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…

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.

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.

TMI Thursday: The Toilet, The Tub And Bionic Kitty

Several weeks ago, I noticed my loo wouldn’t stop running. The thing was installed around the time Madonna danced in non-ironic jelly shoes and a tutu, so in toilet years, it’s older than Methuselah. As with all geriatric plumbing, there are sometimes problems. Most of my toilet’s can be remedied by jiggling the handle a few times. Occasionally, I have to play operation in the toilet tank or be liberal in the use of Drano. But it’s always something my non-handy self can conquer. So on that particular Sunday night, when the toilet kept running, I went through my usual diagnostic: wiggle handle, check toilet tank, kick base, call Dad.

Placing an SOS call to my father is my version of a do-it-yourself white flag. The frequency with which I call is the entire reason I plan to rent until I move into the Happy Trails Extended Care Home. But not everybody agrees with my pro-renting stance. Despite the bajillions of homeownership pitfalls I outlined and every “and then the entire place flooded” horror story I could think of, Little Sister recently bought a condo. Predictably, she too has become a believer in calling for Fatherly Reinforcements. A few weeks ago, when she was putting up a towel bar, Little Sister apparently logged six Dad Dials. Her particular situation was complicated by a lack of appropriate tools. Men magically acquire things like soldering irons and wrenches. Women, on the other hand, get shoes. If it can’t be fixed with a wedge heel and a butter knife, chances are, it’s not being repaired in an estrogen-heavy environment. True to form, Little Sister tried to knock a bolt loose with everything from a cutting board to sheer willpower but nothing worked. Eventually, after my father suggested she heat the darn thing up, Little Sister got her fireplace lighter and stood around warming the bolt ala MacGyver. It worked and I give her snaps for dedication, but that’s more effort than I ever want to put into anything home repair. If I can’t remedy a household problem via extensive googling, some cursing and/or ignoring the situation for a reasonable period of time, then I call Dad. If he can’t walk me through a fix in five minutes or less, I speed dial my landlord.

So, when I called Dad about my toilet mystery and he suggested the break was at the Toilet Tank Flap Thingie (you know, the jobbie that keeps the water in the tank and pulls up on that thin chain doohickey when you flush), I double checked. As it had when I poked around earlier, everything appeared fine with the Thingie. By this time, the toilet had been running for at least half an hour. It was close to overflowing and not wanting a Great Flood Of 2008 repeat, I decided to turn off the water and forgo my pre-bed pee. Instead, I composed a gem-of-an-email titled, “PLEASE FIX THE TOILET NOW, OR SO HELP ME GOD…” sent it off to Landlord, and went to sleep. In the morning, there was a response. Landlord had arranged for the Official Building Plumber to visit sometime between 8:15 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. I would have to be around to supervise the work but he promised I would have a functioning toilet by sunset.

I was thrilled to have an excuse for a Personal Day. It was gonna be me, my comfy PJs, and the torrid happenings of Season Three of The O.C. In preparation for some quality couch time, I grabbed the first of my four morning Diet Cokes. And that’s when I realized I hadn’t engaged in any bladder relieving activities since approximately 3:00 the day before. In that 17 hour period, I’d downed a margarita, at least four glasses of water, and assorted Diet beverages. I was amply hydrated. And now I had to use The Ladies’.

Badly.

As I saw it, my options were:

1. Tackling my bed head, switching out my bunny slippers for Hot Pink Crocs, going down four floors to the Chez Apartment Lobby and using the public restroom.
2. Peeing off my balcony.
3. Delaying as long as humanly possible in order to maximize the amount of excess fluid expelled from my bladder, and then going with Option A.
4. Repurposing the kitty litter.
5. Squatting over the edge of the bathtub.

After rejecting Options One through Four on grounds of “that would involve a bra, which is the antithesis of Lazy Couch Day,” or “Eww, gross,” I went with Option Five.

There are certain aerodynamical pee principles which the vaginaed set deal with. First, aim isn’t always guaranteed; if you hover, stray spray generally lands on the seat. Second, utilizing a cup in cases of dire emergency does not end well. And then there’s the Three Drinks Rule: always sit after three, or on your leg you will pee. Knowing these things, I’m not sure why I went with Option Five. It broke the First Law Of Girly Peeing and due to my beverage intake the day before, I needed to follow the Three Drinks Rule. But I managed to justify my decision on the grounds that Option Five was straightforward, simple, and the least time consuming choice. So, I made my way to the bathroom, dropped trow, and squatted over the edge of the tub.

