to be relayed to the Webosphere. Immediately.

And the story goes like this:

On Saturday morning, my kitchen sink got some sort of clog. It was one of those incidents which support my home ownership theories. Specifically, my belief that plumbing, mulching and bug squashing fall within the job duties of husbands, boyfriends, fathers and/or hired professionals. That stuff involves tools (which I do not have) and the ability to deal with Gross Stuff (which I can do but prefer to avoid). So, when the kitchen sink clogged, I called the Building Engineer for my rent-costs-more-than-my-parents’-mortgage-because-I-live-in-Dupont apartment. After all, I might only have 450-square-feet, but for the price I pay, I darn well will have somebody else fix my clogs.

Fixing these types of things is why I need a boyfriend.

Or not.

Apparently, the property management company charges $150 for the Building Engineer to come out for non-emergencies over a holiday weekend. And gray, refuse-infested water coming up from my kitchen sink doesn’t qualify as an emergency until it overflows. In the interest of the Vodka Consumption Budget, I opted not to pay the fee and wait for the flooding to commence. Three hours later, the water was at the same half-way point it had been when I initially noticed the problem. But my 450-square-feet had developed a funky odor. So, I ran the faucet to encourage the swill level to rise and speed up the moment would I could again call the Building Engineer. But the darn sink just drained back to half-filled. Over the next few hours, there were a few more rounds of Encourage A Flood, but the water level still drained back to midpoint. And in the meantime, the smell had progressed from Mildly Unpleasant to Holy Mother Of God. Two hours later, my eyes were burning, but still not enough for me to suck it up and pay the fee. Finally, around mid-afternoon, I walked into the kitchen to check the water levels and found Bionic Kitty lapping up the sludge like it was manna from Cat Heaven. In that moment, I realized I was either going to pay $150 to the Building Engineer, $300 to the vet for cat stomach-pumping, or I’d have to fix the damn drain myself. A $10 bottle of Draino, a coat hanger and 20-minutes of Googleing “drain clog kitchen girl-friendly fix” later, the waters had receded.

But, before we go on, Seven Any Remaining Loyal Readers, there is something in my past that I must share:

Way back in law school, I happened to go to a sex toy party. I don’t recall the exact circumstances that led to my attendance, but the end result was me purchasing $150 worth of self-luvin’ equipment and a realization that I had answered more of the attendees’ questions than the sales lady. Long story short, that night led to a multi-year stint as a semi-successful Adult Accouterment Seller. It was a part-time job tailor made for me: I got to purchase product for retail prices and my vodka-loving ways were no longer solely funded by student loans and heavy flirting. Anyway, it’s been years since I’ve been in the battery operated business, but my personal inventory has remained more or less untouched. Last count, I had enough vibrators to rival my shoe collection.

Now, to resume my Tale of Personal Humiliation:

Last night, after watching the weather report, I begrudgingly decided it was time to un-Earth my Summer In A Swamp wardrobe. I spent the next 30 minutes pulling storage boxes, and the accompanying cat hair balls, from under the bed. This spiraled into a massive cleaning spree where I rotated my mattress, reorganized my entire under-bed-storage system, and sorted my Personal Satisfaction Inventory into the few items I actually used and those could be stowed in the empty summer clothes containers. And proper sex-toy storage is a big deal. Those things can grow funky bacteria or melt in inclement conditions. Trust me. So, before I packed away the so-big-it’s-only-for-display type dildos and jet-propulsion vibrators, I spent an hour carefully washing a multitude of sex toys and standing them on my one-square foot of kitchen counter. My intent was to let them air dry over night before I finished the packing process the next day.

Fast forward to this evening, when I came home…

After a long day at work, I dropped my purse and keys by the door and headed into the kitchen. All I could think about was making a margarita and figuring out the Dinner Situation. But as I walked in, I immediately noticed a big blue thing in the middle of the linoleum. Initially, I couldn’t figure out what the heck that thing was or how it got there. I panicked for about two seconds, as homicidal maniac and burglar scenarios ran through my head. But as I reached to turn on the light, I realized the big blue thing looked like a plunger. And then I realized I hadn’t cancelled my Building Engineer maintenance request from the weekend.

Yeah. Great.

On my itsy-bitsy counter was a note from the Building Engineer telling me that he had come to fix the sink clog I’d called in, that it appeared the problem was fixed but he left some drain tablets and an industrial-sized plunger in case I ran into a problem in the future. And to my left, neatly and thoughtfully stacked on the butcher block cart I use to double my limited kitchen space, well out of the range of the sink, were roughly two dozen dildos, vibrators and assorted cock rings.

