25 Going On 21 And 48 Months June 25, 2008

The trouble with trying to make 100 Jello shots for your 25th birthday, you learn, isn’t the selection process of Jello flavors since - deep sigh of relief - there are plenty to secure your very grown-up theme of “rainbow” quite easily. Nor is it the task of procuring all the necessary alcohol because a little more than half a handle of Smirnoff, some Jose and Bacardi should already be on hand in any self-respecting drunkard’s liquor collection. No. When all seems smooth sailing, trouble, you learn, presents itself in the unassuming matter of space.

 
That is, leaving you unsure of where exactly to store the little fuckers while they harden to become - well - Jello.
 
Which is how I came to spend my birthday cleaning an overstuffed refrigerator and throwing away anything I wasn’t able to consume on the spot while trays of Jello shots covered every hard surface in my kitchen and living room once I realized air-conditioning my apartment to “very cold” wouldn’t cut it.
 
Luckily, I subscribe to the understanding that sacrifices must willingly be made sometimes for Jello shots. (Like, as another example, one’s commitment to remembering things the next morning.) So I happily ate slices of cheese and drank gallons of orange juice and wondered why I hadn’t used cleaning out the fridge as an excuse more often to stuff my gullet.  
 
The sight was glorious after five hours. Rows and rows of shiny red, orange, yellow, and green three-quarter filled Dixie cups of boozed-up Jello ready for consumption as far deep as my refrigerator went. Bliss was mine.

Multiple this by five. Rows.

Until I realized my next unforeseen debacle - securing a way to safely transport 100 Jello shots to a bar blocks away from my apartment, where everyone had been instructed to meet promptly by nine to scarf down some margaritas while awaiting the trolley that would take us all over the city.
 
A feat made even more difficult by the fact that water guns filled with tequila,

 
leis and streamers,

 
pointy birthday hats decorated with the faces of Ernie and Big Bird,

 
and multiple coolers filled with beer, more hard alcohol, and Sparks also had to be towed along.
 
This is about when I began to wonder why the hell we didn’t just tell everyone to meet us at our apartment and have the trolley pick us up from there.
 
(In case questions of my maturity level are now being raised, my boyfriend and I had thought to purchase a case of water bottles after clearing Target’s children section of all its birthday accessories because you come to learn a thing or two when it comes to boozing by the time you’re this old. But once we realized we were only two people with four hands - two of which were mine (read: useless) - it was clear that some things would have to be left behind. And so went the bottles of water. And not, say, the pointy birthday hats because God knows we absolutely needed those. Yes. I hope this clears up a thing or two about my maturity level.)
  
Thanks to one very large metal cookie sheet, yards and yards of tin foil and a boyfriend who was willing to carry everything else, we - as in, my jello shots and I – were able to make it to The Blue Agave safely. All the more impressive, really, when you factor in my 5 inch heels, short little dress, and the overwhelming weight I had to carry on my shoulders knowing that I am now closer to the age of 50 than I am to the day I was born and a thank you to co-worker Michael for that little tidbit needs to be said for that.
 
But where was I. Oh, right. The dress.
 

A big fucking thank you to everyone for taking the time to input in my last post. It was pretty great to see how you all voted. Each one, I think, got its fair share of supporters - although the heavy favorites appeared to be 1, 4, and 7. I can’t say who was right, but I can say you all have excellent taste.
 
Unfortunately, when push came to shoving myself into a tight little party dress and why hadn’t I thought to find somewhere other than my stomach for all the food that couldn’t fit into the fridge, I ended up having to wear a party frock that was not one of the seven I begged you to dress me in while I stood around, hopeless and naked, until you did.
 
But! See!
 
Dress #1 - the one I affectionately referred to as my prom queen on acid - was only available in sizes 0 or 12. I think this was God’s way of teaching me a little thing about my love for extremes.
 
Dress #2 would have totally passed muster. Had I been in the mood to look like a naughty nurse for my birthday. In hindsight, I wonder why I wasn’t.
 
