Archive for the ‘Vodka: my friend, my enemy’ Category

The Consequences of Drinking

August 2, 2010

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.

Emerging From The Ether

April 22, 2009

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

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

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

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

A Lame Photographic Montage Of The Weekend

March 31, 2009

GETTING CULTURED ON FRIDAY NIGHT

Things I discovered:

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

 

Founding Fathers

Moi, Lulu and McFly smiling pretty at Founding Fathers.

Kennedy Center.

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

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

Things I discovered:

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

 

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

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

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

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

The Great 2009 Grind Off.

The Great 2009 Grind Off. I lost.

Entertaining the Bathroom Line.

Entertaining the Bathroom Line.

I even have culinary disasters in restaurants.

I even have culinary disasters in restaurants.

 MONDAY’S KICK BOOTY ROAD TRIP TO REHOBOTH

Things I discovered:

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

 

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

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

Guess I'm screwed.

I'm screwed.

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

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

Race?

Race?

X-rated sandcastles.

X-rated sandcastles.

Holler!

Holler!

Grrr! Arrrrgh!

Grrr! Arrrrgh!

Stupid wave.

Stupid wave.

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

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

My Thinking Face.

My Thinking Face.

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

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

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

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

Bestiality.

Bestiality.

I sometimes do strange things.

I sometimes do strange things.

McFly and Me.

McFly and Me.

It’s Sorta Like Prom, But Better!

January 5, 2009

Dear Mr. and Ms. Prospective Ballgoer:

Yeah, I know we aren’t going to have Oprah. And the only Obama sighting will be the life-size cutout of the President-Elect that I am bringing as my date. Even so, the Bloggerational Ball is THE PARTY to attend during Inauguration Weekend. It’s going to be historic. It’s going to magical. It’s going to be held in a bar. And it’s going to be nothing like Prom, because:

  • Once sufficiently boozed up, I will begin my campaign to be crowned Blog Queen. Please note: This is a solo venture, not in the least bit sponsored, supported or otherwise endorsed by the Bloggerational Ball Committee and if LiLu sees my Pretty Pretty Princess tiara, she’s threatened to confiscate it. 
  • I am wearing a strapless dress. Chances are high there’s going to be another Boobies Incident!
  • Booze. Lots of it. Legally.
  • The whole “loss of virginity” thing is out of the way.
  • Five Words: Riding. Metro. In. Formal. Wear.
  • The only pictures are the ones you choose to take for blackmail purposes. 423 posed photos of you on the White House lawn doing the Corsage Exchange optional. 
  • Sister Mary Regina will not be supervising the dancing. Nor will balloons be provided to maintain proper pelvic distance.
  • Commemorative souvenirs may be purchased at the nearest street vendor.
  • The only subcommittee is the one I formed, which is dedicated to making sure there is enough TP in the loos. Ladies, you can thank me later.

The Drunkie Photo Montage

January 2, 2009

I would like to dedicate this to Herb. Because he wanted the pictures posted badly enough to leave TWO comments. And also to vodka. If it weren’t for you, my life would be a whole lot less embarrassing entertaining eventful.

I am nothing but class.

I am nothing but class.

Potential disaster or previously undiscovered talent? Only time will tell.

Potential disaster or previously undiscovered talent? Only time will tell.

Knee Pad Girl. Photographic evidence of her existence.

Knee Pad Girl. Photographic evidence of her existence.

Putting our hopes for the New Year into the Universe.

Putting our hopes for the New Year into the Universe.

Wonder what the shelf life is on the cheese packet?

What's the shelf life is on those cheese packets?

the Triumvirate of Awesome.

Stella, me and McFly: the Triumvirate of Awesome.

consumption of grease and carbs.

The first step in hangover prevention: consumption of grease and carbs.

The first of 76 self-portraits we took in a five minute span. Also, the only one in focus.

The first of 76 self-portraits we took in a five minute span. Also, the only one in focus.

And there's a random conversation going on behind me.

And there's a random conversation going on behind me.

I have no explanation.

I have no explanation.

Wedgie. Must be corrected.

Wedgie. Must be corrected.

