I get pissed about things. Like, really pissed. I scream, I yell, I say absolutely horrible things I later regret (sometimes). I throw stuff, I break stuff, I'm generally terrible. I am by no means proud of this. I realize I have trouble controlling my anger, and I've worked hard to keep it in check. I have raised my voice exactly once to Baby, and that was in the middle of the "Biggest Fight We Have Ever Had" and she was yelling as well. And even though that fight was horrible, I didn't say anything abusive or hurl any insults or accusations I would later have to take back. I was just mad. So a year and a half with no other outbursts is nothing short of miraculous.
With that as the background, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the heavens that Baby was out of town three weeks ago. Because things almost got ugly. And it has taken this long to find the patience to tell the story.
Baby was in Chicago with family and friends at Lollapalooza, and I was stuck at home taking care of the cats. I wasn't stoked. Baby will tell anyone that listens that I hate them and I wish they were dead. That's not technically correct. If they were dead, Baby would be really upset. I wouldn't like that. But hate them? Check. Wish she had never owned them in the first place? Double check, circle, exclamation point, underline.
She adores these cats, treats them as if they were her children. The disgusting things they do and eject don't bother her in the slightest. She loves their neverending supply of cat hair, their incessant vomiting, their utter lack of shame when they lick their genitals. Recently the more tame cat of the pair, Lola, has developed a condition I've taken to calling Zoo Ass. How a cat of that size can produce turds that smell that bad is beyond me. The homeless guys that take dumps in the park don't smell that bad, and I've seen the things they eat. Baby will clean the litterbox, replete with the byproducts of Zoo Ass, and put everything in a plastic bag next to the trash can in the kitchen. The fucking kitchen! They don't make a pair of rubber gloves thick enough for me to take that load of trash out, so it just sits there giving me toxoplasmosis. That's about how far apart Baby and I are on the subject of what she calls "the princesses."
These god-forsaken animals and I have found a way to co-exist, we've come to an understanding. I stay as far the fuck away from them as our apartment will allow, and they make every effort to be as close to me as possible at all times. I don't understand it. If god should someday decide, in his infinite kindness, to give me the ability to lick my own balls, I would probably do it in private. But Lola and Jezebel (the most aptly named cat ever), make a point to puke, shit, shed, and drool on everything I hold dear, right in front of my face. Baby was gone less than an hour before Lola threw up on my Gamecube controller. And that was the best thing she did all weekend.
As Baby has never even introduced the concept of discipline to these animals, they have enjoyed free reign in destroying everything she has owned over the course of their eight malice-filled years on earth. Every piece of furniture is in tatters, every square inch of fabric covered in layers of cat hair and dander. In fact, the imminent destruction of everything I own was the sole reason I was originally hesitant to move in with Baby. But I told myself I was being silly. I decided I could train these horrible bastards. I am a complete fucking idiot. We talked about getting the cats a scratching post for them, but figured it was a waste of money. I told Baby that a surefire way to get them to use it was for me to treat it as if I cared about it, but frankly that's an experiment in spite that's probably not worth the expense.
About six months before we moved in together I treated myself to a brand new bed and boxspring. I've had back problems for a few years now, and my parents offered to give me a few hundred bucks to buy a better bed. I took that money and applied a considerably larger sum of my own to buy what is, in my estimation, the most comfortable bed on earth. Can you tell I'm proud of it? But Baby loves it as well, and I brought it to the relationship like a dowry.
The cats immediately set up shop under the bed, as it's the darkest place in the apartment. I put boxes and things under there to keep them out, because it's a pain in the ass to clean under there after they've been camping out. But they just squeezed their way in between the boxes, or nudged them all out of the way. So I gave up. What else could I do?