Dresses #3, #4, #6, #7 all could not be delivered in time. Shame on me for lusting after obscure designers.
 
And Dress #5 was a little too sexy and elegant for a night I just wanted to look silly and over the top.
 
With time running out, patience wearing thin, and every other customer at Bloomingdale’s getting on my last fucking nerve - I’m looking at you, mom and daughter pair who could not get over how FAT, OH MY GOD, we look in EVERYTHING - I ended up buying this Nicole Miller trainwreck confection:
 

 
(Ed. note: While this very much looks like the picture I would have taken had I known how difficult it would be to find this fucking dress online once I came into work today, I found this picture on the Internet. So I should probably give credit to whomever I ripped it off from. But that would mean having to admit that I found this on a site focused on things like high school prom dress fashion and Kelly Pickler.)
 
It ended up matching the tiara my friend Damien brought for me perfectly. And God bless friends who bring you tiaras on your birthday.

 
No prom queen on acid. But tragic 80s prom queen, maybe.
 
Even though no fault was mine that not one of the seven dresses ended up working out because, let’s face it, nothing is your fault when its your birthday, I do hate that I can’t report back the winning dress since y’all were wonderful sports for humoring my last (shameless) post. So as a peace offering, I will end this post with one of my favorite pictures from the night. Sans blacked out face and all.
 

[Picture redacted due to this blogette coming to her senses.]

OverdrunkBirthday Girl Gripping Trolley Railing To Prevent Death Via Open Windows, 2008

 
For the record though, I was leaning towards Dress #1 or #7.

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead June 2, 2008

You would believe me, wouldn’t you, If I wrote that I’ve been on a three day bender that’s kept me from updating you all on my great, glorious news?

Sadly, yes. You would.

Well, I haven’t been. Not for the entire 72 hours of the last three days, anyway. But I have been very, very happy since last Thursday. And sometimes not even because of my good friends Jose or Jack!

Katie, a co-worker, says it’s as though we’re no longer the kids who have to fake sick to avoid the evil bully at school.

I say we’re like the Jews who have been emancipated by the hand of Moses from the evil Egyptian Pharaoh.

My former as in no LONGER boss being that evil Egyptian Pharaoh. Which is ironic since she’s Jewish.

The absence of chains scented with her halitosis that have kept me tied to my desk during my lunch hour and late into the night far too many times to list feels pretty fucking unbelievable.

And in case I’m still rambling unclear as to why I’m so damn thrilled, then here it is: MY BOSS, THE SINGLE PERSON IN THIS WORLD WHO MANAGES TO MAKE ANN COULTER SEEM NOT THAT BAD, HAS BEEN FIRED.

Life is brighter, merrier, and loogie-clearing-every-three-minutes free. Friends - victims of my incessant bitching - tell me they feel a sense of glee themselves, as though they are the ones who have had their own evil bosses canned. And my boyfriend continues to ask if it’s everything I’ve ever dreamt it would be.

I hesitate to say yes because I don’t particularly relish the thought that I am this happy at someone else’s misfortune.

But then I remember that this is the same someone who once told me to send a very important document to a very important client so that it is received by them three days earlier; the same someone who created such a non-ending series of hellish days for me last month that I found myself breaking down in tears in the office kitchen and being comforted by the janitor because it was 8pm on a Friday and he was the only other person in the office, there as always clearing out the garbage cans, and really, do you know how sorry I felt for this poor old man who felt compelled to comfort the crazy crying girl by saying No tears, missus in broken English?; the same someone who misanthropely combined the very worst characteristics of Miranda Priestley and Michael Scott into one living and breathing person without the added perks of a closet full of designer wear for me to steal or Jim as my coworker for me to steal - from Pam.

A person who made me taste fucking bile whenever I heard her voice.

To your question of, “Oh come on, could she have really been that bad?,” I can only defeatedly answer, “Worse.”

And while her antics were always appreciated in a ”I have so many horrifying stories to tell over drinks, of course drinks, SO MANY DRINKS” perspective, it was not so good for my grasp on sanity. Which we all know is quite tenuous to begin with.

