Red Headed Slut: The Drink, or The Chick?

Let me begin with a statement of fact: I do not go to bars very often. I’m married, so I’m not biting at whatever slick-smiling bait the guys might be dangling in my direction, and I’m insanely talkative (who knew?), so having to yell over a crowd and an endless loop of drunken karaoke “Livin On A Prayer” really cramps my style. That said, what happened a few Saturday nights ago does not happen very often, which is cheery good news for my girlfriends, my husband, and my liver.

The weekend before St. Patrick's Day of Drinking All Things Dyed Green and Regrettable, my girlfriends Martha, Lauren, and Melissa and I had decided to get together for a girls’ wine night, our standard celebration for all of us being in the same place at the same time, which happens less often than Joan Rivers gets laid. So once every fourteen years, we converge on Martha’s house to chow spreadable cheese products and plow through the supermarket’s finest vintage offerings—preferably the ones sold in the largest authentic vineyard jugs under the NEW LOWER PRICE sign.* Martha’s house has become my personal binge-drinking black hole: Every time I leave to head over, I say to Lawyer Boy, “I’m not going to drink that much, and I’ll probably be home early,” which we now understand is code for, “Show up after midnight with the snow shovel to scrape me off the sidewalk, and load me into the back of the car like a slaughtered hog.”

So we hug and squeal hello and OMG WHEN DID YOU CUT YOUR HAIR I LOVE IT!!!, top off our glasses, and chat about our lives, a group of lively young professionals embarking on their meaningful careers and life journeys...and me. We (they) are all busily engaged in doing productive, important things with our (their) lives. Here, let me show you:

• Lauren holds a degree in Biomedical Engineering from Duke, and is currently pursuing an MBA at Darden Business School.
• Martha is a CPA, which means she passed that horrid Triple Frown of an exam, which I hear is like being butt-raped by an adding machine except for less fun.
• Melissa just finished an RN program and is now a nurse in the neonatal intensive care unit at a big hospital. She's also planning her wedding, which we all know involves more blood, sweat, and tears than saving babies.
• I, meanwhile, frequently make cupcakes.**

I started out the evening very proud of myself, because I only upended three glasses of wine in three hours, and had refrained from chugging from the chunky bargain bottle of alcoholic antics.*** I should have seen the finger-painting on the wall and gone home when the girls started talking about going out, but ever the social sheep that I am, I followed the herd through the rain to 3 Monkeys, a bar I only see the inside of when I'm too drunk to remember that I suck at bars, and usually humiliate myself in ways that embarrass my gender as a whole. Melissa, however, is really good at bars, and within two minutes of seating ourselves in a booth covered in someone else's spilled drinks and social failures, she had two random upstanding gentlemen who were in no way looking for a one-night stand, leaning over our table and begging to buy us drinks.

Immediately upon our arrival at the hooch hut, Martha had bought us a round of red-headed sluts, which taste like messy college nights spent pretending to be old enough to drink in public, and then we had the good sense to order a round of beers. By the time a dude shorter than me named Michael Doyle, Our New BFF Du Jour, was slurring over our table about buying us a round of Irish Car Bombs, I was far enough down the road to Bourbontown that 1) a drinking contest seemed like a great idea, 2) a drink that mixes beer and liquor seemed like a great idea, and 3) continuing to drink heavily seemed like a great idea. I was the only one of our pretty party who felt it necessary to try to drink a stranger under the table, so "Michael Doyle" and I went toe-to-toe with the car bombs, frantically chugging before they curdled into slippery pint glasses of baby vomit.

AND I WON. Me beating someone at a drinking contest says less about me than it says about him, and what it says about him is that he drinks like a toddler with a sippy cup. As much as I wanted to bask in the glow of my victory for the rest of the evening, the alcohol and my bud Michael Doyle had other ideas, and I spent the rest of the evening trying to pretend that I could still drink like I pretended I could in college. The events of the rest of the night are based largely on conjecture, since none of us left the bar able to remember what exactly had happened, as the Demon Liquor had stolen our memories, dignity, and my most favorite purple sweater. What I think happened was this: I beat Michael Doyle at car bombs TWICE more, I continued to gloat, I lost my sweater, we went to another bar, I bragged and drank and hopefully did not dance, and all the sudden I was on the bar floor, which is nastier than falling into a Port-a-John at a Billions O' Burritos Festival. It was at that time that the bartender casually suggested that we depart for the evening, whereby "casually suggested" I mean "told us in no uncertain terms to drag my drunken liability-laden ass out of their establishment."

