A series of semi-significant events, Part II

July 7th: Brooklyn.
With just a scant week-and-a-bit remaining before Brad returned to the working world, the two of us commenced a sort of half-assed stay-cation in Brooklyn. In the morning, I would hurriedly bang out the day's advice column; in the afternoon, we wandered out of our apartment in search of adventure.

Sometimes, we found it.


Above: A ride at Coney Island.

Not pictured: My husband and I, a.k.a. two purported adults, clinging to each other in terror after foolishly opting to get into a "swingy" car on the landmark Wonder Wheel.

Also not pictured: The look on the face of the ride operator who turned to us and said, "Do you guys want to swing?", after which I guffawed so loudly that it scared a pigeon into flight. Suffice to say that I did not know it was possible for a person to roll his eyes so completely without actually removing them from his head and tossing them down the street.

But more often, it was just too goddamned hot for adventure, and so we would turn around to run back inside before our butts could turn into fleshy sweat swamps, and then we would watch old episodes of LOST and eat potato chips until one or both of us fell asleep.

Until, finally, it was time to get on a plane.

July 14th: Raleigh.
Because we had already visited my parents during Brad's hiatus from work, it was only fair that we also visit his for an equal period of time. Unfortunately, said visit involved a) getting on a plane, at b) La Guardia, which is c) an airport which seems to have achieved a special designation on the space-time continuum as "That Place Where Nothing Will Ever Go Right, and Also, Where You Will Inevitably End Up Drunk Before Noon." Our flight was delayed by several hours, during which I got tipsy at the airport bar and (unsuccessfully) attempted to photograph a bottle of rum which I swear was called "IOCANE".

Above: A close approximation of the face I made when Brad tried to tell me that what I thought was the letters "IO" was actually the number "10". Also, I am not sure I believe him -- even typed out here, they look almost totally the same. Inconceivable!

Fortunately, the delayed flight meant that we were able to meet my in-laws upon landing and proceed immediately to a sprawling restaurant full of steaks, where all the light fixtures were made out of animal parts and dinner was eaten under the watchful eyes of several stuffed heads.

Above: "I use antlers in all of my deeeeeee-co-rating!"

July 15th: Winston-Salem
My in-laws live on a farm in a rural area that borders the city of Winston-Salem, and this is where we spent the following day.

The most noteworthy part of this visit was probably the moment when, while playing scrabble and drinking wine with Brad's parents, a determined horsefly catapulted his giant, buzzing body over the bustline of my strapless sundress and lodged himself in my cleavage, where he proceeded to bite the crap out of my boobs. Yes, this is noteworthy. You cannot possibly imagine the minute angles, complex flight arc, and pure jolt of random bad luck which had to all coexist within the same split-second in order to make it possible for a horsefly -- which is an indescribably stupid creature even by insect standards -- to find its way into the scant indentation of my motherfucking A cups. I've played it over in my head since then and I'm pretty sure that the little bastard actually broke at least TEN UNBREAKABLE LAWS OF PHYSICS.

Also noteworthy: Despite the immense pain of being repeatedly bitten on the tit by a physics-defying horsefly, I somehow managed to stand up, walk three steps, and face AWAY from my father-in-law before yanking my dress down around my waist while screaming extremely loudly.

Not pictured: Any of that, and for good goddamn reason.

July 16th: Kiawah.
The morning of July 16th, we rented a car and drove the 300 miles from Winston to Kiawah Island in South Carolina, where a group of Brad's friends had gathered to celebrate the wedding of a friend who'd gotten married overseas this spring. We stopped only once to pee... and of course, to purchase a six-pack of SMIRNOFF ICE.

Scene: A grocery checkout counter just outside of Charleston.
Teenage Checkout Girl: (brandishing Ice) Can I see some I.D. for this?
Me: (handing over license) Sure.
Other Guy In Line: Hahaha! That's funny, because you two look like you're exactly the same age!
Justifiably Enraged Teenage Checkout Girl: Um, she's more than ten years older than me. And I'm not even old enough to drink.
Impossibly Dense Guy: HA HA HA! That's even FUNNIER!
Me: If it makes you feel any better, a horsefly nearly chewed off my right boob yesterday.


Above: Beautiful Kiawah, as seen from the seat of the dorkiest bike in the world.
Not pictured: The dorkiest bike in the world.


Above: Icing in silhouette.


Above: Brad and I, looking (if I do say so myself) like a pair of daaaaamn fine party-going specimens.

Not pictured: Anything else, because that is the end. Also, because I am tired and need to go put on deodorant.