Her dismissal was as Cringe Inducing Awkward as any episode of The Office could depict.* Police escorts were considered at one point. And papers - so many papers - are being uncovered in the office once used by this person. Secret papers. Some dated as old as May 24, 1976 with a faded Post-It note screaming FOLLOW UP ASAP!
 
It is an utter shitshow.

And in the gods’ continued quest to make me its plaything, all of this comes at a weird time. When I’m finally trying to maneuver a “career switch”. Which is really just a pleasant-sounding way of saying: Getting A Fucking Grip On What I Want To Do With My Life And, You Know, Doing It.

I’ve been handed greater responsibilities. Rumors of a bigger paycheck exist. And countless clients are now mine to answer the uncomfortable question of “Well did she KNOW she was leaving because if she did, WHY did she promise me this by the end of tomorrow? I NEED THIS BY THE END OF TOMORROW BECAUSE I’VE ALREADY BEEN WAITING FIVE MONTHS FOR THIS.”

But it also means the return of my ability to feel something besides stomach-tightening dread in those seconds right before walking into my office. 

The news, on Thursday, was met with gleeful laughter around the office. 

Today, the laughter has died down. But no can seem to wipe the batshit silly grins from their faces.

Including me. Even while madly hungover.

_________________

*The heavyhanded level of awkwardness knew no bounds once I was told what was going to happen an hour beforehand when the HR person called me to tell me she needed to see me immediately. (Which instinctively led me to think that perhaps I was getting canned.) While my former boss is a great candidate for why hell really is other people, I still did not feel comfortable interacting with her as though everything was just fine. However, signing onto WordPress immediately to publicly express my glee and plans for wild celebration? Yes, that I apparently could do just fine.

If You Live In Chicago May 29, 2008

Or a nearby city, county, state, whatever, and you enjoy tequila and champagne.

Or whiskey. Or scotch or gin or whatever you consider your poison.

Hell, if you think you may enjoy sitting around and laughing at a crazy Asian chick that has a tendency of inadvertently bouncing her tits around when she’s excited because she tends to break out in exuberant dance when she’s this excited. Bouncy, exuberant, ready to praise HALLELUJAH TO THE HEAVENS and easy to laugh at as an observer kind of dance.

Come be my drinking buddy tonight.

I have just received the kind of good news that could compel me to go find and kiss the one-legged homeless guy that chose me - imagine, little old me! - to fixate his eyes while openly jacking off this morning during what I had incorrectly assumed would be just another boring office commute.

If only to thank him for convincing the gods that Yes, okay, this time, for this particular episode of her enduring some fucked up shit, we will give her something nice in return.

Since the official news will not be released until 2 p.m. Central Standard Time later today, I can’t go into details yet.

But, holy fuck, I am giddy.

Seriously. Drinks are on me tonight.

And yes. We can all understand that to mean body shots.

In My Fridge March 7, 2008

Is a chilled bottle of champagne sharing a shelf with 24 cans of Miller Lite and some retired milk.

It came “highly recommended”. Like almost every bottle of wine always seems to.

This champagne? It’s made with the same grapes used to produce Cristal, the wine guy at Pastoral sluiced. A French producer who only releases limited batches from this particular vineyard. A must try. It accompanies everything from goat cheese to fried chicken!

The shit about Cristal? Could mean less to me. I’m sure it’ll impress most. But the bit concerning fried chicken? Is what sold me.

Because Hi. I’m Damsel, and I’m a Fried Chickenoholic.

(You: Hi, Damsel.)

We bought the bottle last week. And we remembered to pick up the KFC before we got home. But then we passed out asleep after we attacked the bucket.

So now this bottle of bubbles has been sitting in the fridge - intact - for far too long. As have its shelfmates.

(Not that I’m too concerned about the milk.)

That busy my short term life has been.

But all that changes this weekend. The instant I escape this office and arrive home.

I’m fucking ready to play.