- Flunkies For The Elimination Of Awkward Office Birthday Parties
- Peanut Allergies Are Actually A Form Of Darwinism, Duh!
- My Cell Phone Is My Night Light
- Metro Commuters Who Advocate Pushing Left Standers Down The Escalator
- Blair Waldorf Versus Brenda Walsh: The Final Showdown!!!!!!
- The Good People Of Ohio Who Support Giving Michigan To Canada
- Has-Been Glittery Jellie Shoe Weareres
- I’m Only On Facebook For Purposes Of Internet Stalking
- I Used To Eat Paste And Secretly Miss It
- Hipsters For The Eradication Of Bootie Shoes
- I KNOW My Mom Is Hotter Than Your Mom
- I Raved In Columbus, Ohio Sometime Between 1994 and 2001
- The Few, The Proud, The Crocs Lovers
- Carmen Sandiego, Waldo and Dick Cheney Are All Hiding Under My Bed
- The Pigeons Around Farragut West Are Freakishly OK With Human Interaction
- I Still Collect Action Figures And Secretly Act Out Battles With Them
- Caution! I’ll Defriend You If You Send Me Another Stupid Meme/Note/Chain Letter/Green Patch Invitation
- Facebook Pictures Are Like The Webbernet’s Version Of Beer Goggles
- I Wish I Had Thought Of The Snuggie
- I’m Afraid To Publicly Admit I Watch Battlestar Galactica So I Joined This Secret Group Instead
- “Is…” Is Not An Appropriate Status Message
- Drunken Text Messages: Poetry Of The 21st Century
- I Turned Out Better Than My Third Grade Nemesis And Know It Thanks To Facebook
- Holler! A Facebook Group For Urban White People
- How To Use Facebook: A Tutorial For My Mom
- Milk Duds, The Silent Killer
- 28 Reasons Why I Defriended You
- Drank Vodka, Puked On My Phone, But Still Don’t Need Numbers Because I’m Cool Like That!
- Official Petition To Revoke George W. Bush’s Citizenship
- The Ancient And Mystical Society Of Unicorn Lovers
- Pickles – Yeah!
- I Big Pink Puffy Heart Tetris!
- I Am Currently Doing Kegel Exercises
- We Weren’t Friends In High School So Stop Asking To Be My Friend In CyberSpace
Archive for February, 2009
The email that went out…
Dear Seven Loyal Readers:
I just realized that my little piece of the Interwebs has reached 500 blog posts. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something different to do for the obligatory commemorative entry. Finally, I figured why not some sort of Blog Roast? It seems appropriate. So, here’s my proposal:
If you have time and the inclination, would you please email me something to post? Something along the lines of a humiliating story/a sordid memory/whatever, as long as it pertains to the blog or me or vodka. Or, if you are more of an artsy person, you could send an incriminating photo or doodle. Or if you’re analytical, then may I suggest an estimate of what I’ve spent on shoes since you’ve known me. Really, anything. Anyway, I will then gather everything together, make it somewhat orderly and post the lot.
Thanks for helping me celebrate 500…
Pithy Comments and Flipilicious are relatively new additions to my Sphere of Love. But we’ve bonded over a shared appreciation of Kristen Bell, CW television shows, and our own boobs. Plus, we’ve all successfully repressed our Crazy Cat Woman tendencies. This was their masterful joint contribution, complete with the links of their choice.
Hey there, K-bell,
Do you mind if I call you that? I mean, I usually refer to you as Kristen “Almost Making Me a Lesbian” Bell, so if you want, I can continue doing so, but I understand how awkward that will be when it changes to Kristen “Made Me a Lesbian” Bell.
Anyway, enough about how hot you are (seriously, are you even human?). My cat convinced me (by covering every square inch of my apartment with vomit after eating my Veronica Mars blow-up doll) that I should stop talking about how much I idolize you and just write you a letter, proposing we meet up sometime. (Side note: That Fuckity Ass Bitchoid also convinced me to return her to the Pet Rescue – I still have my receipt!)
Since I know you’re busy promoting Fanboys, I’ve taken the liberty of giving multiple options for our date sex romp platonic meet-up:
- Shopping while wearing Crocs,
- Watching Battlestar Galactica (if you’re friends w/ Katee Sackoff, I’m open to a ménage a trios),
- Getting you liquored up so I can make my move Drinking copious amounts of Diet Coke
- Renting a zip car and running over a gay french bulldog Getting an intimate look at DC’s culture while mocking tourists
- Snuggie Pub Crawl
No matter what activity you choose, it will be time well spent. I was not recently nominated as the expert on personal waxing, hangovers and sex within my friends’ group for naught. I also have a Very Sexy Boob Mole, if you’re into that kind of stuff. I realize you don’t know a whole lot about me, but I assure you, our time together will be blogged/tweeted/facebooked about for years held in the strictest confidence.
Honestly, I’m open to anything – except sushi.
And because the most entertaining minds are always in tandem, Maxie submitted this photographic gem of me and La Bell. Little does she know I intend to make it into a life size cutout.
My college roomie is the keeper of my deepest, darkest secrets. She’s lucky she only revealed innocuous tidbits in her Roast contribution: my occasional straight-from-the-tub consumption of icing, which is arguably the genesis of my phenomenally-sized ass, and my secret adoration of Lifetime. Apparently, the following words are to be sung to the tune of “Memory.” Yep, from the musical Cats.