One-what-the-hell-thirty in the morning found us (well, the rest of the girls and my body) standing outside the bar trying to hail a cab, stay out of the rain, and prop me up on the curb like a wasted Lindsey Lohan at an afterparty/in a club/on a movie set/in public at all. The cab drivers, traitors to my quest home, refused to take us since I looked like an ominous threat of a vomitous nature, so the girls ring-a-linged Lawyer Boy from his peaceful slumber to come scrape me off the sidewalk and load me into the car like a slaughtered hog, per my earlier encoded promise. As soon as the car began moving in the direction of home, the Mount Vesuvius of used drinks erupted all over Lawyer Boy’s car, which I tried to argue was the “upside” to the whole situation, with LB firmly insisting that his car covered in the contents of my stomach was, in fact, a “downside.” I settled the argument by proclaiming it an “upside-slash-downside,” and either the debate ended there or I passed out, whichever happened first. I stumbled into the house, fumbling as I shed a trail of failure-soaked clothing in my wake (otherwise known as my front yard).

I woke up the next morning on the bathroom floor, under a snuggly fleece blanket, wearing my socks, one contact lens, and the previous night’s makeup smeared all over my face a la “Braveheart.” I had no idea how I had gotten there, where my other contact was, or why I felt like I’d been hit upside the head with a dead ox. LB filled in most of the blanks for me, but Martha summed it up best in an email the next day: “Lauren said that when she went to your house to drop your purse off, she saw a pile on your front porch that she thinks was your shirt. Well done!”

Well done, indeed.

*Sadly, and much to my surprise, they are still not selling neon twisty-straws taped to the sides of wine bottles.

**If you know of any jobs that make use of my particularly impressive skill set, I'm also really good at making up new lyrics for songs on the fly. Favorites include my version of Katy Perry's "I Kissed A Girl," which is henceforth "I Kissed A Squirrel." (and I liked it/the taste of his nuts and berries/I kissed a squirrel just to try it/I hope my cat friend don't mind it/It felt so wrong, it felt so right/I might be up in his tree tonight.)

***Yes, I CAN have fun without alcohol.****

****Sometimes.*****

*****Only if you make me.

A Wee Tidbittle

In the last five days at work, I've spent at least 8 of my (minimum) 9 hours at the office each day trying not to cry. Five of those five days, I have failed at that task, and also at waiting until at least 10:00 to plow through all my daily snacks. Strangely, on my recent annual evaluation, the attorneys all mentioned the gross misconception that I'm "cool under pressure." This means that either 1) I'm better than I thought at closing my door before my daily "leave Britney alone!!!"-style breakdown, or 2) They are all deaf, dumb, and blind.

Draw your own conclusion. Mine will get me fired.

Anyway, tonight's attempt to black out my gainful employment has involved barbecue, red wine, and making tepid, disinterested love to the TV, which led me to rediscover the magic of Sigourney Weaver, as the voice of Mother Nature on "Planet Earth." PE is my new most favorite pastime, largely because it's the most relaxing thing to be part of, short of getting a lobotomy or lying in a bed full of puppies. Since my puppies are on backorder till July, PE stepped up to the plate and really performed like a champ. LB and I caught "Shallow Seas," which I prefer to "Deep Seas," since it involves far fewer starring roles played by goblins or Tyra Banks. Because I'm on a never-ending quest for knowledge and snacks, I came up with a few important questions that I would like answered. Perhaps you can help.

1) How do whales reproduce? The way they just drift around like unmanned rowboats leads me to believe that vigorous sexual activity may not be within their skill set. Something I may have learned in middle school, or that I may have made up, is that dude whales leave their sperm all over the place, and then the valiant, intrepid sperms get all up on the lady whales like Perez Hilton on the Oscars, and wham! baby whales. But I could be wrong.

2) Where can I buy a herd of pygmy seahorses? Something has to occupy my time and love until those back-ordered puppies arrive.