I quickly realized my plan was logistically flawed. If I kept my feet on the bathroom floor and attempted to squat over the tub edge, it appeared I was too short to project my flow into the tub itself. Not wanting to inadvertently miss and spray my Ikea bathmat, I revamped the plan. For Attempt Take Two, I climbed into the bathtub itself, squatted facing the faucet, and intended to let loose with the bladder. But, just before bladder release, I realized there was a high probability of runoff touching my feet. So, I turned around. This way, I figured things would flow away from me, toward the drain. Hygiene would be maintained, my feet would remain pee-free, and all would be right in my germaphobe world. Except then I remembered my bathtub has a slow drain and water tends to collect where I was standing. In essence, if I squatted in the tub, I would be wadding in a pool of my own urine. That was a bit too Ick for my A-type Sensibilities, so I reevaluated.

For awhile, I contemplated going back to Option One. It was a solid alternative and putting on a bra was an eensy weensy sacrifice to make for a hygienic, accident-free peeing experience. But that part of me that’s stubborn to the Nth degree? That will bite my nose to spite my face? That’s essentially a sucker? Well, it prevailed.

So, I climbed onto the edge and assumed the Horny Baboon Stance: knees bent, butt thrust as far over the tub as it would go. My left hand was planted on the wall, counteracting my horrendous balance. In the other was a wad of toilet paper. Should my aerodynamic calculations be off and stray sprays occur, I was armed and ready to wipe them up. Being as prepared as I could possibly be, I let loose. Two blessed minutes later, Operation Makeshift Toilet was a success. My bladder was empty and I was about to climb off the tub edge. I let go of the wall, took one foot off the tub ledge and at that exact second, Bionic Kitty charged in. She is fascinated by all bathroom functions, especially the tub-centric variety. This was a previously unseen activity and she was determined to investigate.

There is only so much width on a tub ledge and my teetering Midwestern Sexy bum was taking up most of it. When 21 pounds of Bionicness jumped into the mix, something had to give. Predictably, it was me. Bionic Kitty landed on the tub edge and with a yelp, I plunged backwards, ankles over head, until I landed spread eagle in the slow-draining pee puddle. Because God is merciful, I managed not to break my neck or hurt myself badly enough that I had to lay in my own pee until the plumber arrived. But still, my tailbone was in agony. And then, because it wasn’t bad enough, Bionic Kitty joined me in the tub.

At first, she just sniffed and splashed at the urine. But something must have clicked in the Bionic Brain: the pee puddle was something to be consumed. Just like the poinsettia or the bouncy glitter ball or my fish or the millions of other things she’s ingested. Nothing is ever safe from the Jaws Of Death. I was disgusted but I let her slurp away. At least this culinary adventure wasn’t going to cost me elevenity kajillion dollars in vet bills. Worst case, if Bionic got sick, I figured I would lock her in the bathroom and deal with the oceans of kitty puke before the plumber arrived. In the meantime, my priorities were figuring out if my throbbing tailbone was broken, extracting myself from the wedged-into-the-tub-spread-eagle position and showering. So, it took me a moment to realize the vigorous slurping sounds had stopped. I tried to look around the Bionic Mass sitting on my stomach, but I couldn’t see from my crammed-in angle. I assumed there was no more urine for the cat to drink but really, her focus had simply shifted. Instead of drinking the pee pool, she began licking my exposed private parts.

And Sweet Mother Mary, I was in such shell shock, I just laid there for a minute. Suddenly it registered that my cat was molesting me; that I was the inadvertent victim of Bionic Bestiality. Horror filled me. Tailbone be damned. With newfound purpose, I un-stuck myself from the tub, and chased Bionic Kitty from the bathroom. My pajama pants were still around one ankle, my pee-drenched backside was still exposed and I had bed head. But whatever. My cat had violated me and I was going to make clear that my vajayjay was a No Fly Zone for cat tongue.

Twenty minutes later, I was still hunting Bionic Kitty. She’d retreated into the abyss under the bed and I was crouched down with my naked ass facing the door, my head shoved under the mattress screaming, “Bad Kitty! Bad bad bad Kitty.” That’s how the Official Building Plumber found me. Apparently, I was so engrossed in obtaining vengeance that I hadn’t heard the knocking and he’d let himself in. With as much dignity as I could muster, I stood up, covered my exposed bits and asked the plumber if he could come back in half an hour, when I was decent. Stammering, he agreed. As he turned around, I shouted that I had one more request: Could I please borrow his biggest, heftiest wrench, so I could bludgeon my cat to death? He didn’t come back to fix my toilet for two days.