Never called her that name yet,
Sounds so grown-up and formal,
“Kate” forever to me.
I remember, unending tubs of chocolate icing,
Cakeless icing, purity.
Lifetime movies all Sunday,
It was pure girly heaven
Got up only to pee.
Countless hours, her with vodka, Captain for me,
College apartment, so shady.
When I tell people I have internet friends, they usually look at me funny. But after they meet LiLu, they totally get it.
Within moments of meeting Katherine, I immediately knew we would be friends. This was not ONLY because within about 5 minutes, I was basically sitting on her lap at a crowded table of bloggers while we gossiped about things of a sordid nature. I also liked her shoes.
I keed, I keed. But I was also right. Over the past months, Katertot and I have been through a lot together. Mostly highs, some definite lows, but we’ve successfully drunk our way through it all. Wait, I mean, held each other. Yeah, that’s it.
Because she makes me laugh, every day, on and off her blog. Because she is trouble with a capital T (and my middle name is Danger). Because she is the kind of person I know I can (read: have) call at 2 a.m., crying, and she’ll not only answer but actually make me feel better. Because when we’re together, it looks like this:
I heart you, Katertot. Congrats on 500. But mostly, congrats on being my friend. Wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was LOVE YOU, hooker!
Back in my Ohio Days, there was a six month period where I was unable to drive. No, Interwebs, I did not get a DUI. At least that would have been a story. I’ve always secretly wanted to get booked… The car-ban was health related. Anyhoodles, about three months into my home boundedness, I bribed a Lawyerly Place Partner In Crime to drive me to work every morning. It was self-preservation; if I listened to any more of my father’s books on tape, there was going to be an Incident. Susan and I were friends, but our shared rides took it to an entirely new level. Especially when we realized we both obsess over Lindsey Buckingham in questionable and slightly stalkerish ways. This gem is titled, “Are you there God? It’s me, Suz.”
Ever since Katherine left my passenger seat, I have to live with this empty feeling in my car. Sure, I can fart freely (and trust me, I do) and get an extra 15 minutes of sleep, but it’s just not the same as having KJ’s wit and wisdom at my disposal. My chauffeuring abilities are probably, like, total crap now too.
God, every day I have to live with the idea that now there is no one to dress up like a burrito with on Halloween for a free meal, no one to make a Bob Evans‘ run for, and no one to invite me to inappropriate parties at their apartment. It just isn’t fair, God! KJ always had the best spreads.
I’ve tried to make friends with the other girls here, but they just don’t get it. Sometimes I think they will be like KJ because they like Star Trek and online dating, but then they just end up being total LOSERS, God. I know that I shouldn’t judge, but these people…they have the ability to drink, but they choose not to engage. They just don’t! Can you believe it?! They can forget being invited to my post-giving-birth happy hour, that’s for sure!
My grandpapa taught me that there is always a silver lining…and I suppose in some ways there are. If KJ hadn’t dumped Ohio, she probably wouldn’t be writing in her blog as much or as hilariously. She would probably still be walking to the Winking Lizard every day to feel cool, risking life and limb by making a mad dash across Bethel Road only to be mutilated into a big pile of goop by a Tim Hortons‘ truck…but I digress, God.
In my heart, I know that moving to D.C. and leaving me here alone at The First Place of Lawyerly Things was what’s best for KJ…but I can’t help but think what about me? I hope you can forgive me for being so selfish, God, but just look at how happy we were together…we even wore the same clothes! Sigh.
Until next time,
Stella…What can I say about Stella? She pimps my blog, provides me with vodka on an as-needed basis, and threatens my exes with sorta scary forms of retribution. She’s like Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda united into one wondrous being. Stells, someecard says it best.
Vodka and boobies
Bridget Jones, eat your heart out
With a twist of geek
Laina and Jill were 2/5ths of the reason I managed to stay sane during law school, especially when they talked about the Rule Against Perpetuities. (The other 3/5ths were Anona, Kelly, and vodka.) The Terrible Two are the kind of friends I can talk to every day or not for six months, but it doesn’t matter. Either one would happily give me a kidney (God knows I’m going to need it), a come-to-Jesus, or the bra off her boobs. And I’d do the same for them. They’re calling this one, “Laina’s 23rd Birthday, Or The Time We Managed To Get Katherine To Leave The Outer belt, Or Katherine Pets A Baby Chicken.” I think the ridiculously long title is a quiet jab at some of my stunners…
As you all may very well know, Katherine used to live in Columbus, O-H-I-O. And that wonderful city is encircled by an outer belt, known as I-270. During her tenure in C-bus, one of the quirkiest things we noticed about Katherine was she had little problem going outside the confines of I-270. After her post complaining about living outside the NoVA divide, it was clear to us that DC has not yet broken her geographic-phobia. But we digress…
How The Trip Done Got Planned, by Jill
In 2004, Katherine was suffering through her third year of law school, along with Laina. I had graduated a year earlier and had moved to Jackson, Ohio. At the time of our story, Laina was way pregnant and about to celebrate the big 2-3. I thought we should do something special before Laina got sucked into the Baby Abyss but she was being all responsible about things like fetal alcohol syndrome, so drinking was out.With margaritas and alcoholic debauchery were off the table, I figured we should eat. Laina had a thing for this little Mexican restaurant in Jackson and I figured that was a place we could afford to feed her preggo appetites. Initially, Katherine refused to go, citing I-270 restrictions. But then I mentioned the place had fried ice cream and she became putty.