It might be time to move again…

Why The Fantasy Is Never As Good As The Reality

I am in the middle of a self-imposed Man Moratorium. Initially it stemmed from the emotional fallout of my last relationship but now it’s more that I’ve developed a general state of disgust when it comes to anything with a penis. The idea of dating just feels daunting these days. I’m not in the mood to wade through the sea of pleated-pants-wearing, workaholic, overachievers to find the lone intelligent, funny, snappy-dressing-but-still-not-gay manicorn that has miraculously managed to avoid full-blown Douchedom. Yeah, I’m bitter. And chancing another Wasabi Death Incident or potentially encountering Puker: The Sequel is more than I’m willing to endure. Instead, single, with on demand battery-operated sexual fulfillment, is working out just fine. My taxi light is firmly off and I’ve accepted that by taking a dating break at 30, it is totally possible my future could involve Crazy Cat Lady. But being in a Man-cation doesn’t mean I can’t look. Or shamelessly fantasize about random men.

Anyway, last night I left Lawyer Utopia kind of late. When I log the hours, I typically grab the 38B instead of Metroing home. There’s a stop directly in front of Soviet Safeway and my single state has devolved to a nightly dinner of box wine and the hot bar dregs. The other 38B appeal is the cute 30-something guy who gets on right before Georgetown, sits somewhere in the back of the bus and reads intellectual books. Last week it was Nixonland. This week it’s The Lazarus Project. He’s pleated-pants free and so far, I’ve not spotted any indications that he’s in a relationship. We’ve never talked, let alone made actual eye contact. But he’s reasonably attractive, seemingly harmless, and a fixture on my evening commute home. Thus, he qualifies as the perfect target for my reoccurring Bus Boyfriend fantasy.

Aside from Bus Boyfriend, my Fantasy Man Life usually involves Prince William, David Hasselhoff: The Early Years, or Scott Baio. It’s always G-rated. Sorta heavily-edited Harlequin or slightly tawdry Disney. Anyway, in my daydreams, Fantasy Man and I meet in a generic yet still great-story-to-tell-the-grandkids sort of way. Often it involves a random run-in at a Metro stop or a blind date we were both reluctant to go on. Because the greatest love stories of all time involve boy initially hates girl/girl thinks boy is a schmuck scenarios, we don’t get along. But fate keeps throwing us together until Fantasy Man Du Jour and I realize our love is destined. He proposes in some romantic yet still unnauseating way and that’s it. End of fantasy.

I’m sure my therapist would go all Freudish about these, especially in light of my current Anti-Man Stance. But whatever. To me, they’re just flights of imagination. Like a trashy romance novel in my head. And until last night, my imaginary Cinderella-like existence with Bus Boyfriend and his cronies was great. But, as fate would have it, I now have to remove Bus Boyfriend from the fantasy lineup.

Per usual, Bus Boyfriend got on the 38B last night. It was surprisingly crowded and instead of following his normal head straight to the back M.O., Bus Boyfriend looked around, spotted a free seat and beelined. Within nanoseconds, he was sitting in the empty next to me. I was eight shades of thrilled. This was my chance. An honest-to-God Metro Bus encounter that would make for great Ahhhh-isn’t-it-cute-how-they-met type wedding toasts. All I had to do was strike up a conversation about something innocuous, flutter my eyelashes enticingly and if that wasn’t enough to keep Bus Boyfriend enthralled, flash a little boobie. My breasts are like a dating tractor beam: point, shoot, score a number. Yet, instead of employing my usual flirtactics, I sat there. Mute. For 23 agonizing minutes I didn’t say a word. Opening lines kept popping into my head but I’d instantly reject them as not witty enough or as feeling rehearsed.

As the 38B went over Key Bridge, it hit a meteor-sized pothole. My iPod flew from my hand and landed on Bus Boyfriend’s lap. It was a moment ripe for a witty remark. But instead, I reached over on a retrieval mission and accidentally fondled his package. Still, I said nothing. No apology for the inadvertent molestation; not even an awkward complement on the endowment of his Man Parts. Speechless mortification had set in.

When the bus pulled into the Rosslyn Metro, I realized time was running out; the next stop was Soviet Safeway. But not even that was enough to get me to make a move. Instead of professing my undying fantasy love or my belief that we’d produce Gerber-label-esque babies, I just pulled the Stop Request cord, did the universal bag shuffle that signaled to Bus Boy I needed to get off, and scotched past him. As I inched around his knees, I finally broke the silence.

Me (in mumbly sort of way): Excuse me.

Bus Boyfriend (with a disturbingly knowing smile): No problem. Good night.