The first night Baby was at Lollapalooza I fell asleep with the TV on. I woke up around 8am, hungover, to a strange sort of scratching sound. The TV was on but I could tell it wasn't coming from there. I sat up and Jezebel hauled ass out from under the bed and into the living room. I went back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later to feed them, and Jezebel didn't come out to eat. I went looking for her, and I found what she'd been doing. She'd clawed a hole out of the boxspring from underneath, maybe the size of a baseball. As she's a gigantic fatty (I bet you could have guessed that Baby doesn't exactly feed them a healthy diet- Jezebel's favorite is McDonald's french fries), I didn't even consider the possibility that she had climbed through the hole. I went around to the other side of the bed to check over there and I heard her hissing at me.
Now let me explain about the hissing. Jezebel hisses at everyone and everything. I'm sure that, in her kitty eyes, she's the baddest motherfucker that ever lived. But in reality, she is an incredibly overweight sissy of a housecat that has never, in her entire life, put a foot outside her apartment. The hissing just pisses me off. You're the fattest cat anyone has ever seen and I'm still ten times heavier than you, you piece of shit. I can kill you with my bare hands and make mittens to use to strangle your sister.
So anyway, hissing. But I couldn't figure out where she was. She does both scratch and bite, so I wasn't stoked about sticking my face under the bed to take a look. Still, the hissing was making me mad and I was sure she was up to no good. I got down on my hands and knees and realized that not only had she climbed into the hole in the boxspring, but she had worked her way all the way across to the other side of the bed and had apparently gotten stuck. Usually she runs when she's been caught doing something bad, but I could see her in there, her big fat ass causing the fabric to sag. I got worried, fearing she was stuck and had somehow hurt herself. I considered calling Baby, but figured it was best to try to get her out on my own. I poked her, I yelled at her, and I finally crawled under the bed and actually lifted her, inch by inch, until she got back to the hole and made a run for it. I chased her around the apartment and cornered her, and I just unloaded on her. Literally.
We keep a squirtgun full of water for situations like this. Jezebel hates the squirtgun. When she gets squirted she knows she has done something wrong. So she got more than a mouthful of water, and a serious lecture. I would never actually physically harm these cats, as they're only animals. But I gotta tell you that shooting Jezebel in the face with a squirtgun brings a level of satisfaction that honestly scares me. When I'm done punishing her I put the gun down and go to find Lola. I want her to know that all the yelling is not about her, and try to make her feel better. She's incredibly timid when she's scared, and I didn't want her freaking out on me. But I looked and looked and I couldn't find her anywhere. Exasperated from my fight with Jezebel, I just gave up. I went back into the bedroom to lie down.
I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke to the terrifying and unmistakable smell of Zoo Ass. The cats, to their credit, are generally good about using the litter box, so this was unusual. I searched the bedroom and couldn't find Lola anywhere. To be certain that Zoo Ass wasn't contagious, I went to find Jezebel. I found her alright, crouching under the kitchen table. She obviously hadn't forgotten about the squirtgun incident, because she literally spit at me, like a fucking camel, when I got close to her. I didn't even know cats could do that. Having learned something new, I made an informed decision to immediately stop fucking with Jezebel.
Back in the bedroom the smell had gotten worse. With an overwhelming sense of dread I checked under the bed and discovered that a) Lola was now stuck, and b) Lola had taken a dump inside the motherfucking boxspring.
I lost it.
I shouted. I threw whatever I happened to be holding (I don't remember). I tore the covers off the bed. I lifted the mattress off the frame. I lifted the boxspring, with Lola still in it, and turned it on it's side. I heard her dig her claws in and climb, upside down, to the part of it that was resting on the ground. I heard the turds rattle around. I swear to god I heard the blood boil in my ears. I went to get a knife.
I learned that I am a man of tremendous restraint. I opened my preposterously sharp knife and cut the fabric from the bottom of the boxspring. Inexplicably, I took care not to fucking murderize Lola. There is more than one way to skin a cat. I considered all of them. But in the end I cut every inch of fabric from underneath, giving them nowhere to hide and no place to take their secret dumps. Lola, obviously terrified, didn't move the entire time. She cowered in the bottom of the boxspring, her turds of hell in piles around her. I finally had to flip the boxspring yet again and force her to drop out. Of course, I also dumped the turds onto my carpet.