We conspired to bring Laina to Jackson, have dinner at the Mexican place, and then hang out. By way of information, Jackson is only 77.1 miles, or 1 hour 34 minutes, from Columbus. It’s pretty easy to get to. But I know Katherine and how she gets lost. Plus, Katherine could count her excursions outside the outer belt on one hand. So, in preparation for the big adventure, I customized her directions complete with arrows, several maps, and pictures of relevant signage. I hoped it was enough for Katherine to get Laina to Jackson without a four hour tour of Southeast Ohio.
The Trip Itself, by Laina
So, Katherine comes to get me for an “outing.” I think we’re going to the mall but as we walked to her car, she tells me that I’m actually being kidnapped for a Day of Adventure. Since that was before you heard about all those crazy women cutting babies out of pregnant women, I figured I was good. So we set out. Mind you, she’d already left her geographic comfort zone to pick me up in New Albany (for you non-Ohioans, that’s about 15 minutes from downtown Columbus, but still outside that magical I-270 beltway). She hit the highway, pulled out a ten page sheet of directions and then started heading south. Knowing Katherine always, always, always gets lost, I figured I might want to navigate, and began asking questions. (Note by Katherine: A. Freaking. Lot. Of. Questions. She was unrelenting and wasn’t happy with, “For the love of Baby Jesus, SHUT UP! It’s a surprise.”) Finally she fessed up that we were going to Jackson, meeting Jill, and eating. See, good friends know that a pregnant lady’s world revolves around food.
After repeated “OMFG this is a long way away”s and “Jesus, are we there yet”s and “This is why I never leave the outer belt”s from Katherine, several direction fiascoes that resulted in me franticly calling to Jill so she could demand I navigate, and three pee stops (and I was eight months pregnant!) we finally arrived at Toro Loco. I then proceeded to eat so much Mexican I thought I would explode. Or possibly brain damage my child with my distended stomach.
(Note by Katherine: Oh no you don’t, Laina. We are not glossing over the feat that was your caloric intake. Interwebs, listen to this: Laina ate an appetizer, more chips and salsa than the Tostitos factory produces each Monday, a big glob of cheese in a tortilla with an extra side of rice, fried ice cream, and my fajitas leftovers. On the way home, the Human Black Hole demanded we stop TWICE for more food. This sounds impressive until you’ve seen Preggers Laina eat a Cinnabun. Also, I would like to mention that Laina was forced to wear a sombrero while the waitress sang “Happy Birthday” in a Spanglish. I have pictures, which I am willing to sell. Plus, Laina got mad at me for commenting on the restaurant’s disproportionately high people-to-mullet-ratio.)
And back to Jill
So after Toro Loco, things got a little, um, loco. You see Jackson is kind of a small town. While it is the biggest city (Note by Katherine: she uses that term way too loosely) in Jackson County, Ohio, it’s really dinky compared to the meganess of Columbus. Basically the joke is when someone asks what you’re doing on Saturday night, the automatic answer is going to “the Wal-mart.” The Wal-mart is the center of all things cultural in Jackson. It’s also the primary shopping option. (Note by Katherine: aside from Tractor Supply.) (Note from Jill: We’re getting to that). (Note from Katherine: They sell clothes. I’m just saying.) I’m still unsure why local custom dictates we put “the” before “Wal-mart,” but when in Rome… Anywho, in order to entertain the pregNATE lady and do a little after lunch walk stretchy-stretch, Laina and I decided to show Katherine the sights. (Note by Katherine: Again, that’s a loose use. If I recall correctly, Jackson has like two traffic lights and a hill.)
Laina explains about Tractor Supply Company
First of all, I want to note I love you, Jill, but I have been trying for four years to teach you that it’s pregNANT.
So, back to our story. Katherine looks out the window of Toro Loco, glances across the street and says all innocently, “What’s Tractor Supply Company? Do they sell tractor parts?” Jill and I laugh (Note by Katherine: totally at my expense; and yes they do sell tractor parts, so it’s not a stupid question, thank you very much, bitches.) and tell her that it’s a farm supply store, which actually used to be called “Farm and Fleet.” Katherine mumbled something about “being open to cultures and mullets.” But I know she was actually hiding her elation. Today, Katherine will do crazy stuff so she can write about it on her blog. But that’s just an excuse. Really, she just likes anything novel, potentially humiliating, or with free liquor. TSC met the novel requirement, if at a low level… So, it didn’t take a lot of arm twisting before we set off across the street to TSC.
BABY CHICKENS!!!!!!! by Jill
We actually drove across the street to TSC, it would be a dangerous walk, especially with a waddling preggo. (By the way Laina, you can get one of those “slow moving” triangle signs at TSC). Anyhoodles, we walk into TSC and Katherine’s senses were overwhelmed with the non-city smells. Katherine described it as “Manurery” and “Slightly too natural.” Oh, the sweet smell of feed and chain saw oil…We start walking around the store and pursuing the isles. At this time in her life, one of Katherine’s various money making ventures was the sale of sex toys in the home party setting. Kinda like Pampered Chef or Mary Kay for the Va-Jay-Jay. So her great knowledge of vibrating products led to many interesting questions regarding the various implements in the TSC. (Note by Katherine: Jill contributed. I am not the only one who thought the E-Z Nurse Screw Cap Nipple resembled a 14th Century butt plug.)