Why I Should Have Taken Out The Trash

Thursday night, while I was frantically packing for my 59-hour jaunt back to O-H-I-O, I realized I should take out my trash. The can was overflowing and thanks to my latest attempts at becoming Julia Child, it was filled with an entire pot roast I somehow managed to scorch beyond edibleness, assorted vegetables that I had purchased during a health kick and Chinese leftovers that had become fuzzy in the month spent sitting in the fridge. By packing time, my Simple Human was already a tad fragrant and I knew come Monday return it be full-blown biohazard. But despite my best intentions, I never made it to the building’s trash chute.

When I walked into my apartment last night, I expected it to smell one step above Wet Dog Butt. Instead of over-poweringly toxic, I got Fresh Mountain Morning with a hint of Need To Change The Litter Box. Surprisingly, nothing was emanating from the garbage can. With a shrug, I went about unpacking, pacifying the cats after my extended absence and sorting the mail. And then, lulled into a false sense of odor-related security, I opened the trash can to throw out 28 pieces of junk mail.

Sweet Virgin Mary, Joseph and the donkey they rode in on. It smelled like pig farts to the infinite power. Never in my near-30-years have I smelled anything more foul, more rank, or more eye-wateringly noxious. And I’ve been to Mount Rumpke. I swear that I saw lethal green fumes roll off the top. In an effort to preserve my sense of smell, I slammed down the trash can lid, staggered over to my balcony, threw open the doors and inhaled deep breathes of refreshing NoVA air. Ten minutes later, my lungs had recovered and my nose was once again functional. But that damn trash was still in the kitchen. Thus began Operation Take It Out Without Dying.

My first strategic maneuver was to call Wendy’s Boy. Generally, when there’s something I don’t want to do, I either pawn it off on an unsuspecting victim or revert to gender-specific stereotypes. This was one of those instances. I figured smelly trash was a Man’s Job and I had access to a Man, so why not utilize his services? Except Wendy’s Boy was MIA. With no other option except let the trash continue to putrefy, I decided to take the trash out myself. But first, I had to find some suitable nose protection.

Since I suck at holding my breath, a gas mask was not readily available and I doubted a hefty sniff of my Glade Plug-In would override the smell the entire 100 yards to the trash chute, I decided to go with the block-the-nose-and-breathe-through-the-mouth option. Ideally, I would have used a swimmer’s nose clip or a clothespin, but instead, I had to settle for jamming Lite Flow Tampons up my nostrils. And just to make sure no contaminated air snuck by my first line of defense, I took my North Face headband doohickey and put it around my nose. With proper odor-blocking precautions in place, I headed to the kitchen.

It took a solid 20 minutes and five Fresh Air Breaks to remove the bag from the can and complete a double bag. The trash had liquefied, it kept oozing out the bottom and I quickly discovered fighting my gag reflex with Tampons shoved up my nose was not an easy task. Eventually, I made it out of Chez Apartment and began the seemingly epic walk to the trash chute. About halfway there, two unsuspecting residents rounded the hallway bend. Even yards away, whiffs of toxic air reached them. Stopping in the hall, they took in my vaguely-green complexion and the smell-barrier I’d constructed around my face. I could see them calculating the odds of smell survival and deliberating what to do. Wisely, they headed back to the safety of the elevators and away from sure Death By Fumes.

Finally, finally I reached the trash chute. I opened it, tossed in the Bag of Funk and listened as it hit the dumpster four floors below. With a sigh, I took out my nose Tampons. And then, reflexively, I inhaled through my nose. The residual odor was nauseatingly horrific. Sort of like mildewed baby diarrhea mixed with eau de Homeless Man. And it was all too much for my delicate-flower stomach. Praying I didn’t catch too many fumes, pass out and fall head first down the garbage chute, I opened the chute door, put my head in and puked.

I haven’t been able to smell anything for nearly 18 hours.

Where I Triumph Over A Retail Employee

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.

The Annals of eCrush, Or The Blog Post My Parents And Assorted Relatives Should Not Read (Seriously)

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.