And that just about catches us up, y'all. Thank you, and goodnight. And I promise, my next post will not be a whole month coming.

At least, I really, really hope not.

A series of semi-significant events, Part I

Oh, hi there.

So let me just say right now, before anybody starts making speculative suggestions about the reasons behind my long absence from blogging and/or the title of this post, that I am not pregnant. Not. Pregnant.

Okay? Okay.

Also, I apologize in advance for what is bound to be a disjointed and boring bit of updatery. Please bear with me, as it is very hot and I have had a headache for five days. That said, this has been quite the month, and so I've broken it down -- as I like to do with my more long-winded posts -- into a two-part series.

(Or maybe three, depending on whether or not I still have a headache tomorrow.)

(I hate my head.)

Ready? Here we go!

June 20th: In which Brad gets a new job.
Brad, as you may have guessed due to the oh-so-subtle hint dropped in the previous line, has gotten a new job. More specifically, he has been hired into the ranks of suit-wearing finance folk and left just this morning for his first day of work.

However, because this blog is not about him, I'll just say that a) this news was so exciting and wonderful that it very nearly caused me to give spontaneous birth to a litter of kittens, and b) it threw our whole household into complete chaos. Prior plans for a lazy summer went up in flames, replaced by an impromptu two-week crammer of a vacation during the gap between Brad's last day at Old Job and his first day at New Job. It began on the morning of July 4th and lasted up until last night, when we stumbled into our obscenely hot apartment and noted, with alarm, the unmistakable aroma of a forgotten trash bag on the kitchen floor.

Whoops.


July 2nd: In which we travel north.
Prior plans for a cute fourth up north became an extended five-day stay at my family's house upstate. My brother came, too.

On the first day, we iced him.

Scene: Brad, Brother Noah, and I return from the local driving range and pull into the driveway. We are covered with mosquito bites and Brad is bleeding from an unfortunate encounter with a fickle lawn chair (which was the subject of immediate retaliation and which is probably still lying in pieces out near route 9W.) Noah opens the trunk of the car to retrieve his golf clubs and discovers... a Smirnoff ice.
Brad: You've been ICED!
Me: Whooooooo! Bros icing bros!
Noah: (looking confusedly from us to the Ice and back) What?
Brad: C'mon, dude. You got iced, fair and square. Quit stalling.
Noah: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Me: (getting impatient) Yes you do! You've been ICED! Now take a knee and drink that!
Noah: (even more confused) What? Why? I have to... wait, what???

(pause)

Brad: You have no idea what "icing" is, do you.
Noah: No.
Me: How can that be possible? You're like the ultimate BRO! If anyone knows about icing, it should be you!
Noah: Uh... you guys do know that I've been out of college for more than a year, right?

(pause)

Brad: Well, shit.

(pause)

Noah: Oh for the love of... alright, give it to me.



And there was much rejoicing.

There were also dogs...


...and sailing...



...and the world's best treehouse...


...and a miraculous feast...




July 4th: And then, there was MORE icing.

Scene: Brad and Noah return from a supermarket run. They are giggling like fiends. Brad produces this from behind his back.



Brad: You've been ICED!
My dad: Kat, you don't have to do this.
Me: YES I DO.

Which is to say, I tried...

...but was forced to abandon the whole thing when it became clear that my choices were to a) continue drinking, and vomit, or b) stop drinking, and allow my shame to be tempered with relief at not having vomited.

And then, there was this:

July 5th: A mystery with a quick, albeit disturbing, resolution.

Me: Where'd that Smirnoff Ice go?
My mom: Oh, your father drank it.
Me: What? Did someone... you know, ice him?
My mom: No. He just... drank it.

* * * * *

And so concludes Part I. Come back later this week for a ferris wheel, a plane trip, porch-sitting for a spell, and, yes, still more icing.

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

In order for you to fully understand the ramifications of this story, I need to tell you about Barry.

Barry is our down-the-street neighbor. But more than that, he's a local fixture -- as integral to the character of the neighborhood as the bodega-cum-underground-gambling-den on the corner, the smell of baking bread that wafts down the street in the early morning, the constant undercurrent whoosh of traffic from the nearby BQE, or the group of Polish-speaking alcoholics in our local park (who, in addition to character, also provide the neighborhood with an endless supply of empty Smirnoff bottles and the rare but inimitable pleasure of seeing a middle-aged man lying in the bushes with no pants on.)