Damn. I’ve got to stop with the tangents… So along with seeing the implements and smelling the smells, Katherine also noticed new-to-her sound. She turns to me and whispers, “Are those the baby chickens?” There was awe. There was excitement. There was disbelief. Looking at her face, you’d have thought she just witnessed the birth of Christ. So I explain to her yes, those are baby chickens. They are actually called “chicks.” That yes, you can buy chickens because, yes, they are in fact for sale, and yes, they are “actual farm grade poultry,” and yes, they will eventually lay eggs because all eggs do not actually come from Trader Joe’s, and yes, these eggs would qualify as organic. After the 50 questions, Katherine decides she must see the chicks NOW. She sprints towards the sound, which is coming from a big water container and peered in. Little, fuzzy, yellow chicks. It was her personal Christmas.
For ten minutes, I watched as Katherine was absurdely amused by a bunch of chicks in a big water tub. Eventually, she demanded to touch them. By this time, was Preggo gettingbored with us and the chicks. When you leave the outer belt, this stuff is slightly less novel, so she wondered off. I stayed with Katherine; mainly to laugh when she got pecked and when the chick she was holding dived down her shirt. But main reason in staying was to explain the downfalls of Pet Chick Ownership to Katherine. She was determined to leave TSC with at least one of those chicks, but she’d have preferred several. If I recall, her master plan was to dye them pastel colors and give them away as Easter gifts. Anyway, while I was busily reminding Katherine that Columbus was not zoned for livestock, we heard this odd pregnate huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning, and then our names being called in despiration.
Back to Laina, the Baby Chick Killer
Yes, I have seen chicks before. In fact, I had a traumatic experience regarding an accidental chick homicide of one when I was a small child. So, I was not interested in a possible repeat of The Baby Chick Killing. With nothing better to do, I wandered off… Then, from nowhere, I found that among its many other wonders, TSC sells rail buggies!!!!!! (Interwebs, this is AWESOME! Who could be anything but excited about a rail buggy???)
I’ve always wanted to ride in one and sitting in one, getting a feel for it, was about as close as I was going to get until I paid off my student loans. So, forgetting that I was 60 lbs heavier than usual (all of you just shut up, you’ll be pregnant one day and unable to resist the lure of Taco Bell or Ben and Jerry’s), I lowered myself into the rail buggy. It was super cool for about 30 seconds, until my short attention span kicked in, and I tried to get out. Which brings us to Jill’s point of view…I was NOT huffing and puffing, more yelling for help.
Katherine had to cut her baby chick adventure short so they could rescue my fat ass from the rail buggy. (Note by Katherine: It took both of us to pull her out. Seriously. It was like The Three Stooges, but with women.) On the way home, Katherine asked me about three times why we wouldn’t let her buy a baby chicks and when they weren’t cute anymore, why she couldn’t give it to me to live out on my “farm” (to be clear, I lived in a house with a normal yard, like anybody else; but anything outside I-270 is soybeans in the eyes of K.). And that, Interwebs, is the one and only time Katherine left I-270 until 2006.
And what was the point of all this, besides sharing the IMPORTANT INFORMATION that Katherine USED TO SELL SEX TOYS? Well, to demonstrate how easily she can be bribed with things that are sugar-filled or fuzzy (knowledge that often comes in handy, Interwebs). And also, this was the only story she’d let us tell. She vetoed all the ones from law school, citing “ethical considerations.”
P.S. Katherine did make a second trip to Jackson in ’06. She was overwhelmed by the number of silk-screened shirts in the local sports bar. (Note by Katherine: And also in ’06, I visited Laina in even-more-small-town Ohio. The directions included “turn right at the big tree” and “follow the dirt road past the people who don’t have electricity.” I vowed never to go back again.)
About once every six months or so, I have a bra that abruptly goes on strike; it simply refuses to lift and separate, the magical cupping ability dematerializes, and I’m left with unexpected boob-sag. This morning, I knew I was wearing a lingerie time bomb when my underwire somehow sifted and forcefully contorted my entire left breast. At first, my boobie was merely facing due east, but then it morphed into a vaguely elliptical and oddly extended version of its natural self. It was all very tribal. Plus, I was pretty sure the sudden Africanistic-realignment indicated an impending bra fail. Sure enough, just before lunch, the underwire broke through the actual bra fabric and began migrating towards my armpit. It felt like the boob equivalent of a wedgie. But with chafing. I had an afternoon client meeting and I suspected that repeatedly reaching into my shirt to shift my boob away from the pokey wire would be frowned upon by Lawyerly Big Boss. In an effort to forestall accusations of office masturbation, I made an emergency lunch run to Victoria’s Secret.
Initially, the bra buying mission was straight forward. I went in, grabbed a Body Bare from the drawer labeled with my size, and purchased. Then I asked the cashier if I could pop back to the dressing room and switch out my undergarments. In no uncertain terms, the cashier told me that wasn’t happening. But somebody higher up the retail food chain was standing next to her; that person, having heard my request, gave me permission. As I scurried to the fitting rooms, I could hear the clerk getting a lecture on “reasonable requests” and “appropriate customer service.” Anyway, once I was in a stall decked out like a high-class French bordello, I took the tags off my new underwire-secure bra and started to suit up. Except when I closed the hooks, the thing was so tight it cut off all circulation below the braline. And after I put the straps over my arms, I realized my gargantuan tatas weren’t filling out the cups. Clearly, this thing didn’t fit properly.