Contraband and take-backs.

Contraband and take-backs.

Raise your hand if you are intoxicated.

Raise your hand if you are eating ice cream.

This is my drunk face.

This is my drunk face.

Stella will be reheating that chocolate fondue and making us eat it until 2010.

Stella will be reheating that chocolate fondue and making us eat it until 2010.

And going out on a high note... a close up of the seersucker/knee pad leg warmer situation.

And going out on a high note... a close up of the seersucker/knee pad leg warmer situation.

PS — Stella and McFly, please note the judicious self-restraint I’ve employed in selecting the photos below. I tried to limit double chins, squinty eyes and other assorted picture disasters to myself.

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

January 1, 2009

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A List Of My New Year’s Resolutions And What Will Realistically Result From Said Resolutions

December 31, 2008

New Year’s Resolution: Lose 15 pounds.

Predicted Outcome: Over the course of the year, my secret love of cheese will be too strong for me to repress and consequently, I will consume vast wheels of Gouda. Ounce by ounce, I will in fact gain 15 pounds until my thighs are the diameter of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

New Year’s Resolution: Develop a taste for cheap vodka. Or learn to filter it. Thus, saving money because crap vodka is tons more bank account friendly than Grey Goose.

Predicted Outcome: A liver transplant will become an immediate necessity instead of a theoretical possibility. I will be stuck with hefty co-pays and outrageous health insurance deductibles, thereby eradicating any savings I might otherwise have achieved.

New Year’s Resolution: No longer surf the interwebs while at the Place of Lawyerly Things and devote time saved to becoming a model employee.

Predicted Outcome: I will continue with the current No Working On Friday schedule. And maybe expand this demanding schedule, because everybody knows Thursday is the new Friday.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn Chinese.

Predicted Outcome: I will order lots of Chinese food.

New Year’s Resolution: Meet Chuck Norris.

Predicted Outcome: Get all episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger from Netflicks and watch incessantly. Maybe practice my roundhouse kick. Hi-ya!

New Year’s Resolution: Think of a password other than “password.”

Predicted Outcome: Start using “password2.”

New Year’s Resolution: Stop making fun of people on the Metro.

Predicted Outcome: Such wishful thinking.

New Year’s Resolution: Perform a Service to Humanity and burn eCrush’s madras pants.

Predicted Outcome: He will most likely replace the pants with a wardrobe item equally as offensive and emasculating, which I will likewise have to publicly make fun of and covertly steal. This in turn will begin a vicious cycle of wardrobe confiscation that will only end when all madras fabrics are banned from the earth.

New Year’s Resolution: Remove all Miley Cyrus songs from my iPod.

Predicted Outcome: I will download Jonas Brothers, Selma Gomez or similar up and coming D-Rock in an effort to fill the teenbop void. I will continue to put this music on my “Music of Shame” playlist, which is actually what I renamed my Top 25 Most Played.

New Year’s Resolution: Put Bionic Kitty on a diet.

Predicted Outcome: She will eat my couch in protest. It will sorta be like Ghandi’s hunger strike, but in reverse.

New Year’s Resolution: Engage in random acts of kindness. Like no more drunk dialing, drunk texting, or drunk yelling.

Predicted Outcome: I will substitute drunk mooning, drunk boob flashing or drunk Insulting A Metro Employee and eventually be arrested for my rowdy behavior. It’ll make great blog fodder. And because I engage in “post now, think later” blog posting, my mother will read it. I’ll then receive a phone call in which she will repeatedly threatened to enroll me in Betty Ford, AA, or Promises.

New Year’s Resolution: Move from NoVA to the District.

Predicted Outcome: This will actually happen. In fact, it’ll usher in the Golden Age of My Social Life, which I will fondly refer to as the Ascendancy of Glory when I reminisce about it during my kid-rearing years.

New Year’s Resolution: Travel more.

Predicted Outcome: Hello, Maryland.