“UGGs” Are Not Australian For “Snow Boots”

DC got a half inch of snow this morning. In Ohio, that’s viewed as a meteorological joke, but for Washingtonians, half an inch equates to full-fledged Blizzard Conditions. I guess all things are relative. Anyway, after the weather guy on Channel Four describe the day’s forecast as “grave” and “climatically treacherous,” I gave serious thought to calling the Place of Lawyerly Things and claiming a sick snow day. Honestly, I didn’t want the commuting headache. Experience has taught me that the Metro does not deal well with things like temperature fluctuation, increase in ridership, fire, or any form of precipitation. So, I imagined my commute would become the real-life version of that movie where the weather goes all doomsday and freezes the Statue of Liberty up to her armpits while almost turning Jake Gyllenhaal into a human popsicle, but then Dennis Quaid snowshoes across four States and saves the Jakester by wrapping him in a hand-warmer cocoon, so Jake only has mild frostbite and possibly snow blindness. Yep, I figured it was going to be a lot like that. But with a train.

Between my apartment and the Rosslyn Metro is a Really Big Hill. And by “big,” I mean, Sir Edmund Hillary could scale it, plant a flag on top, and call it his Bitch. Each morning, I happily walk down the hill and each evening, I dread death marching up. I consider that climb the workout equivalent of the Iron Man. And in the year I’ve lived at Chez Apartment, I’ve had several weather-related encounters with the Hill. Each time there’s heavy rain, mini-flash floods develop at the top and without warning, tsunamis made of run-off barrel down. Anybody in the wake of all this water gets soaked, usually to the knees. I’ve learned to wear rain boots for forecasts that include anything more than a trickle. Also, the one time it got icy last winter, I attempted to climb the Hill. After three failed attempts, a fellow commuter and I admitted defeat. Ice, gravity and a lack of rock salt were just too much. We gave up and hailed a taxi to take us to the top.

Knowing all this, I spent several minutes considering the footwear logistics of my a.m. trek down to the Metro. I was going to need lots of traction, and possibly a miracle, to get to the bottom of Mt. Pedestrian Killer. Theoretically, I own snow boots and rain boots; both traction-acceptable for my icy descent. But, after ten minutes of rummaging through my shoe closet, I realized both pairs of boots were at eCrush’s. Writing them off as Lost Forever, I threw on my UGGs.

As my UGGs and I approached the Really Big Hill, I watched one unsuspecting woman descend about a foot, hit a patch of ice disguised as slush, do that arm flail thing from the cartoons, and land on her tuckus. It was hilarious until I realized that probably was going to be me in about three minutes. As I watched, another person began sidestepping down the face of the Hill, like people do on ski slopes. This method was fairly successful, except for the occasional side slide that caused a lot of muttering and one instance where the guy screamed, “Holy Shit!” A third person was trying to Spiderman down the Hill, body and hands splayed against the side of the building that lines the sidewalk. That just looked like a body scrape waiting to happen. Clearly, the Really Big Hill had elevated to Break Your Neck conditions.

I stood at the crest for a few minutes, studying the slush and attempting to locate the biggest patches of snow-free sidewalk. Mentally, I plotted my course, noting all possible life-saving building and tree handholds in case of an unexpected wipeout. Eventually, it got to the point where I couldn’t put it off any longer. I knew I either had to get down the Hill or return to Chez Apartment and call the Place of Lawyerly Things. While my Sensible Side fully supported a day of Buffy and Hot Chocolate, my Inner Ohioan scoffed. If half an inch of snow, a mere dusting, was going to keep me homebound, I could no longer claim to be a Midwesterner.

Unwilling to relinquish my geographic motherland, I gingerly placed my foot on the slope of the Hill and sort of squished it down for traction. Once I knew I was stable, I positioned my other boot about six inches further down the hill, dug into the slush, and prayed. As I shifted my weight forward, I maintained traction. I mentally thanked Whoever-Is-The-Patron-Saint-Of-Commuting. And again, I stepped, prayed, shifted, over and over, inching down Rosslyn’s version of K2. Everything was fine until, about eight feet from the bottom, I misstepped. Instead of putting my foot on a strip of visible brick a few inches ahead, I accidentally overshot my mark and my UGGed foot landed on a frozen piece of plastic. It was too late to do any readjustments so I shifted my weight forward, but the rubber sole of my UGG couldn’t grip the plastic beneath it. Inadvertently, I had created the perfect storm of snow, slippery plastic, and traction deficient footwear. My UGGed foot, still atop the plasticy thing, began to slide down the hill and because I was mid-weight shift, with my back foot still planted firmly behind me, I began to do the splits. I am not Mary Lou Retton; I do not bend that way and it hurt. As my legs continued to spread, every single time I had declined Stella’s offers to introduce me to yoga flashed through my head. At some point, cussing ensued. Just as I was about to split in two, my self-preservation instincts kicked in. I lifted my back leg, the one that was holding me in place and essentially keeping me steady. Instantly, the UGG/plastic thingie morphed into a foot sled. I shot down the Hill, doing an impression of a wobbly, one-legged surfing flamingo. Death was imminent. Either I was going to fall and break my delicate neck, kamikaze into a building, or get smooshed by one of the cars whizzy past the base of the Really Big Hill. Wanting to shorten my time in purgatory, I closed my eyes and admitted to God that I really was the person who broke my brother’s Optimus Prime, not Little Sister.