Off it came and I checked the size tag: 32DD. About four inches too small and one “D” too big. Sighing, I put on my unsupportive, original bra and went back to the checkout. I explained to the snarky salesgirl that the bra had been mis-stocked, therefore I had mistakenly purchased lingerie which was aerodynamically designed for Barbie, but I still had the tag and would like to make a switch for an actual human sized version. The salesperson sneered at me and refused to take the bra back, citing the tag-less nature of the undergarment. With a sign, I pointed to the tag reattachment gun thingy sitting between us on the counter.
Me (just short of eye rolling): I work part-time in retail. I know what that device is for.
Salesperson (in a snotty tone that conveyed her new-found love of rules, even the stupid ones): We don’t take back items with no tags.
Me (knowing that smacking her outside the head would get me nowhere, so trying reason instead): Since you rang me out, I’m sure you are aware of the time line at issue. But just in case, let me recap: I purchased this three minutes ago, I had the thing on for less than ten seconds, it never left the store, I have the tags and you have the tag reattachment device two inches from your hand. I’m pretty sure the item is still sanitary and suitable for resale. So, would please let me do an exchange?
Salesperson (reveling in her retail power): No.
Me (eyeing the tag reattacher): OK, fine. But in the alternative, would you please do me a favor and close your eyes for the count of 30?
Salesperson (all suspicious): Why?
Me (about to request managerial intervention): Two reasons. First, because there is an obvious solution to this which does not involve me berating you at a loud volume or telling your manager what I think of you right now. And second, because I asked nicely.
Shockingly, she shut her eyes. Shaking my head at the absurdity of the entire situation, I reached out my hand, grabbed the re-tagger and restored the Barbie bra to its original tagged form.
Salesperson (eyes still shut but counting at warp speed): 27…28…29…30.
Me (as soon as she opened her eyes): Hello! I would like to exchange this bra for a more appropriately sized version. As you can see, the tags are on it, I have the receipt and I have a chest that’s not a 32DD. Would you like me to provide proof of US Citizenship and two forms of picture I.D. as well?
If the manager hadn’t walked up at that exact second, I suspect the salesgirl would have told me exactly where to shove the Barbie bra. Probably with illustrative diagrams.
A Voice Behind Me (doing the “Do I know you?” thing): Katherine? Katherine?
Me (turning around, recognizing him and quickly calculating all possible levels of awkwardness): Wendy’s Boy? Um, hey?
Wendy’s Boy (all grins and smiles and goggley eyes despite my apathetic greeting): I almost didn’t recognize you. Your hair is different.
Me (does noticing Hair Change mean he’s gay? Oh God! Oh God! Please say I’ve not unknowingly dated another gay man. Quick, run down the Potential Gay Man Warning Signs Checklist!): Yeah, I dyed it red.
Wendy’s Boy (advancing into Flirt Mode): I like it. You look great. Really great.
Me (knowing there is no way to be subtle about this but accepting I must check out his fingernail status in order to clear the Checklist): Thanks. Um, would you please show me your hands?
Despite that bit of awkward, he got my number again.
Now, with a potentially hazardous Friday re-date looming, I am strangely unconcerned about what to wear, how to respond when he asks what I’ve been up to the last few months, or even if I should engage in some “personal” grooming. Instead, my overriding concern is: can you be your own sloppy seconds?
Seeking 15 to 20 hench(wo)men for a Supervillian Conglomerate specializing in enslavement and/or eradication of the male species.
Acceptance into organization contingent on the following:
- Willingness of applicant to wear association-approved costume. All uniforms must be sex-kitten in nature, include official supervillian logo, and be bullet/knife/ray gun-proof. Androgynous outfits will be considered on a case-by-case basis.
- The flexible moral code of applicant.
- A comprehensive and thorough demonstration of unwavering loyalty.
- Ability to acquire new skills (i.e. the proper operation and utilization of proprietary equipment, like the Gender Equalizing Ray or the Genital Defixiator Beam).
- Proficiency in hostage taking (must be able to tie knots that hold!), assorted megalomaniacal behaviors, and general reliability in pitched battle (possibly to the death).
- Proven aptitude in Sinister Laugh or Monologuing At Inopportune Times about the End Of The World and/or General Injustice and/or “You Have Not Seen The Last Of Me.”
To apply, please send resume and cover letter highlighting all previous hench(wo)men experience; any capers foiled by a superhero/vigilante/personal nemesis; salary requirements; and reasons for joining an organized league of villainary. Applicants should be advised that priority will be given to candidates who exhibit the following:
- Unique obsessions/powers/abilities which give rise to a distinctive alias/alter ego/persona. Also, the organization has a “no duplication of powers” policy.
- General bitterness towards men. That of the “scorned woman” variety preferred.
- Willingness to take orders from an Evil Genius and work as part of a team towards a shared goal of global mass destruction and mayhem. Lone-wolves welcome to apply in case of possible future contractor needs.
- Connections to a corrupted government official, dishonest police chief, or rouge military general with nuke-access a plus.
The organization offers comprehensive medical and dental benefits, including coverage of hospital stays due to poisoning, melting by water, or return-to-true-form operations. No vision coverage is available, no matter how many eyes an applicant has. Also, please be advised that night vision goggles are an out-of-pocket expense.