You've had bad days in your life, days where everything seemed to go wrong. But honestly, has it ever been so bad that the best thing to happen to you all day was to have the good fortune of accidentally discovering an easier way to clean up catshit?
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
A Cry For (Marketing) Help
I dream the big dreams. I'm a man of ideas, a virtual wellspring of outside the box. I am, fairly regularly, struck with brainstorms so revolutionary, so remarkable, so sure thing that it's practically a miracle that I'm not obscenely wealthy. But it dawned on me today that it's no coincidence that I haven't struck it rich. Something has been holding me down. And, for the sake of argument, let's rule out the abject laziness and utter lack of anything resembling ambition. Instead, let's blame girls.
The dreaded ex, Osama bin Megan, was particularly adept at destroying my dreams (go figure). Over the course of our something like twelve years of sometimes loving, most times hating each other she shot down the following three brilliant ideas that would (or will) later make someone else rich:
1. The bendable toothbrush. I actually got so psyched about this idea that I made a special trip to the grocery store AND the drug store to see if any such product was on the market. It wasn't. I called her and told her about it. She scoffed. Now they're everywhere, and I don't have a dime. Just think of all the relationship counseling we could have afforded with those millions. Yeah, I know, probably not enough. Still, I blame you.
2. The reverse microwave. Everyone claims to have invented this, so I don't know if I can really get all that upset about it. But I'm putting it on the list because, honestly, there can never be enough reasons to blame another people for my station in life. Honestly I can't even figure out why she wasn't more supportive of this one, as it would have been the perfect place to store her cold, black heart.
3. Band Aids for black people. This one is really good. At least ten years ago it occurred to me that it was awfully racist to only have Band Aids in that fleshy color that matches Johnson & Johnson's vision of the ideal master race (that's right, I said it). What we need are some Band Aids for people of color. The recent rapid growth of the Hispanic population in America only makes the need more urgent. And here is the real genius- imagine the secondary market for white kids who want to be black? We could have made billions. But alas, she said it was stupid. Doesn't that make her a racist? Yeah, I think so, too.
I thought I had found a true supporter in Baby. She's been so great to me in so many ways, of course she would be willing to do all of the legwork (and research, and investing, and production, and marketing, and so forth) for my next big idea. Boy, was I wrong. Here is the deal:
Baby watches the Today show every morning before work. I have no choice but to get roped into it. My least favorite guests are the people pushing self-help books for every imaginable malady. So I'm watching one of these idiots this morning and I realize I'm imminently qualified to write my own self-help book. I have issues doctors haven't even found names for yet, and I've overcome no small amount of personal misfortune. Plus my self-righteous streak is a mile wide. Fuck it, I says to myself, I'm writing a book.
I explain the concept to Baby, and she doesn't even consider it. In fact, she flat out dismisses it. "You're not gonna stay pissed about this like the black Band Aids thing, are you?" Fine, I will do it without her help.
Here is my idea, tell me if I'm an idiot:
My self-help book will be titled "Things Will Probably Be OK (But They Could Get Much, Much Worse)." It will be a smartass' guide to dealing with anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, hypochondria, and depression. Each chapter will contain one of the valuable lessons I've learned in life. A selection of chapter titles:
"Never, Ever Graduate From College"
"Germs Can Certainly Kill You, But So Can Everything Else. As Such, You're Only Wasting Precious Seconds By Washing Your Hands Every Ten Minutes"
"Can You Please Explain To Me Why You're Afraid To Touch The Doorknob In A Public Restroom, But You're Perfectly Fine Having Unprotected Sex With Girls You've Only Just Met When You're Out Drinking?"
"Finding A Girlfriend Who Has Her Own Well-Documented Issues Might Seem Like A Good Idea In Theory, As You Will Have Someone To Commiserate With. But In The Long Run You Will Realize That You Hate Other Crazy People Even More Than You Hate Yourself"
And finally-
"Don't Tell Anyone I Told You This, But Suicide Is Always An Option"
I'd be stupid not to do this, right?