If my life were a trashy romance novel, those four words would have been the quintessential, defining sentences. But Katherine Land is a far cry from Danielle Steel; Bus Boyfriend’s voice was pitched astonishingly like Alvin’s, of “And The Chipmunks” fame. Except an octave higher and with a squeakiness reminiscent of somebody taking a hit of helium.

It was enough to reaffirm my singlehood and move Don Draper into the Fantasy Man rotation.

I Wish I Were Making This Up But I’m Not

I am lactose intolerant. It has been previously documented here, here and here. For years, I’ve dealt with it. But due to deep rooted psychological hang-ups the resulting obstinacy issues I am currently exploring in weekly therapy, I refuse to take lactaid pills. Consequently, I have figured out the magical amount of dairy I can eat without setting off The Shits. General stomach pain and excessive gas? Fine. I’ll deal. But suffering long years of lactic hell has taught me exactly what I can eat while still avoiding Total Tummy Annihilation.

For lunch today, I suggested the office order in pizza. We’ve had a rough week and it seemed like a suitable Managerial Band-Aid. Plus, I could eat two or three slices and stay within my dairy sweet spot. After debating the pros and cons of various pizza providers, the majority finally settled on Papa Johns. It came, I ate two slices, and returned to my regularly scheduled work program. As expected, about 20 minutes later, my stomach started to rumble. Five minutes after that, I got gas. Chair rumbling, lift-up-your-leg-to-let-it-all-out, registers-on-the-Richter gas. With my office door closed, the Lawyerly Ventilation System creates hurricane worth air circulation, so I thought nothing of sitting at my desk, doing research and farting away. Until I shit my pants.

Seriously.

It was one of those farts where you have to push a little to get it out; where there’s just a tad bit of thrust behind it. I guess the combination of forceful fart and lactose-induced stomach unrest was just too much because as soon as it broke the butt cheek barrier, I knew something was wrong. For about eight seconds, I was in denial. I mean, who wants to admit they shit their pants two days into their 30’s? But reality is reality. I was sitting in my stink-bombed office in poopy panties.

Panicking, I got up, grabbed the bathroom key and waddled to the facilities. Thankfully, the Ladies was empty and I could rectify the situation in peace. It took half an econo-roll of TP, three enormous wads of damp paper towel and surgical-like hand washing to make me feel clean again. Not to mention that I trashed my undies in the sanitary napkin receptacle and am now experiencing Workplace Commando.

Yep.

I’m just about to walk down to CVS and buy some lactaid pills. And possibly a diaper.

Katherineapalooza XXX: It’s Official And Stuff

Dear Ladies And Gentlemen of Blogland:

It’s that special time everybody has been waiting for…

That awesomely amazing night where, if feed enough free top-shelf vodka, I will do my rendition of Let Me Entertain You, complete with leg thrust and boob shake…

It’s the party that will Live In Infamy. At least in my mind…

Yep. It’s Katherineapalooza XXX, otherwise know as My 30th Birthday Party, Bitches!

So, whatcha need to know:

Who: All the cool kids. That means YOU! Hopefully…

What: Katherine pushing the limits of her liver and doing her best White Girl Jive, most likely flashing her boobs for shots and other assorted debauchery. There will be pictures. And possibly video.

When: This Saturday. Which is May 16^th. Things are officially starting at 9 o’clock, but keep in mind that Stella is habitually late and thus I am habitually late.

Where: The funtivities will commence at Policy and at some point in the evening, will move to Saint Ex, where there might be a Dance Off.

Why: Because Katherine is turning XXX!

You know you want to come…

Hugs and Kisses,

Katherine

Today’s Metro Lesson: I Hate Monday

8:17: Send text message to office receptionist: Just awoke from dream involving Zac Efron, Chuck Bass and hot sauce. Can’t decide if my alarm is faulty or I have a previously unrecognized fetish for turtlenecks which necessitated I oversleep and finish the dream. Either way, I will be late.

8:17 and 22 seconds: Response from office receptionist: That does not explain the hot sauce.

8:18: Power shower. Actually take Diet Coke in with me. I view this as multi-tasking.

8:24: Attempt to blow dry my hair. Realize that Washington, DC has three seasons: Winter, Tourist and Living In A Bajillion Degree Sauna. Since it’s currently the third season, figure there’s not much point in spending time perfecting my coif. Even with no blowout, I refuse to forgo the other elements of my beauty regimen. But time is limited and I have to get to Lawyer Utopia. In desperation, I run to the front door, grab laptop bag and do a one-armed sweep of all beauty products residing on the vanity. Time permitting, I will make an emergency pit stop in Lawyerly Bathroom to stave off Hag Look.