The vacation policy is generous; however vacations are unpaid and any freelance villain activity undertaken during vacation/national holidays must be pre-approved by the organization.
A company-subsidized legal team and jail/prison/magical realm escape service are available for use by employees and their registered underlings.
Also, there is continued opportunity for career growth and outstanding promotion potential within the organization. However, any plots to overthrow/subvert/teleport to a distant galaxy the EvilGenius will be dealt with in a swift but still excruciating manner. Upon completion of the conglomerate’s new tele-cloaked headquarters, there will be interminable expansion potential due to the organization’s recent theft of a Top Secret Earth Shattering Threat Causing Machine from a subversive government agency. Further, the organization wishes to develop an Intergalactic Cosmic Invasion Unit in the near future.
Please be advised there is a constant, high turnover rate with regard to the position of right-hand-person to Evil Genius. The right-hand position requires great attention to detail and highly developed computer/technology knowledge. The job also involves a high risk of maiming, incarceration, incineration, impregnation, implantation, transportation to other dimensions and, possibly, death.
After this morning, I am pretty sure the current state of WMATA should be considered one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. I mean, if today’s Orange/Blue catastrophe isn’t God pouring out His wrath, what is?
A few weeks ago, a friend sent a text that read, “Started my Metro journey to your place. Watch for my SOS flare.” I responded with a pithy comment about Rosslyn not being that far into the NoVA interior. An hour later, my guest arrived at Chez Apartment, demanding life-sustaining rations and declaring that true friendship is demonstrated by trips on the Orange line. To certain residents of the District (i.e. all of them), crossing the river only occurs under duress or with bribery. This particular friend made the pilgrimage because I promised everything short of sexual favors. And also, because I was in the midst of a breakup induced non-showering-slothy-mess phase and she didn’t want to be seen in public with me. Clearly, NoVA is where Washingtonians go only in extremis.
When I moved to the Metro area, I didn’t know about the Great Potomac Divide. I figured Rosslyn was the ideal compromise between square footage and paying heart-attack inducing rent. It had two Metro lines and Georgetown Cupcake was in easy walking distance. But I was geographically naive. Instead of experiencing neighborhood envy, I’ve endured zip code ostracization for over a year. And I’m tired of it. I’ve vowed to move into the District, even if I’ve got to prop up a box on the corner of 18th and U.
The Apartment Hunt has been in progress for about a month. Daily, I scour Craigslist. I rearrange lunch meetings so I can see just-listed English Basements and one bedrooms. But so far, nothing has met the Criteria List. A friend recently suggested that my real estate expectations are a wee bit unrealistic. However, I maintain that somebody somewhere has the ideal home for me and my demonic cats. My dream residence would include an in-apartment washer/dryer, at least 550 square feet, adequate shoe storage possibilities, minimal stair-climbing (or an elevator), it wouldn’t smell sketchy or be excessively fugly, and it would have access to decent Chinese delivery. It’s also gotta be in the Geographically Approved Zone. A one bedroom is preferred and bonus points will be awarded for cute, single, straight male fellow residents and/or bar proximity. Really, I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.
The Annals of eCrush, Or The Blog Post My Parents And Assorted Relatives Should Not Read (Seriously)February 17, 2009
Sometime between the beginning of the month and Saturday morning, I grew a conscience. The pesky thing kept me from over-sharing on the blog, and thus enacting a To The Death type campaign between eCrush and me. Plus, it saved my mom a heart attack and having to enact a parental-tag-team phone call to discuss “boundaries,” “maturity” and possibly “being out of the will.” Much to the disgust of assorted enablers friends, I drew a line in my ethical sandbox and stood firmly on the honorable side of it. At least, that was true until eCrush called me on Valentine’s Day.
Me (not really paying attention to who was calling, since I was much more interested in my gChat discussion of Joss “Please impregnate me in a deliciously naughty way” Whedon’s new television show): Hello?
eCrush (way too confident considering the genital maiming I threatened last time he called): Did you get my flowers?
Me (considering the pros of a new cell number): They went straight from the concierge desk into the garbage chute. When they hit bottom, they make a surprisingly loud thunking sound. Why are you calling? We’ve discussed this. What part of a Communication Cease And Deist do you not understand?
eCrush (mourning the demise of $150 in floral apology): It’s Valentine’s Day and I wanted to let you know I still love you and care about you; that I’m so sorry —
Me (wishing cells phones were conducive to doing the Hang Up Slam Thing): You told me you didn’t want to be with me, among other reasons, because I was too unattractive and fat. You are no longer worth coming up with creatively mean names for. Stop calling. *And I forcefully pushed the off button*
My phone rang again. I enacted the Screen. A few minutes later, there was a message chirp.
eCrush (all High and Mighty in the voicemail): That was rude. Why are you acting this way? God, are you PMSing? This kind of behavior is why I am now dating (The Other Woman) —
That’s when I decided the message delete option was almost as fulfilling as a sleeve of Thin Mints, that morals were overrated and the vengeful tendencies of my ovaries should not be denied. Bring on Scorched Earth…
(ONE LAST WARNING TO MY MOM, DAD, AND ANY OTHER BLOOD RELATIONS WHO MAY STILL BE READING: I am serious, close the browser. Really. Go away! Hugs, Kate)
Sometime after the Frenzied New Partner Sex downgrades into I Now Know All Your Tricks Sex, a couple generally reaches the Comfort Stage. It’s a sexual holding pattern that comes and goes throughout the course of a relationship, and can occasionally act a warning sign that the Predetermined Menu is lurking. The Comfort Stage is defined by familiarity. Basically, the couple is secure enough to trust each other with their mutual sexual fantasies, but is still motivated enough to act them out. This phase is why women hang onto their Circa 1997 plaid skirts. It also explains the popularity of fuzzy leopard print handcuffs. Or in my case, why I now have a sex toy I don’t know what to do with.