The dreaded ex, Osama bin Megan, was particularly adept at destroying my dreams (go figure). Over the course of our something like twelve years of sometimes loving, most times hating each other she shot down the following three brilliant ideas that would (or will) later make someone else rich:
1. The bendable toothbrush. I actually got so psyched about this idea that I made a special trip to the grocery store AND the drug store to see if any such product was on the market. It wasn't. I called her and told her about it. She scoffed. Now they're everywhere, and I don't have a dime. Just think of all the relationship counseling we could have afforded with those millions. Yeah, I know, probably not enough. Still, I blame you.
2. The reverse microwave. Everyone claims to have invented this, so I don't know if I can really get all that upset about it. But I'm putting it on the list because, honestly, there can never be enough reasons to blame another people for my station in life. Honestly I can't even figure out why she wasn't more supportive of this one, as it would have been the perfect place to store her cold, black heart.
3. Band Aids for black people. This one is really good. At least ten years ago it occurred to me that it was awfully racist to only have Band Aids in that fleshy color that matches Johnson & Johnson's vision of the ideal master race (that's right, I said it). What we need are some Band Aids for people of color. The recent rapid growth of the Hispanic population in America only makes the need more urgent. And here is the real genius- imagine the secondary market for white kids who want to be black? We could have made billions. But alas, she said it was stupid. Doesn't that make her a racist? Yeah, I think so, too.
I thought I had found a true supporter in Baby. She's been so great to me in so many ways, of course she would be willing to do all of the legwork (and research, and investing, and production, and marketing, and so forth) for my next big idea. Boy, was I wrong. Here is the deal:
Baby watches the Today show every morning before work. I have no choice but to get roped into it. My least favorite guests are the people pushing self-help books for every imaginable malady. So I'm watching one of these idiots this morning and I realize I'm imminently qualified to write my own self-help book. I have issues doctors haven't even found names for yet, and I've overcome no small amount of personal misfortune. Plus my self-righteous streak is a mile wide. Fuck it, I says to myself, I'm writing a book.
I explain the concept to Baby, and she doesn't even consider it. In fact, she flat out dismisses it. "You're not gonna stay pissed about this like the black Band Aids thing, are you?" Fine, I will do it without her help.
Here is my idea, tell me if I'm an idiot:
My self-help book will be titled "Things Will Probably Be OK (But They Could Get Much, Much Worse)." It will be a smartass' guide to dealing with anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, hypochondria, and depression. Each chapter will contain one of the valuable lessons I've learned in life. A selection of chapter titles:
"Never, Ever Graduate From College"
"Germs Can Certainly Kill You, But So Can Everything Else. As Such, You're Only Wasting Precious Seconds By Washing Your Hands Every Ten Minutes"
"Can You Please Explain To Me Why You're Afraid To Touch The Doorknob In A Public Restroom, But You're Perfectly Fine Having Unprotected Sex With Girls You've Only Just Met When You're Out Drinking?"
"Finding A Girlfriend Who Has Her Own Well-Documented Issues Might Seem Like A Good Idea In Theory, As You Will Have Someone To Commiserate With. But In The Long Run You Will Realize That You Hate Other Crazy People Even More Than You Hate Yourself"
And finally-
"Don't Tell Anyone I Told You This, But Suicide Is Always An Option"
I'd be stupid not to do this, right?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Dear Washington Nationals, Go To Hell
Here are ten things the Washington Nationals can do to stop sucking.
1. Start winning games. I realize this might seem like an obvious solution, but apparently it has not dawned on the Nats that the object of baseball is to score more runs than your opponent.
2. Refuse to let anyone into RFK stadium wearing a jersey worn by the opposing team. This one should be easy enough to enforce. When the Yankees, Mets or Phillies are in town, you can effectively keep the gates closed. No one is coming to root for the Nats anyway.