8:32: Locate questionably clean underwear. Recognize that laundry has become a Major Priority. Decide I should wear my panties inside out and thus maximize Girly Bits Sanitation.

8:39: Dressed. And matching. Huzzah!

8:40: More Diet Coke, the Elixir of Life.

8:42: Fly out door. Forgo elevator for stairs. It’s faster and I try to convince myself that it doubles as cardio.

8:47: Warp speed to Rosslyn. Have adopted new mantra: I can make the 8:50 Metro. I can! I can!

8:47 and 42 seconds: Stupid woman is slow poking down middle of Megascalator, preventing passing on left or right. Irritated commuters abound. Contemplate throwing something at her head but don’t have anything I’m willing to sacrifice for the cause. Instead, decide to engage in a little self-hygiene. Open laptop bag and rummage.

8:48: Realize I forgot to put on deodorant while at home. Mentally explore the logistics of public application.

8:49: There is no subtle way to put on deodorant in a Metro station. Smell prevention beats out dignity. I apply.

8:50: Tourists on Up Escalator point at me and break out camera. If I am going to be immortalized in a stranger’s Adventure In The Big City Photo Montage, I might as well live it up. Strike a pose worthy of a Secret ad.

8:51: Metro pulls into station just as I hit the last escalator stair.

8:52: Sprint! Which for me means walk at a minimally increased pace.

8:54: Apparently, Orange and Blues are delayed and my train sits on the platform for several minutes. I hop on without having to Door Dive. Thank you, Suspicious Package At Farragut West!

8:55: Text office receptionist with update: Unibomber has struck the Metro. Delays. ETA is unknown.

8:57: Continue with beauty regime and put on powder and lip gloss. Pregnant Lady offers to hold mirror for me while I attempt contact insertion.

8:58: Office receptionist response text: See you at noon o’clock. Happy travels! Don’t kill anybody in your irritation. I’ve only been in my new job for a month, yet she knows me so well…

8:59: Metro movement!

8:59 and two seconds: They were just taunting us. The train actually only moves an inch and three quarters. Time to break out the eyeliner.

8:59 and six seconds: This time the train actually leaves the station.

9:00: Eyeliner application is not going so well.

9:01: I avoid tragic eye poking incident by millimeters. Begin to weight the pros and cons of blindness over vanity. Opt for vanity.

9:02: One eye done. Pregnant Lady Holding Mirror is snickering.

9:08: Complete eyeliner application. I resemble a drunken raccoon. Decide to delay the remainder of my beauty regime until I reach Lawyer Utopia and can utilize the bathroom. I fear that if I try for lip liner, I’ll end up biting off the pencil tip and face the age old conundrum: spit or swallow?

9:12: Arrive Farragut West. Suspicious Package has lead to a Commuting Cluster Fuck. Text office receptionist: I am in a stampede of people at Farragut West. If I die, please fix my eyeliner before they bury me.

9:13: Response text from office receptionist: Noted.

9:19: Emerge from station, proceed to 17^th and I. Truck passes and sends up tsunami of puddle water directly at me. I am soaked.

9:24: Enter Lawyer Utopia and proceed directly to bathroom. Office receptionist follows.

9:25: As I begin to sponge myself off, office receptionist risks life and limb to voice an opinion: You should have stayed in bed. At least you had Zac Efron. But I’m still confused about the hot sauce.

Sigh.

Emerging From The Ether

At the beginning of the month I left the Place of Lawyerly Things for a spiffy new job. I was lured to this Utopia Of The Legal World by an teensy weensy pay bump, an office with an actual window and the prospect of increased management experience. The trade off was relinquishing all vodka consumption personal time and returning to 70 hour work weeks where my only form of communication with the Outside World consists of handing cash to the Chinese delivery man and flirting with the police officer conducting a wellness check that my mother requested after I didn’t return her 23 “are you live?” voicemails. It’s been three weeks of nonstop work and I’d hoped to be semi-work settled by now. The reality is I’m nowhere near and my continuous neglect of the day-to-day aspects of life is catching up with me.

The minutia of daily existence has fallen so far off my radar that this morning I realized I had no clean underwear. Except I still have the remnants of my college “I don’t like to do laundry” panty stash. In a pinch, I can go 37 days without having to wash knickers, and that’s not including the Sexy Occasion undies I hold in reserve. So today, Webbernets, I am wearing black lace butt floss with pink bows strategically placed in locations that aren’t very conducive to long bouts of sitting. If any of my employees suddenly want to reenact the Inappropriate Office Sex Scene from Disclosure, I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m learning how to subtly pick a wedgie.