Barry has lived in Greenpoint for approximately 300 years. He has spindly legs, a pendulous gut, and a sparse, unruly beard that he shaves once per year. (For two to three weeks after this annual event, we inevitably walk past him on the street without recognizing him at least once.) His profession is a mystery; together, Brad and I have worked out that he's some sort of super for a building on our block, but he spends most of his time hanging out in the park with his two dogs -- a musclebound pair of chow-chow mixes named Zeus and Mysterio, who love Barry more than life itself and follow him wherever he goes. But the two things you most need to know about Barry are as follows:

1. Barry is old school. He calls me "young lady", apologizes for cursing in front of me, and tells raunchy, obscenely detailed, hilarious stories about catching people having sex on the sidewalk outside our building... but only to Brad, and always with the explanation that he "didn't want to say anything in front of your wife."

2. Barry is everywhere. I see him almost every day, sometimes multiple times per day. Basically, Barry is an unavoidable part of life in my neighborhood.

Not that I wanted to avoid him.
Before.

And so, on a hot, breezy afternoon last week, I took Hurley out for a walk... and ran into Barry on the way to the park.

At first, it was a typical exchange. We said our hellos and chatted briefly about the weather (humid) and the stray cat situation in the alley behind our respective buildings (catty), and then Barry stepped off the sidewalk and into the space between two cars -- holding Mysterio, who doesn't like other dogs -- so that we could pass by. I thanked him, and continued down the sidewalk...

... until, several seconds and about five yards later, a sudden stray gust of wind came rushing down the street, richocheted off a recessed doorway, and blew my skirt clear up to my ribcage.

It happened so quickly that I had no recourse -- no time to plunge my hands onto my crotch, Marilyn Monroe-style; no time to even flail hysterically in the direction of my hemline before it rose up even with my eyeballs -- and then it was over. And I was alone, clutching the dog's leash in one hand and my now-deflated skirt in the other. Alone, and reeling from the unforgettable sensation of having just had my entire ass -- both cheeks in totality, my brain helpfully reminded me, because I was wearing a thong -- waving about in the open air.

Alone... except that, of course, I wasn't alone. Because behind me, right where I'd left him only moments before, was Barry.

Just keep walking, my brain advised. He was probably still between those cars, he probably had his back turned, he was probably distracted by his dog, it's okay!

Still clutching my skirt, I took a few tentative steps toward the park.

That's good, said my brain, as I quickened my pace and the pounding rush of humiliation stopped beating quite so insistently at my temples. That's good. You're good. Barry did not just see your ass.

I kept walking.

And even if he did, my brain continued, he would never say anything. He's old school, remember? He'd just pretend like it never happened! So just keep on walking, and don't worry, because Barry will never, ever, ever mention this agai--

"Young lady!" came a voice from behind me. "I saw that!"

I turned around.
Down the street, right where I'd left him, stood Barry -- lips stretched into a lunatic grin under his beard, finger extended and ecstatically pointing.

Pointing at my ass.

My brain, temporarily muted by the shock of what had just happened, suddenly sprang back to life and began screaming, NOOOOOOOOO!

I turned and ran into the park. My brain continued to scream. Ten minutes later, Barry and his dogs entered the park and walked in the opposite direction. I pretended not to see them.

That was three days ago.

It's not that I'm looking for a solution, here. There is nothing I can do about this. Despite desperately wanting to avoid him, Barry remains an unavoidable part of our neighborhood, and we can't afford to move.

It's just this: Barry is old-school. And if Barry's censored and restrained reaction to seeing my entire ass is to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he saw my entire ass, I'm left wondering what the unrestrained, not-in-the-presence-of-a-lady version of this story will involve.

More likely than not, he's probably in the park right now, telling everyone that we had sex.

Saved by the skin of my teeth

This morning, Brad and I headed up to Columbus Circle for back-to-back husband-and-wife appointments with the dentist.

Yeah, I know. Waaaaaay too much togetherness, right? I have no idea if other couples go and get their teeth cleaned together -- I'm guessing most don't, if only because schedules don't allow for it -- but I have to admit that it's the sort of thing which, if someone had mentioned it to me a few years ago, I would have probably responded to by laughing derisively and then pretending to vomit in my purse.

So, consider this my mea culpa: as it turns out, it's actually kind of nice to do this thing -- since we would have to do it anyway -- with each other. And our dentist, an incredibly charming and avuncular guy who won my heart at our first visit when he told me that it's totally okay not to floss, seems to get a kick out of us showing up together.