3) I would be afraid of sea snakes if they didn't look so damn much like party streamers. With, um, fangs and death.

I'm going to go make cookies before Google stops returning results for my queries on "whale porn."

Failing the Stress Test

I've missed you, amigos, and I hope the feeling is mutual. I meant to disclose about four weeks ago that I would likely be MIA until April 1, but just like my plan to do yoga every morning during Lent,* I got distracted by shiny things and forgot. April 1 is to immigration attorneys (my employer of choice) what April 15 is to accountants, and since the beginning of February I've been working long, frustrated days and weekends more busily than a ten-buck Bourbon Street hooker. My thigh-high leather boots are really starting to look rough.

I've been meaning to post something quick and dirty** to communicate the sad fact that I've been too busy to blog, but I've ironically been too busy to post something about how I'm too busy to post something. My days have consisted of actually rolling in to work on time for a change, pounding enough coffee to give me the energy to run around the office, wailing like a caffeinated banshee, for ten hours straight, and then coming home to collapse in a pile of laziness on the couch. These extended periods of time spent pretending to be a grown-up have taken a toll on my mental acuity, which, let's be honest, was on thin ice in the first place, and so even if I had the time to write, I'd probably be doing things like typing with no vowels or devoting extensive posts to extolling the virtues of moss.

I realized last Saturday that I was ready to board the mothership with the other space cadets when our neighbor Edward came over to grab a beer with Lawyer Boy. While I had been in the office all day, Edward and LB had been playing man-time in our front yard, using every tool that could saw, hack, or clip to take down a holly tree that most closely resembled a starving hobbit. When they were done, LB had gone on the obligatory Saturday afternoon beer run. Edward walked into our front hall to find LB nursing not a beer, but a strongly-mixed bourbon and coke, and turned to me. "Don't let him play with those clippers after he's finished with that!" he joked.

I looked at him like he had seven heads, unable to believe that he had said what I thought he said. I was horrified. When Edward said "clippers," in my warped little head, I immediately assumed he was talking about nipple clamps. Why does he think we have nipple clamps? Why was he telling us not to drink and clamp? Omaigod, how do I respond to that?

After fifteen of the longest seconds of my life, I realized it was much more likely that Edward was referring to the clippers they had been using all day, than it was that he was giving us S&M pointers. I revoked my own speaking privileges for the rest of the night.

If you don't hear from me again until April 1, please remain calm and continue to breathe normally. I'll come flailing back into action once I climb out of the bathtub of Chardonnay I'm planning on soaking in once the work is done.

*Despite my allegedly solemn promise to Baby Jesus, I have yet to get up and play Crouching Tiger, Hidden Moron in my living room at all this Lenten season. My bad.
**Which would be a departure from my usual ramblings only in being quick.

Snaps To You Award: My Heart, The Rockstar

I've written before about my fear that my heart was going to explode at any minute, ruining my life and probably preventing me from posting for awhile, but I've never explained where this paranoia befitting a forty-five-year-old, smoking fat man originated. Well. To make Mini Me-short a story so long it makes Gone With The Wind look like a picture book, I went for a run in June, thought I had a heart attack, went to the ER, had a bunch of tests run, was poked and stuck like an innocent voodoo doll in really cute sandals, was determined to have not had a heart attack, and was told to come back in a few months for a cat scan because my aorta looked big.

Oh yeah. That's right. My aorta's bigger than your aorta. Think of my badass blood-flow garden hose, supplying blood to me and at least seven other people, next time you get winded on a run because your little twisty straw of an aorta starts to cry.

Right. So, my assbaggery aside, that's not actually a good thing. It's bad like "Snakes On A Plane." Thus, a few weeks ago, I reported for my cat scan, which would determine whether or not the docs needed to carve me up like a holiday ham to put a fence around my aorta (white picket, natch). I was pre-Oscars nervous about this, and high on the drugs I had been given to take ahead of the scan, in case I was allergic to the intravenous tie-dye. I got to the hospital, broke my cardinal rule of never sitting next to people who smell like tuna, and only then was told that I couldn't have the scan--the scan that would determine whether or not my heart was trying to assassinate my other organs--because my insurance company had decided that it wasn't "medically necessary."