3. Move the team to somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey. We're not talking about a serious downgrade here, as the team currently plays on the banks of the Anacostia River. And judging by the way these fat sons of bitches from Jersey pound hotdogs and swill Miller Lites at games when the Mets are in town, the team stands to make a fortune at the concession stands.
4. Consider fixing the clock high above home plate that has been broken since my childhood. This would be particularly helpful for the 20,000 Virginians who come to each game, as it will help them get home in time to watch The O'Reilly Factor.
5. Install microphones at every concession stand, and monitor all conversations. Track down every fat, white asshole from the suburbs who is rude to the kids working behind the counter. Take their privileged, ungrateful children out of whatever private school they attend and force them to grow up in Southeast. Make them work their summers at a grill in 100 degree heat cooking hotdogs for insensitive assholes for minimum wage. Then, once they've gained perspective, fucking murder every single one of them.
6. Find the idiot who spent money fixing the PA system that blares music throughout the upper deck, and fire him. We liked it better when all we could hear was the crowd and the game. No one needed to hear Babe Ruth's theme song to know he was coming to the plate.
7. Speaking of music, be made aware that the lyrics to Fall Out Boy's "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" are "...and sugar we're goin' down swingin'." Someone tell catcher Brian Schneider, who has recently 'raised' his batting average to .236, that he may want to pick out a new theme song.
8. Find the guy who was selling t-shirts in front of the stadium this weekend that simply said "Mets Suck," with the sales pitch "It's never too early to start teaching your kids poor sportsmanship" and give him a job. He's better than anyone you have in your marketing department.
9. Consider promotions and games between innings for people who don't happen to be sitting in the ten most expensive sections in the stadium. As thrilled as that lawyer's kid who gets a free t-shirt from Screech every game seems to be, I'm willing to bet the Boys Club of Northeast that's sitting in the upper deck would appreciate it more.
10. If you have bobbleheads next year, and you make the last one of the set Screech, but you make it only available to kids under 12, and you don't advertise that fact, and season ticket holders show up with a screaming hangover and don't get one, and then they show up on eBay for $115 two days later, I'm going to kidnap one of YOUR goddamn children and get my fucking doll. Watch me.
1. Start winning games. I realize this might seem like an obvious solution, but apparently it has not dawned on the Nats that the object of baseball is to score more runs than your opponent.
2. Refuse to let anyone into RFK stadium wearing a jersey worn by the opposing team. This one should be easy enough to enforce. When the Yankees, Mets or Phillies are in town, you can effectively keep the gates closed. No one is coming to root for the Nats anyway.
3. Move the team to somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey. We're not talking about a serious downgrade here, as the team currently plays on the banks of the Anacostia River. And judging by the way these fat sons of bitches from Jersey pound hotdogs and swill Miller Lites at games when the Mets are in town, the team stands to make a fortune at the concession stands.
4. Consider fixing the clock high above home plate that has been broken since my childhood. This would be particularly helpful for the 20,000 Virginians who come to each game, as it will help them get home in time to watch The O'Reilly Factor.
5. Install microphones at every concession stand, and monitor all conversations. Track down every fat, white asshole from the suburbs who is rude to the kids working behind the counter. Take their privileged, ungrateful children out of whatever private school they attend and force them to grow up in Southeast. Make them work their summers at a grill in 100 degree heat cooking hotdogs for insensitive assholes for minimum wage. Then, once they've gained perspective, fucking murder every single one of them.
6. Find the idiot who spent money fixing the PA system that blares music throughout the upper deck, and fire him. We liked it better when all we could hear was the crowd and the game. No one needed to hear Babe Ruth's theme song to know he was coming to the plate.
7. Speaking of music, be made aware that the lyrics to Fall Out Boy's "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" are "...and sugar we're goin' down swingin'." Someone tell catcher Brian Schneider, who has recently 'raised' his batting average to .236, that he may want to pick out a new theme song.