How I Ensure Job Security In A Tough Economic Climate

December 16, 2008

Office morale in a Lawyerly Place can sometimes be touch and go. But with a constant influx of alcohol and cheese on toothpicks, the grumbles can be kept to a minimum. Because attorneys? They heart vodka. My current Place of Lawyerly Things has realized this and engages in preventive mood boosting. Around the end of each quarter, there is a highly recommended if you value your job mid-day social hour. It’s generally themed, painful, and light on munchies but heavy on wine. This experience is not to be confused with the annual Holiday Party, which is Thursday, or other required socializing like client events, woe-is-me-meals with the fresh meat new associate lunches and sucker summer associate events. Anyhoodles, today is one of those special social hour days.

Since I like a regular paycheck, and because year-end bonuses loom, I figured it would be good to make an appearance at this afternoon’s event. Plus, give me few drinks and I’d be doing some afternoon drunk lawyering. What’s not to love about that? Dutifully, I went to the office atrium, grabbed some cubed cheddar and a plastic wine glass.

It is also important to know that I am wearing my Sweet-Baby-Jesus-you’re-really-bloated-and-possibly-gestating-a-whale-pants. These slacks are about a size and a half too big. I bought them after a night of debauchery, when my dignity required I go to work in a different outfit but I didn’t have enough time to go home and grab clothes. This was the only option Ann Taylor had that was short enough and well, wide enough, to not raise every workplace eyebrow. I generally only break these pants out after the holidays but before I reintroduce myself to the elliptical machine. When I wear them, I constantly walk around with one hand holding up the extra fabric and when I stand, if I take a hand off my hip, I must ensure I’m in a low gravity zone or else they gently slide down to my ankles. And that’s on fat days. These pants are only seeing daylight today because I really, really need to pick up from the dry cleaners and everything else is past the point of a good Febreezing.

OK, so back to today’s social hour: I had sampled the Harris Teeter hors d’oeuvres, had my attendance noted by Big Boss and was gossiping discussing pressing client matters with Pregnant Colleague. My hands were full. Literally. One was hitching up my oversized pants. The other was in charge of maintaining sanity, which meant grabbing at all nearby bottles of wine and transporting them directly to my mouth. That’s when Pregnant Colleague dropped a napkin and without thinking, without recalling why I’ve had one hand anchored at my waist all day, I let go of my pants and reached down to get it. It took about two seconds for my pants to reach my ankles and my Wonder Woman undies to be seen by half the Lawyerly Litigation Team.

As I was bent over, ass up, I thought maybe just this one time, in the spirit of the holiday season, the Universe would spare me total public humiliation. I prayed my Lawyerly Colleagues would be so deep into their plastic cups they wouldn’t notice. Or that my ass would be blocked by seven months of preggers belly and that my mortification would be kept between Pregnant Colleague and me. But no such luck. Half the Lawyerly Place Personnel saw my adult Underoos and seconds later, the other half got an email about it thanks to the wonders of the Crackberry. Walking to the elevator bank was arguably the most embarrassing professional moment of my life. And for me, that’s saying a lot.

I’ve spent the last two hours hunkered down in my office, trying to compose a mature and sensible resignation letter that does not include phrases like “sorry for flashing the Managing Partner with my lard ass.” Except just now, there was a knock on my door and Wonder Admin brought in a bottle of Settle Ponti Toscano Oreno wine. Google says this is stuff. But the best part was the note attached:

If you didn’t work so hard, we’d keep you around just for the laughs.

Big Boss

My year-end bonus? Totally going to be spent on grown up underwear.

Today’s Metro Lesson: If The Escalator Doesn’t Kill Ya, The Germs Will

December 12, 2008

Yesterday. Somewhere between Foggy Bottom and Farragut West: Gash the hell out of my thumb on mysteriously sharp ad holder thing by the Metro train door. Bleed profusely. Briefly consider sucking on cut as form of self-triage. Reject idea based on potential oral acquisition of Metro Death Germs.

Escalator at Farragut West: Hold rail as stand on right. Notice hand is consequently black and grimy. Realize attainment of Metro Dirt near wound does not portend good things. As walk to office, forswear lady like behavior and spit numerous times on thumb injury. Hope this will delay onset of gangrene.