I'd warn you away from this company, just to save you the money and screaming matches down the road, but in the interest of not getting sued, let's leave it at this. They offer an HMO and their name rhymes with I violate my clients from behind while laughing maniacally and eating chocolates.

The day devolved rapidly from there, culminating with my stoned mouth shrieking impotently at the "nurse" in charge of my case at Satan's lair, "WOULD YOU COVER ME IF I DIED??? WOULD YOU, PUNK??!?!??!?!????" Not my finest moment. But really, not my worst, either.

After all this, calls from three doctors, and possibly a cautionary visit from Death himself, the insurance death-harpies agreed to cover a cardiac ultrasound, to find out once and for all if my aorta had gone rogue. I was excited about this, because ultrasounds don’t involve needles, and I want to know if I’m going to die soon, because if so, I’m going to start eating a lot more Big Macs and taking more cheap shots at my boss. I showed up at the appointed tee time, and was walked to the ultrasound wing by a lovely little old lady who would probably be very impressed with my obscenely large china collection.

I never did learn my ultrasound technician’s name, but I did learn very quickly that he was highly uncomfortable using medical terms like “chest” and “please take off your shirt and lie down” with me. Obviously I was given a chic and stylish tie-back gown, but, also obviously, in order to scan my heart, he had to put the gooey laser glow-pen* on my chest. I was surprisingly nonchalant about this, especially since I’m normally a caffeinated Pomeranian when confronted with medical procedures, but really, we were there for my heart, and I had the gown--plus a sheet, a towel, and a blanket that he had given me, more likely for his own protection than mine.

Once he was able to sit still, he fired up the Doppler Hurricane Seeker 3000 and I got to see what my heart’s been up to. If you’ve never had any kind of ultrasound, I highly recommend them—they’re the coolest home movie ever. I have no idea how they work, but word on the street is that Dumbledore was involved in the start-up. I got to see my heart, busily engaged in keeping me alive, and I have to say, my heart is awesome, even though it didn’t look like I was expecting. In terms of what you’re used to seeing from ultrasounds of marinating babies, my heart looked like a fetus playing a drum set. Really rockin’ out on a drum set, actually, performing like a total rock star on my behalf.

I was so touched and mesmerized that I almost forgot to ask if my aorta was trying to stealth-bomb my loving heart. Happily, it’s not. I am medically sound (if not mentally), and cleared to do all manner of things, including running and continuing to hate yoga.

All’s well that ends well, and this ended…like a bad prom date. When he had taken adequate surveillance footage of my rock star, the ultrasound technician reminded me to wipe the goo off my neck before getting dressed again. I thanked him, and he looked at me, then looked at the ceiling and said, “I’m actually supposed to help everyone wipe the gel off…but I’d rather not lose my job today.”

At that point I was so glad my heart was strong enough for me to run like Forrest. Snaps to you, my heart, for doing your job with such style and flair. If you were a person, you’d totally be Cher.

*Possibly not the technical term.

Absence Made Your Heart Grow Fonder...I Know, Right?

Amigos, I apologize for my absence. I've been crazy-obnoxious busy at work like a college-town bar, which means two things: 1) I haven't been taking a midday jailbreak to let the whole wide Internets know how immature I am, and 2) By the time I get home I'm so burnt out on reading that I want to set Dr. Seuss on fire, so banging out anything remotely funny, or even English, is not really an option.

I don't blog about work for a variety of reasons, one of which being that I like being allowed to show up every day for another installment of I'm Sorry, What?, but to paint a picture of my frustration, yesterday I spent the better part of twenty minutes listening to a client agonize over whether he should sign just his first and last names, or his first, middle, and last names. Things I Wanted To Say But Probably Fortunately Did Not Say: "Your signature looks like you got lit and tried to draw a bird. Sign anything you damn well make up so I can go get some coffee and mental stability! Is that a cockateel*?"

What I Actually Said Because I Enjoy Health Benefits: "Since I'm not the attorney, I can't legally advise you in this matter." Le sigh.