8. Find the guy who was selling t-shirts in front of the stadium this weekend that simply said "Mets Suck," with the sales pitch "It's never too early to start teaching your kids poor sportsmanship" and give him a job. He's better than anyone you have in your marketing department.
9. Consider promotions and games between innings for people who don't happen to be sitting in the ten most expensive sections in the stadium. As thrilled as that lawyer's kid who gets a free t-shirt from Screech every game seems to be, I'm willing to bet the Boys Club of Northeast that's sitting in the upper deck would appreciate it more.
10. If you have bobbleheads next year, and you make the last one of the set Screech, but you make it only available to kids under 12, and you don't advertise that fact, and season ticket holders show up with a screaming hangover and don't get one, and then they show up on eBay for $115 two days later, I'm going to kidnap one of YOUR goddamn children and get my fucking doll. Watch me.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
It's Even Hotter In Hell, You'll See
More short ones-
This might come as a shock to everyone, but it gets hot in DC every August. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. And sometimes, it gets really hot. Other times not so much. And we measure the temperature through something called an average. See, actual temperatures fluctuate around the average. So some days we're above, some days we're below. When it's ten degrees hotter than usual, that's not an emergency. They don't cut into the Simpsons with Breaking! News! Updates! when it's 68 in April. So they probably shouldn't do it when it's 98 in August. I appreciate that you're sweating, and you're pissed. I hope it gets worse and you fucking move. Because if I see one more fatty on TV bitching about the unbearable heat I'm going to scream. We all feel really sorry for you, because you're braving the oppressive elements to make your daily slouch from your McMansion in Fairfax to your SUV in the driveway, and the trek from your covered parking garage in Reston to the 68 degree mausoleum-styled nuclear missile building defense contractor's factory of death where you earn your six figure income defrauding decent Americans of their freedom and liberating Iraqis of their lives. Fuck off. Sweat with the rest of us.
--
I got stuck in the elevator in my office at about 8am on Monday. When I was younger I suffered from acute agoraphobia. I can safely say I don't any more. We were probably only stuck for about a half hour, but there was no ventilation and the two women in there with me were handling it with varying degrees of insanity. One woman kept drinking her hot tea from Starbuck's to stay 'hydrated.' The other kept calling the emergency help desk on the elevator phone thing. Each time the operator said, "Help is on the way, call back in 3 to 5 minutes to check in." Each time the lady waited 90 seconds and called again. I stripped down to my tshirt to try to cool off and called Baby to curse my luck. We were finally 'rescued' when a repairman, without warning, made the elevator drop a floor and a half and let us out. I thought for sure we were plummeting to our deaths. But alas we lived. Once we got our he informed us that due to security measures, we couldn't use the stairs to go UP to our offices. We had no choice but to get back on the elevator. Awesome. I finally got to our office and passed a VP in the hallway. I was covered in sweat and wearing a tshirt. A hour later HR sent an email to all staff members reminding us we must stick to our business casual dress code even in the heat. I hit Reply All but quickly hit Delete. I'm telling you, it was close though.
--
Baby is leaving for Lollapalooza this afternoon, and she won't be back until Monday. I literally have no idea what to do with myself. I don't know what I'm going to eat. I don't know where I'm going to go. I don't know what I'm allowed to watch on television. I don't know where the following things are: cat food, cleaning products, stove, dignity. She's actually going back to Chicago again next weekend. If I don't die of scurvy it will be a miracle.
--
Twice now in the past month or so I have been on a Metro train with a guy holding a bag of rotting fish. The first time was before a Nats game, when I picked up Baby at Federal Triangle. The smell of fish was overpowering on the platform, but we figured it was something at the station and we could escape it when we got on the train. The combination of rush hour and the Nats crowd made it hard to tell where the smell was coming from, so we just jumped in the first car of the first train that came by. We were packed in, but I was positive that I could still smell it. Baby tried to convince me that it was just still in our noses from the platform, but I could still smell it over the general reek of rush hour Metro. Sure enough, when we finally got to RFK a guy got off the train carrying a plastic shopping back that must have been the source. This is not a fishy smell as if he'd spent the day fishing and had his catch in his bag, mind you. This was at least a day old, and rancid. Same situation (different guy) happened a week or so later, this time between L'Enfant and Convention Center. Same plastic bag. What the fuck is going on here? Can you imagine what would possess you to bring rancid fish on a Metro train? Was this an act of terrorism or something?