At Place of Lawyerly Things: Wash hand and employ liberal amounts of anti-bacterial gel. Definition of liberal: the approximately 1.8 ounces remaining in bottle.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, ten minutes later: Question Metro Germ conquering abilities of generic anti-bacterial gel. Seek out Lawyerly First Aid Kit.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, having located First Aid Kit: No Neosporin or alcohol (for rubbing or for courage). Ditto, no band-aids. Apparently, the office administrator thinks lawyers really don’t bleed. Determine life saving trip to CVS is required. Now.

At CVS: Spend $8.91 on germinator supplies.

At Place of Lawyerly Things bathroom: Call on all nuggets of medical wisdom garnered from ten seasons of ER fandom. Also recall some bits from Scrubs and Grey’s Anatomy. Reject Grey’s knowledge because bathroom is not sufficiently hygienic operating theater when Phone Sex Operation shares the facilities. Begin medical intervention.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, later that afternoon: Thumb status check. No visible signs of improvement. This does not look good.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, even later: Nope. Not good at all. Re-administer remedies.

After work: Determine that vodka kills everything. Mass consumption is only sure way to ensure survival and still possibly keep all my digits. Proceed accordingly.

Chez Apartment, in the wee hours: Remove bandage for evaluation of injury. Must squint to see clearly due to Vodka Eyes. Notice red streak from epicenter of gash to where thumb joins hand. Decide this must be monitored. Drunkenly decide it’s a swell idea to mark where infection is located. This will allow proper a.m. evaluation of aggressiveness of infection. Draw big lines around thumb with red marker. Apply more Neosporin.

Ches Apartment, in the even wee-er horus: Awake to Bionic Kitty licking Neosporin. Gross. Try to make her go away but too drunk to fight 20 pounds of determined cat.

Next morning: Thumb angry red color. Decide I will send Metro a helpful suggestion type email, advising they install Purell misters on all train cars and in high-traffic areas.

Next morning, a few minutes later, contemplating options after realizing redness of thumb indicates situation is grave: Amputate? Call 911? Protracted soak in vat of penicillin?

Still the next morning, but now two minutes later: Decide drastic measures can wait until after shower. Hopefully this will also encourage the return of sobriety.

While engaging in cleanliness: Red mysteriously disappearing. In fact, realize there is no cause for alarm over state of thumb. Hmmm. Water cure? Or has an inexplicable image of the Virgin Mary appeared in the soap scum?

Upon further reflection: From depths of vodka haze, vaguely recall liberal application of a red marker to entire general thumb area. That must account for red color.

And also: Remember Bionic Kitty licked thumb in dead of night. Perhaps her saliva holds Bionic disease fighting properties? Does this mean Bionic Kitty has triumphed over Metro Ebola? Yes! It’s a miracle! All hail!

Finally: Return to bed. Too drunk lucid thought.

Never Name Your Kid Katherine

December 3, 2008

When I was born, my dad nicknamed me Blondie. After the dog. It was not an auspicious beginning but I guess I should be grateful that Dad limited the Blondie use. While filling out the birth certificate for both Little Brother and Little Sister, he enacted the ultimate veto by ignoring the names my parents had agreed upon and rechristening both my siblings. Knowing Dad’s track record, and considering his much-loved dog was given away just a few days before I was born, it would not have been a stretch for Dad to decide Katherine was out and Blondie was in. I’m sure he’d have justified it as a memorial to that fabled Lab while dooming me to a life of explaining that, yes, I was legally named after a dog.

Aside from Blondie, my life has been awash in pet names. Actually, each phase of my life can be charted by what people were calling me at the time. Right now I’m operating under KJ, Rine (which is the bastardization of Katherine; born because eCrush is too lazy to say my full name) and Chuckles (don’t ask; I don’t get it either). My formative years were awash in Katherine derivatives: Kat, Chatty Cathy, Katy-did, Katrina Ballerina. And there was also Thunder Thighs. Yup. Little Brother bestowed that gem. He’d break it out when he was on the receiving end of an Extreme Brother Beat Down and he had no other recourse. It was sort of his verbal trump card. Its use guaranteed I’d throttle him, but he’d sacrifice because he knew how much Thunder Things pissed me off. Eventually he stopped using the nickname, but it left its mark. Strangely enough, being called Thunder Thighs has instilled a lifelong hatred of chicken wings. To this day, on 25 cent wing night, the unique logic of my ten-year-old self dominates and I can’t participate. Basically I associate chicken wings with chicken thighs and in some twisty mental way, my own thighs. So, eating chicken wings? It’s like doing a Donner Party on yourself.