I continued to confess the sins of my past, and had made it through most of puberty, when I realized I’d stopped moving. Somehow, I’d slid one-legged down the Really Big Hill and reached a graceful halt at the bottom. I sighed with relief. It was over. For a moment, I envisioned Johnny Drama, then, confident that all was well since I was on the level and semi-slush-free sidewalk, I took a step. That’s when my UGGs lived up to their tractionless nature. I promptly fell flat on my butt and let out every four letter word I knew.

When All Else Fails, Take The Booze AND RUN! Or, Ready For Semi-Drunk Blogging? Yeah? Yeah!

This is Katherine and Stella signing in for a New Years Eve recap, while still semi-intoxicated and mysteriously awake. Stella would like to point out she was almost stabbed in puruit of fondue ingredients and that she is fabulous. Also, she wants the world to know that in a three hour span, sort of like Giligan’s Tour, we attended two parties, got pizza and I farted extensively. Conequently, her sheets no longer smell like her boyfriend, Mr. Oates, but like my smelly ass farts.

The night  was reallyjust one big old fahion faux paus. But not us. We looked hot, including McFly. BUT the first party we attended included a woman wearing knee pads. This is why community organizers should have wardrobe consultants. Otherwise they pair seersucker with kneepads. Pictures to follow. Also, they have ferns as big as Afghanistan that also is decored for the holiday occasion. SEERSUCKER! With KNEE PADS! That was the sign to go. So, that’s when I got nomimated totake back our booze contribution. It was Kettle One. You don’t leave perfectly good vodka at a party where there were pigs and a blanket and KNEE PADS. They don’t mix.

Stella points out I also grabbed a two liter of diet Sprite. And apparently it’s one thing to Indian give your top shelf alcohol, but it’s poor taste to reclaim your mixer. I say whatever. Drinking vodka straight in a taxi is tacky.

We went to Party Two, where I think we were at for a sum total of four minutes. Maybe because the median age was 16 and a half. That’s the point where I saw the whiskey. It was shiny and a MOTHER FING HUGE BOTTLE OF MAKER’S MARK. Stella thinks it was a two liter. She wants to know if handles come in multiples. It really was like a magnum of Maker’s Mark. I turned to Stella, who was serving as my partner in crime because District McFly was busy flilrting with a young version of Donny Trump.

Me: I want that whiskey.

Stella: (I think she said something, but I don’t recall what)

Me: I am taking that whisk

After Stella got done laughing at me for putting a double magnum in my Whole Foods bag (yeah, we roll with class), we ran out into the Land of Scary Bad Things (aka East of 12th Street, where no self=respecting gentrifier dares to go). We were wearing heels and designer clothes and carrying Kate Spade cluthcs and a Whole Foods bag full of party contraband. By a miracle of God we got a taxi. Stella might have thrown herslef into traffice to get it. I got booze, she acquired a get away car.

Next stop, Stella’s. That’s when we called every Chinese delivery place in a five mile radius only to find the Chinese take New Year seriously. Nobody was open at 11:26. So we walked next door for PIZZA! Lucky for us, Stella lives in the middle of all things Amazing and so we were saved. Also, we took a photo montage while we were waiting for the nice pizza man to cook our stuff. Will post later.

Then,ut Stella would like to discuss the photo shoot in more detail. There may have been 20 minutes where she and I engaged in drunk white girl gratiitous shelf portraits. She might have deep throated the giant jar of crushed red pepper flakes. But her eye makeup photographed well. Also, I think she put her leg up on the counter. And the pizza guy just watched the drunk madnees. I wanted my stolen whiskey.

The night ended with Carson, Ben and Jerry’s and pizza in bed. We are magnificent and loaded on stolen booze. Happy New Year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!