Today's visit was no big deal -- no cavities for either of us, a basic cleaning for me, and for Brad, just a few minor cosmetic adjustments to his front teeth (the goal being to upgrade his status from that of "a very handsome man" to "The Most Handsome Man in New York Unless James McAvoy Happens to Be Visiting".) I went first, then sat in the waiting room and skimmed through a World Cup preview article while Brad took his turn.

About ten minutes had passed, when I heard Dr. S. take a break from what had been an uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness monologue about golfing (because when your customers spend most of their visit with a spit-sucking tube and various scraping implements in their mouths, singlehandedly keeping up the conversation is a very important skill) and say, "Is Kat still here?"

I called back, "Yes?"
"Come here, let's see what you think!"

In the exam room, Brad turned in his chair and grinned at me.
"So," said the dentist, "as you can see, I've just done some temporary bonding here and here, to see how you guys like it."
"Okay," I said.
"And by 'you guys'," he continued, "I mean Kat, because I know it's the wife who makes the decisions about this sort of thing."
Everyone laughed.
"Sounds good," said Brad.

The dentist nodded.
"So, I'll do this for today, and then you can go home and decide whether it looks good. And if you change your mind, or you want something else. we can adjust it. Like, if after a week you feel like it's not long enough..."

Brad snorted.

"...or if you're saying, 'You know, I think it could be a little bigger', we can..."

I snorted, then started giggling. Brad laughed harder and mouthed the words long enough at me behind the dentist's back. I began to wheeze.
Dr. S. stopped talking and stared at us.

"I'm sorry," gasped Brad.
"It's just," I giggled.
The dentist held up his hands. "No, no! It's fine. Whatever you have going on in your personal lives, I don't need to know about it."


Which is probably a good thing, because what I had been about to say -- and what, given the context, would have resulted in a horrific misunderstanding that would put an immediate, embarrassing end to our marital-bonding-via-dentist-visit -- was:

"It's just that we're like a couple of twelve year-old boys."

Because even after the hurried explanation that oh no, I just meant that we have shared sense of humor, I wouldn't have blamed the dentist if he never wanted to have anything to do with either of our mouths ever again.

On a scale of one to CRAZY...

Longtime readers might remember the day, now a few years back, when I bought a bathroom scale from KMart that soon became my new favorite toy. Why, you ask, would a KMart bathroom scale be such a source of entertainment?

Because I'm a weirdo who weighs herself multiple times per day, that's why.

I aint ashamed!

And the fact that I now spend every single day home alone in my apartment has not exactly dampered my enthusiasm for scale-based experiments such as "How much does this cat weigh?" and "How many pounds is my leg?" and "How long does it take after eating asparagus for pee to start smelling funny?"

Okay, that last one doesn't actually require the scale. But you get the idea. And anyway, that's not the point.

The point is, I don't have a scale anymore.
I have two scales.

See, sometime last year -- probably around the same time that my dissatisfaction with my job became so extreme that I began to drink beer at lunch, by default, just to get through the day -- I became convinced that I was gaining weight. Why? Hey, shut up! I don't need to explain myself to you! Which is to say, I can't explain it at all except to say that depression makes you feel both fat AND crazy. So, while I (of course) still continued to weigh myself everyday like the neurotic chub-fearing loon that I am, I was also (of course) simultaneously sure that I was getting bigger, at which point I concluded (of course!) that the problem was not an obvious unchecked psychosis on my part, but rather that the scale must be broken.

"I'm going to buy a new scale," I told Brad.
"This one seems fine to me," he said.
"Noooo, it's broken."
"How do you figure?"
"I just know. It's obviously weighing things a few pounds lighter than they really are."
"Does that even matter?"
"Of course it matters! If I don't know what I actually weigh, it's like... cheating."
Brad eyed me.
"Well, I haven't noticed it," he said.
"Oh yeah?" I retorted, and then, possessed by what I was sure was unassailable and inarguable logic, "MAYBE YOU'RE GETTING FAT, TOO."

By now, I'm sure, you can probably guess where I'm going with this. Because I did buy a new scale, and I set it up right beside the original scale, and then I weighed myself on both of them in order to prove once and for all that I was, in fact, fatter, and not just buckling under the immense weight of hating my job with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns.

And lo and behold, there was a discrepancy. Because according to the new scale, I was...

...one pound...

...lighter.

What the hell.

"So you'll throw away the old scale now?" said Brad.

Of course, I can't do that.
Because that would be cheating.

But instead of continuing in this vein -- not least because I'm sure that my parents have long since stopped reading this post and are now having an argument over which of their respective DNA codes is responsible for their daughter having turned out to be completely batshit insane -- I'm just handing it over to you, readers. Which scale would you keep? I will bow to your wisdom.