Back on the home front, the most exciting thing to happen to me so far in O'Niner happened this week: Four months after moving into our very own This Old House (complete with This Old Plumbing and This Old Dear God What The Hell Is That??!?!?!) Lawyer Boy and I finally got a china cabinet, so I could unpack the dozen boxes full of my minorly concerning obsession with china, crystal, and silver that had been sitting in the corner like a bubble-wrapped dinner party. Even better, Lawyer Boy made our china cabinet with his own two hands, and the two hands of Bill, my cousin, who's my cousin in a way that no state except Massachusetts legally recognizes. Whatever. Wine is thicker than blood. LB and Bill spent all weekend in Bill's cabinet shop--yes, this was a professional endeavor; it wasn't just LB buying a few make-your-own-birdhouse kits and nailing them together.** The end result was a beautiful Mission-style cabinet, approximately the size of a school bus. I feel dirty every time I say "Mission-style," because I worry that people immediately think "missionary-style," and we're suddenly no longer talking polished wood and beveled glass in a family-friendly kinda way. I'm still amazed that the whole thing was done in one weekend, although I'm sure that if we had wanted something huge and ornate, with curvy cabinets, carved wood, and flying buttresses, it would have been a different story. Impatience is the only reason I didn't insist on a portrait of my face carved into the center cabinet door.

I was two parts excited and one part train-wreck horrified when I saw all my china, crystal, and silver together in one place, because until that point, I had been unaware that I was thisclose to being the eighty-year-old cat lady who throws tea parties for her muu-muu-clad friends with Guiding Light on for background ambience. I almost have enough to have the entire Duggar clan of crazy over for dinner, except I object to serving Tang in my Waterford crystal. Happily, it's really useful Waterford crystal. The goblets hold twenty fluid ounces of delicious (and usually cheap) wine, which means that if you can heft it up off the bar, you've got yourself one heck of a sparkly personal party. I offer that tidbit to anyone who says that wedding registries are only for things you'll never use.

By the time I had filled the cabinet with the full load of my geekery, it was completely obvious that my dining room is officially more mature than I am. It looks like grown-ups live here! I'm so intimidated by my dining room, I feel like I have to go stand somewhere else just to make fart jokes. I don't know how to handle this: I'm so excited to have my dishes back, but I worry that this might be the end of parties involving a cooler full of vodka-infused Kool-Aid (Jungle Juice, to those of your lucky enough to be Hokies) perched in a sticky puddle next to the chili dip on the dining room table.

What am I saying? We'll just move the cooler to the backyard, where the cabinet can't judge us.

*Spellcheck tried to tell me that "cockateel" should be "cockatrice." If anyone knows WTF a cockatrice is, kindly inform me. But I have a feeling it's not an appropriate word to use in front of my dad.
**Reasons I Was Not Involved: I once bought one of those make-your-own-birdhouse kits, strapped on my mad skillz, and put it together, and even though this was before the days when I discovered wine and laziness, my avian apartment came out crooked. Carpentry was out.

Duggar Themselves Into a Deep, Deep Hole

As a rule, I do not enjoy reality television any more than inmates enjoy cavity searches. I don't like watching alleged grown-ups fight for the title of Most Meaningless Asshole, and Winner Of $1 Million Which They Will Neglect To Pay Income Tax On So They Can Go On Oprah Later And Whine About Their Issues. (WOOMDWTWNTPITOSTCGOOLWATI for short, or as seen in Swedish)

I make an exception, when LB isn't looking, for shows involving babies, because I love babies when they belong to someone else and can't get their goo-goo and what-not on me. I also will sometimes lower my expectations and gag reflex, and watch shows that make me feel surprisingly normal by comparison. This is cheaper than paying to ride the city bus, which is usually the only way I feel normal when compared to other humans. It's hard not to, when you're seated between Sammy the iPod Sing-Along, and the woman who has either a lazy eye or active hepatitis.

Fortunately and for free, the Duggar Family provides both babies and squirrel-shit nuttiness on their TLC show, 18 Kids And Stop Inseminating Me Every Time I Turn Around, You Reckless One-Man Stud Shop. I don't normally spend my hard-earned free time taking fashion tips from the family that 18-handedly supports the Jean Jumper Industry, but last night I stumbled upon the Duggar Family Wedding Special and, train-wreck aficionado that I am, I handed over my eyeballs and dignity and settled in.