This might come as a shock to everyone, but it gets hot in DC every August. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. And sometimes, it gets really hot. Other times not so much. And we measure the temperature through something called an average. See, actual temperatures fluctuate around the average. So some days we're above, some days we're below. When it's ten degrees hotter than usual, that's not an emergency. They don't cut into the Simpsons with Breaking! News! Updates! when it's 68 in April. So they probably shouldn't do it when it's 98 in August. I appreciate that you're sweating, and you're pissed. I hope it gets worse and you fucking move. Because if I see one more fatty on TV bitching about the unbearable heat I'm going to scream. We all feel really sorry for you, because you're braving the oppressive elements to make your daily slouch from your McMansion in Fairfax to your SUV in the driveway, and the trek from your covered parking garage in Reston to the 68 degree mausoleum-styled nuclear missile building defense contractor's factory of death where you earn your six figure income defrauding decent Americans of their freedom and liberating Iraqis of their lives. Fuck off. Sweat with the rest of us.
--
I got stuck in the elevator in my office at about 8am on Monday. When I was younger I suffered from acute agoraphobia. I can safely say I don't any more. We were probably only stuck for about a half hour, but there was no ventilation and the two women in there with me were handling it with varying degrees of insanity. One woman kept drinking her hot tea from Starbuck's to stay 'hydrated.' The other kept calling the emergency help desk on the elevator phone thing. Each time the operator said, "Help is on the way, call back in 3 to 5 minutes to check in." Each time the lady waited 90 seconds and called again. I stripped down to my tshirt to try to cool off and called Baby to curse my luck. We were finally 'rescued' when a repairman, without warning, made the elevator drop a floor and a half and let us out. I thought for sure we were plummeting to our deaths. But alas we lived. Once we got our he informed us that due to security measures, we couldn't use the stairs to go UP to our offices. We had no choice but to get back on the elevator. Awesome. I finally got to our office and passed a VP in the hallway. I was covered in sweat and wearing a tshirt. A hour later HR sent an email to all staff members reminding us we must stick to our business casual dress code even in the heat. I hit Reply All but quickly hit Delete. I'm telling you, it was close though.
--
Baby is leaving for Lollapalooza this afternoon, and she won't be back until Monday. I literally have no idea what to do with myself. I don't know what I'm going to eat. I don't know where I'm going to go. I don't know what I'm allowed to watch on television. I don't know where the following things are: cat food, cleaning products, stove, dignity. She's actually going back to Chicago again next weekend. If I don't die of scurvy it will be a miracle.
--
Twice now in the past month or so I have been on a Metro train with a guy holding a bag of rotting fish. The first time was before a Nats game, when I picked up Baby at Federal Triangle. The smell of fish was overpowering on the platform, but we figured it was something at the station and we could escape it when we got on the train. The combination of rush hour and the Nats crowd made it hard to tell where the smell was coming from, so we just jumped in the first car of the first train that came by. We were packed in, but I was positive that I could still smell it. Baby tried to convince me that it was just still in our noses from the platform, but I could still smell it over the general reek of rush hour Metro. Sure enough, when we finally got to RFK a guy got off the train carrying a plastic shopping back that must have been the source. This is not a fishy smell as if he'd spent the day fishing and had his catch in his bag, mind you. This was at least a day old, and rancid. Same situation (different guy) happened a week or so later, this time between L'Enfant and Convention Center. Same plastic bag. What the fuck is going on here? Can you imagine what would possess you to bring rancid fish on a Metro train? Was this an act of terrorism or something?
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