Then there was the whole Katie- Kate-Katherine evolution. Being called Katie was acceptable until about eighth grade. At that point, it no longer aligned with my newfound Mature Sensibilities so I took advantage of moving to a new school and renamed. Goodbye, Katie. Hello, Kate. After years of dedicated correction, I finally got my parents to drop the “i.” Yet my extended family remains rooted in Katie. It’s been over a decade since I’ve undergone the Kate upgrade, but if I phone any of my assorted aunts and self-identify as such, there’s a pause followed by, “Who?” At that point I’ve got a choice: hang up or sigh, give in to 29 years of history and grudgingly call myself by the name they recognize.

In college, when I tried to make the move from Kate to Katherine, I stupidly mentioned it to my mom. Her response was a two page email wondering if my constant name switches were an early warning sign of schizophrenia and offering medical attention while I was still on her insurance. I tried to explain that it wasn’t so much multiple personalities as it was reverting to the name she picked out. Also, there a desire to be a bit more professional than the name Katy-Did allowed. Still, I never made it to Katherine-status in college. Too many high schoolers followed me from my piece of suburbia. You can only grunt, “My name is Katherine,” so many times before you accept four more years of name stagnation. It took ‘til law school to make transition. Of course, for the first three weeks I had to muzzle Aaron Reed, who followed me from high school to college and then onto get out JDs. Still, it was worth it.

But rewind all the way back in eighth grade, when I was attempting that Katie/Kate swap. That’s about the same time I got another stellar nickname. A week into classes, there was an all grade assembly which included a segment I fondly refer to New Kid Embarrassment Times A Million. Each of the three new kids was asked to stand up. One by one, the guidance counselor announced our names, where we’d previously attended school and a fun fact about us. (This is Chucky! He comes to us from Cleveland and likes to play the tuba! Poor Chucky. All hope of moving up the social ladder pitifully crushed thanks to the public identification of his Bandie status.) I was the last one she introduced. Blessedly, she got the Kate part right and my fun fact was innocuous. But then she revealed where I’d last lived. From that day, every boy from my particular piece of Ohio called me Abu Dhabi. Even at our ten year reunion.

So, of course, when Aaron “I stalked Katherine through the great educational institutions of the world” Reed would see me in the college dining hall, he’d shout, “Yo! Abuuuuuuuu!” I’d pretend to ignore the Crazy Man while silently renewing my vow of revenge on that guidance counselor. The one time a college friend was around for Aaron’s Abu Display, I refused to tell her the story. After all, this was the same friend who had ushered in a new age of nicknames. The last thing she needed was more ammunition; she’d done enough name damage during sophomore year when she drunkenly realized masturbate ends in an “ate” sound. She was so drunk-excited; you’d have thought she’d invented the orgasm. That night of alcoholic excess kicked off the MasturKate era. And also ForniKate, EradiKate, ExhilarKate, ExonerKate, TitillKate, and 226 other ends-in-ate names. I know the exact count because we kept a running list in rainbow colored marker on our dry erase board for the semester. And junior year, the list evolved into a drinking game. I’m told that game was passed on, sort of like a nickname virus, through my specialized program, where it lives on and routinely taxes the minds of underage binge drinkers, as they struggle to think of new “ate” words.

Admittedly, it’s great that my nickname suffering has led to increased alcoholic consumption. My inner sorority girl is skipping around in delight. But really, I’m not sure that particular glory makes up for moments like last night’s drunk dial. A college friend left a message. It was four minutes of her chanting, “MasturKate likes to ForniKate! I rhyme! MasturKate likes to ForniKate! I rhyme!”  Over. And. Over. Again.  Moments like that? They make me wish Dad had named me after the dog.