For those of you who missed the headlines in Bizarro Baptist Weekly, the Duggar's 20-year-old first-born Joshua married fellow Crazy In The Lord, 19-year-old Anna, in September. (Yeah, I'm behind--it's just how I roll.) This made news because train wrecks always do, and also because Josh and Anna decided to "court" instead of dating, which means their agitated, frustrated, sweaty outings to Applebee's to share Cheeseburger Sliders (but not that slippery; we're Christians!) were always supervised by some adult complaining about how his glass of Tang left a water ring on his bring-along Bible.

The weirdest part about courting is that Josh and Anna wanted their Chastity Charlie around at all times to prove that they did not kiss before their wedding. As Josh said, "We wanted proof that, yes, we did exactly what we said we would," showing the world that third graders in the back corner of the playground get more action. Well, I too have proof that I did what I said I would, mostly in the form of pictures slathered all over Facebook during college, evidencing the nights where I stayed true to my pledge to go shot-for-shot with my fratty friends, and to go home wearing at least half those used shots on my platform Candies'. (Shut up, it was the turn of the century!)

The whole day of the wedding, leading up to the Ceremonial First Kiss and Face-Mauling, poor Anna looked like a lamb being led to slaughter--probably because there was no glass of bubbly to take her mind off the fact that that night, she would be the placid victim of an extreme, but extremely short-lived, sexual monsoon. Yeah. No booze, 25 miniature squawking rednecks in short-sleeved formalwear, and at least twice that many references to the fact that Josh was about ready to nail the nearest mailbox if they didn't get this sideshow on the road, pronto. Oh, jitters!

They fiiiiiinally made it to the altar, once their 10 bridesmaids and 6 bottles of hair gel had oozed down the aisle, and they pledged to love, honor, and dress each other in poor taste so as to discourage others from looking, so long as they both should live. It was lovely and touching and when they fiiiiiiiinally went to kiss, Josh all but chowed her mouth and snapped her neck, much like I assume a kiss would go down in "Twilight," had I not been so frat-party drunk when I saw that stupid movie that I can't remember if they ever kissed or just stuck with skulking around the screen, being emo and husking, "whatever, Dad" for two horrid hours. That movie blew like a dry wedding.

Which brings me to my next point: This was a dry wedding, which I 100% believe should be illegal worldwide, so the party was basically a bake sale in the church gymnasium. Before the wedding one of the camera guys had been talking to Daddy Duggar about the party, and when the camera guy said, "So there's no alcohol?" Jim Bob Duggar (sadly, his real name) said, "Nope, no booze, no dancin', just havin' a great time!"

No alcohol? No dancing? And people are expected enjoy this? How now, church cow?

I guess I knew they didn't drink, but I had never really thought about the fact that a lot of whack jobs don't dance--I mean, clearly the mom can't dance, since it's impossible to get down with your bad self when you're constantly standing in a field giving birth. But no wedding conga line? No celebratory Macarena? I guess to be fair, I have to be real and admit that if there's no bar, there sure as hell will be no Macarena.

Watching all the Duggar merry-makers celebrate their newlyweds with pleated skirts and really bitchin' chicken salad rolls, I was reminded of my own raucous wedding reception, and I felt so blissfully normal in comparison. Because clearly you're normal if your wedding doesn't involve pleated skirts and sherbet punch, but does involve one of your aunts wandering into the garden, stripping off her "uncomfortable" panty hose, stripping off her "uncomfortable" underwear, and trying to get some of the other guests to "smoke weed" with her.

Hey man, it's all relative.

Snaps To You Awards: My Amazing Girlfriend and Vladimir Putin

This week, while not Friday, I am giving the S2U to two different individuals who are so equally deserving, in ways that make my little-girl heart soar, that I couldn’t divide my love between the two. So, in no particular order, this week’s S2U Award goes to my friend Erin King, and Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.

Erin is the proud recipient of this week’s award for sending me the first wedding gift thank-you note I’ve ever received that included the word shit. Erin got married in October, and it took Lawyer Boy and me three months to remember to send a wedding gift. I kept meaning to, but then the whiney back-up dancer in the corner of my mind would be all, “lator gator,” and I’d be like, “okay, fine, let’s take a nap,” and it would get put off again. I finally celebrated the union of two souls by sending Erin and her husband a vacuum-sealing wine preserver and a set of cheese knives—both of which they registered for, by the way. I didn’t just pick random boozephenalia and ship it off with warmest regards.