The laundry isn’t the only thing that needs some attention. On my way to retrieve the first of my 12 daily, life-sustaining Diet Cokes, I walked by the litter box. At first, I thought Bionic Kitty had finally succeeded in her quest to make her poop a weapon of mass destruction. Then I realized it’s been an unacceptable amount of time since I’ve changed the litter. So long, in fact, that it might qualify as pet abuse. The Litter Situation explains Bionic Kitty’s recent bad behavior spree. Last night, she pushed my cell phone into the toilet; on Monday, I caught her nuzzling my prized Kate Spade clutch in a manner suggesting it was her next meal; and anytime I leave my laptop exposed on a table top, she begins to attack it with the fervor of Napoleon pulling out all the stops at Waterloo. Anyway, when I discovered my Cat Neglect, I immediately opened new Fresh Step and put out an entire bag of cat treats to assuage Bionic’s malice my guilt. Hopefully I’ve bought my possessions a Temporary Bionic Harassment reprieve.

But the worst thing I’ve neglected has been the blog. Because really, it’s cheaper than therapy. Plus, the number of emails and comments I’ve gotten, checking up on me, has been entirely unexpected. Apparently, my Seven Loyal Readers worry if I fall too far off the grid. At first I though it was cyber love. Then Stella told me it actually is because people like to laugh at me and that pretty much returned my ego to normal proportions. Regardless, I’ll do my best to keep the blog quasi-updated despite overwhelming amonts of Lawyerly Work. I vow to be better about work/life balance. And I’m actually going out this weekend. Really, I miss vodka.

A Lame Photographic Montage Of The Weekend

GETTING CULTURED ON FRIDAY NIGHT

Things I discovered:

1. Sangria is not a popular gum flavor. Which might explain why it was on sale at Soviet Safeway.
2. I hereby officially declare that I will put out for any date who takes me to Founding Fathers. 
3. Modern dance is very, um… Well, let’s just say it’s not ballet.

 

Moi, Lulu and McFly smiling pretty at Founding Fathers.

Go stand in the rain. I want a picture. You'll thank me when we're 80 and can remember this moment.

 A SATURDAY NIGHT VISIT TO WONDERLAND, CELEBRATING THE ANNIVERSARY OF McFLY’S BIRTH

Things I discovered:

1. Contrary to previous speculation, I am not the worst dancer in the Metro Area. It’s actually Brian.
2. Cab Number One: 22 minutes spent listening to the dispatcher’s detailed explanation of why Cab 84 is “a retard.” As evidence, he cited 84′s inability to locate building entrances, lack of proper radio responses and apparent preference for Pakistani country music. 
3. Cab Number Two: My second strangest cabbie experience. Ever. Included a drunk driver snacking on ho hos while making a three point turn into oncoming traffic. 
4. Cab Number Three: If somebody with a nose bleed asks to share a cab to NoVA, don’t do it. Trust me. It won’t end well.
5. I have developed a vodka immunity.
6. Delirium fixes that problem.

 

Yes, I got McFly the card crown. And I am overly proud of myself.

I've succumbed. Footless tights are my new pants.

The Great 2009 Grind Off. I lost.

Entertaining the Bathroom Line.

I even have culinary disasters in restaurants.

 MONDAY’S KICK BOOTY ROAD TRIP TO REHOBOTH

Things I discovered:

1. It’s not pronounced “Ray-booth.” 
2. A text recap… Me to Stella: It has come out in our road trip conversation that McFly sees me as an old lady with a collection of lawn ornaments. I am sort of insulted. Stella’s reply to Me: Hahahahahhahhaha. I TOTALLY see it. Me back to Stella: Fuck you. But McFly says holler. 
3. Rehobothers liberally interpret “ocean front views.” 
4. Waves are aggressive. 
5. McFly does not appreciate the genius of Bob Evans. My new goal in life is to rectify this.

 

Unintentional Detour Number One: the Pentagon. And seeing as we're still in NoVA, this does not bode well for the trip.

I'm screwed.

McFly: Which way do we go on US-9? Me: It doesn't say. McFly: Ummm. How about right? Me: Commence Unintentional Detour Number Jillion.

Race?

X-rated sandcastles.

Holler!

Grrr! Arrrrgh!

Stupid wave.

I wanted to bury her. This is what compromise looks like.

My Thinking Face.

I wanted to be the man, but I couldn't get his face to open. Thus, I express my feelings accordingly.

I feel like I'm in an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Bestiality.

I sometimes do strange things.

McFly and Me.