Sunday, July 29, 2012

Dirty Thirty. Three.

I had every intention of writing something here that would be posted on my  actual 33rd birthday. Not that it would have mattered to you, but for some reason, I thought it would matter to me as not only was July 15th my 33rd, but it also marked the 3rd anniversary of my move to Boston. Alas, I have dropped the ball again. It doesn't sound nearly as smooth to start a story with, "Three years and 13 days ago", but, you know this ain't no Reader's Digest caliber kind of blog, so I'll quit trying to put on airs and just go with the garbage you've come to expect from The Cube.  Three years and 13 days ago, I arrived here in my mom’s car, with the rest of my belongings in a Green Giant moving truck ( I know, I thought they only made beans too! Sooo versatile!) somewhere between Texas and Massachusetts, not really wanting to be here at all but reciting a commitment I had made in my mind over and over again - “I only have to stay for three years, I only have to stay for three years, I only have to stay for three years”. I’m not sure where I got that number, but I had decided I could, and needed to, stick out the job I had accepted for three years and then I could move. Home. I very badly wanted to go home. At the time I had no friends in this city and had left the ones that I valued the most in another, I was heartbroken over a relationship I had poured myself into but failed at nonetheless, I rented an apartment I was afraid I couldn’t afford and I was pretty sure I had tricked an entire group of people into hiring me for a position I wasn’t qualified to undertake just by borrowing a pair of pricey designer shoes and dropping phrases I didn't even understand  like “fungible income” and “moves management system” (full disclosure - I still don't know what those things mean but I love saying "fungible" whenever I can fit it into a sentence regardless of relevancy and/or accuracy). I actually have no recollection of what I did on my 30th birthday aka my first night in Boston, but I imagine it involved large quantities of alcohol, cigarettes, a bathtub and crying. And I can definitely say that if it didn’t go down that way specifically on July 15, 2009, it certainly did many nights over in the months that followed. No one needs to hear another story about a sad 30-something single lady with privileged people problems that, with a lil’ bit of hard work and a go-getter attitude, came through on the other side!!!, so rest easy, my friends, we’re not going to throw that kind of party here this evening. I’m no one to pretend I have a clue as to what I was doing then or what I’m doing now. The only thing I’m confident of is that while we may have the occasional “I’ve got it made!” moment, we spend most of our time thinking otherwise; people generally feel just as dumb in work meetings as you do; perfection and enjoyable workouts are a myth;  regret is real and everyone is just trying to get by with what they’ve got so be nice. That’s my two cents and try not to spend it all in one place.
Most everything that’s happened in the last three years, you’ve read about here. I’ve been reversed cowgirled during a bikini wax, multiple superiors have caught me in various stages of undress, I’ve sang Joy to the World to strangers on the train at midnight with no response applause, I've been trapped in an elevator twice - once being with a small Chinese man, I’ve made out in a recycle bin and have had countless, shameful encounters with the chip aisle at my neighborhood 7-Eleven. Seriously, that is the most fitting general description of CultureCube 2009-2012. Now, that said, I was having dinner with a friend tonight and we started talking about another friend who is moving to Chicago at the end of the week. We’re going to miss her dearly, she’s one of the people I’ve become closest to in Boston, we speak almost daily and hang out pretty much weekly and sadly, she’s leaving. On my way home I realized that she is one of no less than a dozen friends that have left since I got here. In three years, a dozen people I know have left (yeah, I'm catching your shade. Put it away, pal). And I didn’t even put that together that until today. My point is, things tend to slowly weave themselves in and out of the fabric of everyday and most of the time, you don’t even notice it. You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you see friends, you go to bed, rinse and repeat. In the midst of all of that, everything shifts and shapes into something else. You: Thank you, Walt Whitman. Me: No shakes, homey. What I haven’t always shared here in dirty detail is that, in addition to a many Dorito binge and failed attempt at live performance art, in the past three years I’ve also fallen madly in love and back out again; my parents, quite surprisingly and quickly, decided to separate; I left a job I was actually very equipped to undertake to start a new one that makes me feel yet again like the world’s biggest impostor; I’ve run a half marathon;  I’ve made good friends; I’ve intentionally lost touch with some of those friends;  I’ve had a total blast; and as previously mentioned, I’ve done my fair share of crying in a bathtub full of Zima. And, in the past three years, I’ve slowly decided I probably won’t ever move home again. 
I feel like an asshole because I know that some of these things should make me tear up or find me better and more “well-rounded” for their having happened. But I’m not sure that’s true. They happened and some of them have brought a good return and some were just downright bitches. Each day that they happened, for better or for worse, I slept at night. And probably ate a plate of nachos in there somewhere too. I don’t mean to devalue any of it, but what other choice is there? You go to bed, you get up, you put on your lip gloss and get on, honey. I feel the same as I ever did which is to say, I feel like I kinda know how manage this ride at this point, but wait, no I don’t. And I’m cool with owning that statement...except when I’m in meetings where I’ll absolutely pretend I know exactly what to say when someone brings up “incremental reporting procedures” or “Do you still not understand how voicemail works, Allie?”.
So, here’s to the beginning of my 34th spin around this big ball of fire and my 3 years in Beantown. I still recite the slightly altered statement, “I only have to stay for three more years” on loop in my head - just a different landing spot now. I know you’re never supposed to make hard plans because nothing will shake out exactly as you intend, so I’m not going to bank on details, but I will bank on it continuing to be much of what it is now - generally good, peppered with the random drag and lots and lots of burritos and dancing. Such is life and cheers to us...
Later, folks.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