A couple of weeks later, I received a hand-written thank-you note on lovely monogrammed stationery. It followed the standard my-mother-made-me format of “thanks for X, it’s really swell, and thanks for not table-dancing at the wedding,” but then veered off into nuptial originality with the next segment: “The wine opener looks really cool. We haven’t used it yet, but if I stop buying wine that tastes like shit and isn’t worth preserving, we hope to.” I love this for both the unexpected profanity and rare honesty it showcases. If newlyweds were more routinely honest with their thank-yous, more notes would read something like this: “Thank you so much for the place setting of our beautiful bone china complete with platinum etching and feathers from real angels’ wings. We will take it out of the box and use it once we grow up and stop eating frozen corndogs for dinner every night.”

The second recipient of this week’s award is Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, for being such a raging closeted ABBA fan that he reportedly paid $45,000 for a private performance by an ABBA cover band named (I am not making this up) Björn Again. As we all know, I LOVE ABBA, and I am so thrilled that someone as hard-edged and frosty as Putin shares my Nordic love affair. It really shows that there is so much more to our friendship than just a shared love of vodka, and of killing people with our bare hands on the secret orders of the government. Snaps to you, Puti (may I call you Puti?), for daring to bare your inner Dancing Queen and swaying to the Swedish beat in public. You’ll always be my super trouper.

My Papery Green Thumb

Today I came into the office with a renewed and unprecedented desire to charge through my work, impress everyone with my wicked-cool productivity*, and make my office a veritable buzzing hive of legal activity and research, immaculately organized and ever prepared to address the pressing legal issues that land on my desk.

So far, all I’ve come up with in terms of real steps to help me achieve this goal is to grow orchids in my office.

Did I read somewhere that keeping plants in your office promotes better oxygen flow and thus increases productivity? No. Did I read somewhere that orchids bring the soothing calm of the Orient inside, helping to alleviate stress and promote rational thinking? No.

Did I happen to read on foxnews.com this morning that President Obama is taking flack for keeping the Oval Office** “so warm that you could grow orchids in there”? CHECK.

This off-hand metaphorical suggestion planted itself deep in my consciousness like Christina Aguilera into the annals of Hollywood’s Tackiest, and I’ve been obsessed with the idea of growing orchids in here ever since about 9:30 this morning. Probably because planning my Orchidopolis beats the crap out of answering emails, organizing files, and actually doing any of the work The Orchids would help me accomplish. I have yet to figure out how to install heat lamps or a humidifier in here without my boss noticing, but please. The day is young, amigos, and I am motivated. And also wily.

Oh, incidental to this whole scheme, I’m the Morticia Addams of gardening. If it’s not dead when I get it, it’s roots-up within a week. Maybe if plants would be a little more annoying when I don’t feed them, like the cat, they’d get their way. Squeaky wheel gets the oil, bitches.

*Apparently, just like in high school, I’m still confused as to what constitutes being “wicked-cool.”
**If I lived in the White House, I would be unable to walk into the Oval Office without announcing to anyone within a 15-foot radius that I was “going into Ovulation.”

Definition: The removal of a muffin

Today I had to make an important decision. (I know, right--who let me?) I get one precious hour of jailbreak for lunch every day, and today I had two options to occupy this time: 1) Read the 647-page stimulus bill, which Lawyer Boy had already read, outlined, and emailed to me for perusal, helping me to stay informed and knowledgeable about the procedures and policies that impact my life as a tax-paying American, OR 2) Blog about names I call my cat.

Frankly, my concern in picking up the stimulation* policy was that it would be so riveting, every word gripping my imagination and pulling me through page after page till the dramatic conclusion, that I wouldn’t be able to put down the congressional Harry Potter 7 until I was done six hours later.

And thus we find ourselves here, where logic took a left turn away from reality and crashed into a swamp of dysfunction. Ladies and gentlemen, the halls of Congress!

Ahem. Onward!