One Saturday evening, eCrush had long since reached the finish line but I was lagging behind, still attempting to complete the race. It had been a night of seemingly endless wine and cheese consumption. I was drunk, recovering from a nasty bout of lactose intolerance and just wanted to see orgasm stars, make eCrush get me a glass of water, and pass out. Hoping to move things along, I suggested he grab an adult accoutrement from my goody drawer. My advice took a moment for him to process, thanks to his Pinot haze, but when he did, eCrush stopped his over-enthusiastic boob grab/finger duet thing, and gave me a look of utter horror. When sleep surpasses orgasm as a personal priority, I’m pretty sure that’s the onset of the Comfort Stage. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing; it means the relationship is evolving, that the comfy granny nightgown will start making an appearance, and farting has become a competitive group activity instead of a stealth action. Yet, to eCrush, the onset of the Comfort Stage heralded A Big, Scary Manhood-Threatening Change. And introducing a vibrator into the mix was sort of like sending him a Hallmark card that read Ten Loving Suggestions On How To Better Utilize Your Boy Unit. Needless to say, I didn’t get much personal satisfaction that night.
Having an X-chromosome, and thus biologically predisposed to talk things out, I addressed the situation the next morning. My part of the conversation was very “I like to get my jollies, and I’m not opposed to mechanical assistance when needed.” eCrush’s was more of the silent, awkward blushing variety. The attempt to introduce my Republican boyfriend to PG-13 rated sex was not going well. I saw a rush Amazon delivery of The Joys Of Sex in my immediate future. Trying to ward off a lifetime of missionary, I asked eCrush if there was anything he’d ever been curious about, anything he’d ever wanted to try. I expected blind-folding or maybe a desire to break in the dining room table, but instead, I got a request for butt plugs.
Let’s be clear, Webbernets: my pooper is Exit Only. There was no way I was letting anybody astro up my glide. For all sexual purposes, I have no backdoor. So, while eCrush waited on one heck of a sexual limb, I mentally ran through eleventy seven different ways to express my reluctance, and rejected them all. There had to be some way to say, “Hell no! You aren’t shoving anything up my rear!” while still encouraging eCrush be more sexually adventurous. Except, I couldn’t find it. This was a quandary above even my analytic abilities; I needed outside help. So, I racked my brain, trying to devise some way to pause the conversation with eCrush until I could call an Emergency Girl Summit and get advice on proper butt plug denial etiquette.
Then, in a moment where I swear Heaven hand delivered me a Get Out Of Jail Free card, eCrush clarified. He wanted to be the butt plug recipient. In fact, over the years he had assembled a sort of Introduction To Anal Kit. eCrush had just never thought I’d be open to anything beyond vanilla sex, so he never mentioned it. Frankly, I was so relieved that my ass would remain a sacred zone, I probably would have agreed to anything short of hamsters or three-eyed midgets. If my boyfriend wanted me shove something up his tooshy, I would do it as long as there was a no-give-back guarantee. And that, boys and girls, was when I secretly realized the madras pants and pink Lilly shirts were the least of my problems.
(Two Days Ago)
Wonder Admin (all Declaratory): I think something’s wrong with my mee maw.
Me (mentally reviewing every interaction I’ve had with Wonder Admin, attempting to pinpoint when our relationship elevated to the type where personal gynecological issues can be discussed): *shocked silent*
Still Me (now struggling to find words that express concern yet remain within the bounds of Workplace Appropriate): Oh?
Wonder Admin (surpassing Over-Share): Yeah, it’s itchy. And every time I use the facilities, it feels like fire ants are spawning inside of me. It’s all very Aliens: The Mee Maw Version.
Me (praying I don’t have to morph into a Ninth Grade Health Teacher and explain about STDs, proper condom usage, and the drawbacks of random bar hookups to my 45-year-old secretary): Have you considered going to the gyno?
Wonder Admin (giving me her Extreme Exasperation Look and I instantly know my weekly filing won’t be done in retaliation for asking such an obvious question): Of course I have. I just wanted to see if this problem was specific to my mee maw or if it was more general in nature.
Me (mumbling, as Wonder Admin huffs out of my office): When did it become anatomically acceptable to refer to it as a mee maw?
(45 Minutes After That)
Wonder Admin (in a tone conveying that she has again established her superiority): I’ve done a verbal survey and every other woman on this floor has developed mee maw issues. Well, except you. You’re the lone holdout when it comes to providing that sort of information.
Me (wondering when mass over-sharing became de rigueur): Are you implying something is wrong with me simply because I am not burny and scratchy? Because I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be status quo in the girly department.
Wonder Admin (not about to concede): I’m just saying you’re outside the floor’s mee maw norm. Think about that.
(An Hour Ago, When Wonder Admin Returned From The Gyno)
Wonder Admin (feeling it necessary to give me a Gynecological Update): Apparently, I’m allergic to our new environmentally-friendly toilet paper. I knew going Green was bad news. First it’s that shame-on-you email signature about unnecessary printing, then it’s the baristas at Starbucks making me feel guilty for not having a reusable cup, and now my mee maw is inflamed? This is me, officially Anti-Green. What’s opposite green on the color wheel? Because that’s what I am.