Just don't try to suggest anything crazy like getting rid of both of them. I've still got experiments to do.

Indecent Attention Deficit Disorder

Today in News That Will Surprise Nobody Who Has Ever Met Me: I am easily distracted.

I don't know whether it's just an obnoxious personal quirk or (more likely) raging, untreated ADD, but focusing on the task at hand has always eluded me, unless of course the task at hand is eating ice cream, in which case my concentration is unassailable.

But hey, see what just happened there? It's like that. My brain is like a highly impressionable child in a room full of toys, able to maintain a sustained focus just long enough to embark on some really big project -- say, an awesome monochromatic crayon drawing of a hamburger wearing a dress -- before suddenly realizing mid-stroke that ooooooooooooooh, is that something shiny?! Chase it! Chase the shiny thing! Chase the shiny shiny shiny HEY LET'S GO RIDE BIKES.

(This metaphor is actually extra-appropriate since as a child, I would frequently be left alone in a clean room to play with a single toy... only to be discovered five minutes later, playing with said toy, but also sitting in the center of a toy maelstrom consisting of every other object in the room which I had pulled off the shelf, played with briefly, and then discarded in favor of something more interesting.)

As an adult, obviously, this problem manifests itself in somewhat different ways.

Today, for instance, I was midway through a freelance article when I noticed an old lipstick on my bedside table and decided to try it on.

Applying the lipstick using my glossy laptop screen as a mirror, I noticed that my hair was looking pretty grimy and decided to take a shower.

Removing my clothes, I noticed that the floor underneath my bare feet was covered in dog hair and dirt and decided to do some vacuuming.

Pulling the vacuum cleaner out, I saw a pair of sunglasses I'd been searching for poking out from under the couch.

Vacuuming the apartment with the sunglasses perched on my head, I noticed that a stray nail had popped up in the doorway between the bedroom and living room.

Leaving the vacuum where it was, I went to get the hammer.

And hammering the nail back into place, I heard a bunch of noise out back and went to investigate...

...which is how I came to be standing in my window and staring down into the crowded schoolyard behind my apartment -- covered in filth, holding a hammer, and wearing nothing but a pair of sunglasses and some lipstick.

Which I'm sure the police will completely understand.

Assuming I can concentrate long enough to get dressed before they show up.

Bridesmaidery.

This weekend, I am going to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of a very, very dear childhood friend. It's my first time bridesmaiding.

As you may have guessed from the fact that I just attempted to use "bridesmaid" as a verb, I have no idea what I'm doing.

Somehow, nobody has noticed yet. I like to think that it's because I've carefully strategized during the planning process in order to make sure I'm only assigned tasks which play to my strengths. Doilies and china and pastel party favors? Not exactly my oeuvre.

Getting people drunk?
Yes! That one!

So most of my efforts thus far have gone to the bachelorette party, the primary planning of which involved asking myself where I would like to go on a Saturday night, and then just insisting that everybody bend to my will. (The other part of this plan involved force-feeding vodka tonics to anyone who disagreed with the plans. Because people can't argue with you about the orchestration of the evening when they don't remember anything after 7pm.)

Fortunately, the bride is an understanding sort of girl. Last night, we did a trial run of her makeup for the wedding (one of those items on the list of "Random things I used to be interested in and can now do fairly well"), and the deep brown shadow I'd used to define her eyes -- which always looked natural and subtle on me -- was so harsh against her china-white skin that she came out looking less like a vision of soon-to-be-wedded beauty, and more like a tranny dressed as a geisha dressed as a zombie.

"Oh, it's lovely," she said. "But I think I'd like to try something a little less... dramatic?"
"You can just tell me that I've made you look like a brain-eating Japanese drag queen."
"Oh, no, it's not that."

Understanding, and so polite.

But now we're down to the wire, and must as I'd like to, I can't delegate myself the sole responsibility of running around the reception forcing cocktails down people's throats. ("God damn it, Great-Aunt Mildred, drink this mojito! CHUG it, you haggard octogenarian whore!") So, this is it. I will fall in, I will walk the aisle, and I will do this in precisely the same way that all the other 'maids do it -- by standing alongside the beautiful bride in a (surprisingly flattering!) teal dress, with a daisy in hand, smiling beatifically, and successfully resisting the urge to have a nuptial-ruining accident by silently, stealthily repeating to myself, "I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire. I will not get naked and set myself on fire."

That is what bridesmaids do, right?
Right. This is going to be awesome.