I have a socially awkward habit of nicknaming everyone, almost as soon as I meet them, from the babies of people I don’t know, all the way up to my boss. After enough sideways stares and tight-lipped cautious chuckles, I learned to keep these gems to myself, except with those who know and love me, including Lawyer Boy, my family, and the pope. My favorite victim is the cat, Mango, who not only doesn’t stare at me carefully, trying to memorize my features to reproduce on a police sketch later, but who seems to love me regardless of what comes out of my mouth. Here, for your disapproval, is a short list of names I most frequently call the cat:

Mangocat
Man-o
Mongoloid
Mango Lloyd Webber
Mango Q.
Q-Bear
Mangostein
Mancat
CatMan
TallMan
SmallMan
CatFriend
Best CatFriend
Kittenduck
Duckie
Duckily-doo
Ducksworth
TankyPants McChunkyButt
Kittles
Kittles McSkittles
Muffin Man
Muffinpants
Muffinopolis
Muffles
Puffles
Fluffles
Fluffington Puffles

Additionally, my mom calls Mango “Mongolio” and my dad calls him “Magnito,” so good news! This disorder appears to be genetic. Scientists can eventually eradicate it from our DNA, just like Down’s syndrome and that gene that makes some people grody close-talkers.

Lawyer Boy, by comparison, has just one nickname for the cat: Skab, an acyonym for Shitty-Kitty-Ass-Bag.

I don’t have as many royal titles for the dogs as I do for Mango Q., but it’s only because we haven’t had them as long. I’m sure that in time, I’ll have damaged their psyches as well. For now I usually stick to derivations of the ever-endearing “Muffin,” but the other day Lawyer Boy caught me calling one of the dogs “Muffinectomy” and finally put his foot down on the madness. Apparently it was all fun and games with “Doggley O’Drools,” but “Muffinectomy” defined the line between sweetly ridiculous and frighteningly maniacal.

I’d be interested to know if other people blanket their pets with a deluge of dumb like I do. If you can give me one that beats out “Muffinectomy,” I’ll share it with everyone.

I still have some time left, so I could go read about The Stimulation, but I’m going to save that one for Saturday afternoon and a cup of cocoa.

*You totally know they call it that in secret meetings.

A Note to the Wicked Stepmother

Dear Mother Nature,

Grace here. Coffee? Tea? Appletini? Please, have a seat. We need to have a little come-to-Jesus meeting regarding your first-quarter performance. First off, it's winter, which means we're stuck inside, chowing Chunky Soup like it's actually people food, and trying to force the cat to play heating pad on our Skinsicle toes. Second, I believe they make effective medications for your particular breed of schizophrenia, and Wal-Mart has both $4 prescriptions AND Milano cookies, so go get you some bottled sanity and happiness and quit this "four seasons in one month" business. Sixty-five degrees is not appropriate for January. Put your pants back on.

Third, didn't anyone ever teach you that it's mean to toy with the emotions of small children? I imagine this was a lesson they tried to instill in you around about Grade 3, along with "Build The Perfect Storm in 1,2,3" and "Religion and Philosophy: A Study of Al Gore." I just can't take your tricks any more, you meteorological minx. This morning you made my hopes soar like those ratty birds that keep crapping on my car, and then YOU MADE ME GO TO WORK.

As I was finishing up my exhaustive morning preparatory routine of putting on clothes that almost match, I heard the fizz of sleefrow (a delicious sleet-freezing-rain-snow cocktail also available shaken with Bacardi) falling on my windowsill, and my heart began to sing the praises of inclement weather. Surely, I thought, this will continue for hours, accumulate into a street-hazard Slurpee, and let me pretend that for my own safety, I must stay home and stalk people I lost track of from high school on Facebook. I glided into the office, glowingly confident that we would close within minutes, and fully prepared to check the news sites for the latest orphans of Brangelina until that magical moment.

Then, what did you do? You snuggled us close and warmed up to a balmy thirty-three degrees, just enough to thaw my hopes and dreams and make me stay at the office and read the Brangelina chronicles all awful day. We ended up with the Michelob Ultra of inclement weather, when I had really been craving a Guinness (and accompanying widget).

So Mom Earth, consider yourself on notice. If you’re gonna play, then bring your A game…or I’ll stop recycling.

Thanks for puppies,

Grace

P.S.: The Equator makes your ass look fat.