Me (as Wonder Admin flounces out, intent on a Mission Of Fury): Sucks to be Building Services right now…
(Very Recently Appeared In My Email)
Subject: The lavatory toilet tissue
It has been brought to our attention that the building’s environmentally-friendly toilet tissue is causing an unpleasant bodily reaction amongst some of the building’s female population. We were previously unaware of this and are striving to correct the situation as soon as possible. Should you immediately require alternative tissue, please feel free to purchase a suitable toilet-safe product, retain your receipt and we will happily reimburse you. Please remember that paper hand towels are not suitable for toilet use.
(As I Walked By Wonder Admin’s Desk)
Me (admiring): I see you work fast.
Wonder Admin (pointing to the wall behind her head, where there’s a spiffy new hand written sign):
I think I broke my foot this morning. This oh-so-medically-informed conclusion is based on extensive Googling, the helpful input of several Lawyerly Place colleagues, and the fact that it hurts like a Mother Effer. I’ve an appointment with my podiatrist to confirm my self-diagnosis and hopefully, to get some Vicodin. But until then, I am carefully studying diagrams of foot bones, reading up on I-dropped-something-on-me type injuries and comparing all that to my current Purple Marshmallow Foot Status.
To better understand the events leading to my gimpdom, I need to rewind several weeks. On some random weekend afternoon, when I was still in the throes of misguided eCrush love, I ran out of Diet Coke. A continuous intake of caffeine is pretty much the only way I’m able to function and reduced calorie Coke products are my beverage of choice. That day, when I opened the Frigidaire to find my household Diet Coke supplies were low, I freaked. I need at least two available cans to maintain a continuous Diet Coke intake. Otherwise, my caffeine level dips, I get a rager headache and I sometimes decapitate small children. But my reaction to the soda situation was laughable compared to eCrush’s. His caffeine dependency far exceeds mine. It’s sort of like comparing a hardened heroin addict (him) with a kindergartner who has just learned to say no (me). When I informed eCrush that I was out of liquid crack and we’d have to ration until I made a grocery run, he gave me Panic Eyes. Without a word, he got off the couch, grabbed my collapsible shopping cart and scurried to Soviet Safeway. Twenty minutes later, eCrush was back and armed with six fridge packs. Diet Coke crisis averted.
Fast forward to Sunday. Thanks to the previous day’s eCrush Confrontation, I was still at DEFCON emotional levels. In an effort to quell my instincts, which demanded I inflict injury onto his Stupid Smooshie Dog, I was rampaging through Chez Apartment and ridding myself of all leftover eCrush paraphernalia. During my Anger Storm, his fancy pants $150 whirly twirly toothbrush was repurposed; I found it cleans the litter boxes superbly. I played Balcony Basketball with his iPod. And the homeless guy who sleeps by the Rosslyn Metro looks rather dapper in the $195 Versace Shoulder Snap shirt eCrush orgasmed over. Then, towards the end of the evening, I found an unopened Diet Coke 12-pack tucked into the No Man’s Land Nook (that space above the fridge but below those basically purposeless cabinets that are only good for stashing random kitchenware, like fondue pots and vegetable steamers). Instantly, I knew it was a pack that eCrush had purchased. At some point, he’d written cutesy “I Love You” type notes on the cases and this one was graffitied with his lies. I was all quandarified about what to do. On one hand, I felt anything associated with eCrush carried some level of taint; a sort of a residual emotional toxicity and I wanted it gone. Otherwise I was probably going to maim his dog, be arrested for animal cruelty and, really, that would suck. Yet, the 12-pack was half a week’s worth of perfectly drinkable caffeine and I hated to throw it away just because it was purchased by eDouchehead. I wondered if there was some sort of cleanse I could do. Maybe something involving incense and Clorox Wipes? But eventually, my addiction won and I opted to keep the soda. With a nod to my sanity, I cut eCrush’s note off the end of the fridge pack and stashed the Diet Coke back in the Nook, intending the cans to be an emergency stash brought out when only I was desperate enough ingest tainted caffeine.
So, this morning, I went to the grab my a.m. dose of Functionality In A Can. And I guess the Curse Of eCrush was at work because as soon as I opened the fridge door, the end of the 12-pack, the part that keeps all the cans nestled in the cardboard confines, burst. One by freaking one, the Diet Cokes rolled from the carton, off the top of the fridge and Kamikazed directly onto my foot. And one of them exploded as it hit (what I’ve since identified as) my medial cuneiform.
Spikes of pain shot into my toes and up my leg. There was a thunking sound every time a can hit my foot, like a herd of drunken sorority girls stumbling down the stairs. Then, barely five seconds after it began, the Diet Coke Attack was done. There was no way I was opening the freezer to get ice for my swelling foot. If there was an errant Diet Coke can up top, I was not about to jostle it and be knocked unconscious. Instead, I sprint-limped from the kitchen to put my mangled foot under a stream of freezing tap water. And as I sat on the edge of the bathtub, I dialed eCrush. Wisely, he screened. But when eCrush listens to his voice mail, I hope he hugs his little doggie tight and fears the day I carry through on my threat to kick him and his Gay Dog in the balls.