So Fresh

Do you guys remember that morning I ate two egg and cheese breakfast burritos and by the time I got to work I felt so full that when I sat down at my desk I decided to undo and sorta pull down my skirt so the top of my bloated belly, which was covered by an extra big pair of Spanx underwear that go all the way up to my boobs and down to my mid-thigh region was hanging out, very much resembling a baby kangaroo trapped upside down in his mama’s Lycra pouch? And remember how I was starting my day, looking at pictures of kittens wearing hats and trying, as I do everyday, to teach myself how to shimmy like Robyn...and just as I was doubled over in a half shimmy with my ‘roo pouch fully boss came in to ask me if we could push our 9:30 meeting to y’all remember that? Wait, what? You don’t? Oh...oooohhhhh...that’s right, of course you don’t! Because it just happened two days ago. And 48 hours later, I still hate myself. Much like the afternoon when my old boss at my old job asked to borrow a paperclip and I fully opened my desk drawer so we were both staring blankly at a pair of blue lacy underwear that I had stored there for reasons I still can’t rationalize, this past Friday, my current boss and I found ourselves shifting awkward glances back and forth between my partially clothed body and an enlarged image of two kitties dressed up as Batman and The Joker on my computer monitor. 

My boss is a very sophisticated British woman that always says fabulous things like, “I’m just going to stop by the canteen for a sparkler before this evening’s affair.” That translates to “I’m getting a water from the staff lounge before that happy hour thing later” but it certainly sounds prettier and she’s always jet setting off to some grand place like Cuba or Hong Kong in a perfectly tailored travel dress with a perfectly coordinated travel tote and meanwhile, I hail from a city widely known as Cowtown, am typically dressed in Forever 21’s finest (vintage, of course) or one of several hand-me-down sweaters that my grandmother gave me 5 years ago, eating peanut butter sandwiches, and maybe or maybe not (ie definitely) touching myself before bed while reading the critically acclaimed, “mommy porn”,  50 Shades of Grey trilogy, putting in my night guard and calling it a day. Jesus. 
Here’s the thing, the Cube has about two weeks to pull shit together because I’m headed to  Italy for 10 days to play growns up and meet some peeps who have been on my radar at the ‘ol J.O.B. for a few months now. I’m sure my graceful, professional English boss has spent her entire weekend trying to figure out how to carefully tell her clumsy and crazed subordinate not to spontaneously undress or quote Purple Rain ("Let's have some action! Let's have some asses wigglin'...I want some perfection!") while dining with Italian white collars on the clock. 
Last Saturday Jomo and I went to see The Weeknd - a show both of us were feeling pretty ho hum about but later agreed was totally awesome - and after watching John throw back three beers and loosen up on the dance floor - I moved in for the housesitting request kill. Housesitting, in my case, comes with the special addition of a small hairy beast with ADD and the impressive ability to ingest a full pair of underwear in about 60 seconds. So, for many, this gig isn’t worth that extra Washington in the wallet. But, because he is my bestie, and more so because he was wasted, Jomo agreed to crash at my pad and tend to George Michael while I’m stuffing my face with pasta and Facebooking kissy pictures of myself from the back of a random dude’s moped or sipping a glass of wine at a tiny cafe and writing little captions like “Ciao, baby!” and “Someone is spoiled! lol!” to make my Facebook friends who aren't at all my real friends think I’m fancy and cultured even though my idea of fancy and cultured is more closely aligned with Mad Dog Grape served in a champagne flute, Step Brothers rolling on the Blu Ray and sometimes, for very good boys, the pleasure of licking lukewarm queso out of my bellybutton on the kitchen floor. It’s going to be a great trip and I’m already busy prepping my apartment with lots of fun goodies to make John’s stay all the more enjoyable. I’ve told him he has my complete permission to have parties, bang boys, abuse pay-per-view and eat every last snack I stock in my pantry as long as he will take GM out twice a day and let him sleep in bed at night. 
This instruction reminded me of a time, long ago, when I was seeing a guy who was sleeping over on a somewhat regular basis. I remember the first night he stayed with me and for whatever reason, probably because George Michael was indeed in bed with us, I was feeling squished and unable to sleep. It was very early in the morning and I had woken up frustrated and not at all rested when I rolled over to see George head-to-head on the pillow with my pseudo boyfriend who was himself half-awake, but with his eyes still closed, sweetly petting George’s head. I watched him for a few minutes, thinking about how adorable the man I liked looked as he tended to the dog that I love so much, and as he stirred from his slumber, he slowly opened his eyes, our gazes falling upon each other, smiling, connectig on an emotional level where words are no longer needed...until he looked at George, looked at his hand petting George and started laughing hysterically as he confessed that he thought that he’d been petting my head and my hair the whole time. He mistook George for me. He thought I was a dog. How cute.* 
Needless to say, we stopped dating shortly thereafter and George no longer sleeps in the bed if another human is in it with me. So, John understands that should he be rolling around with an MIT undergrad twink he picks up on Bear Night at the The Eagle and brings back to my house, he can lock George out of the room until they're finished touching bottom holes.  

If all goes well, I might be able to recruit John into housesitting again when I take off for Paris in July, but I’m really just mentioning that because I want to show off how cosmopolitan I am in front of you and not at all because I want to talk about John or housesitting or George Michael anymore. Strictly name dropping. Strictly trying to be an asshole. That’s it. Nothing more. 
Have a great week, everyone. When I’m not busy continent hopping this summer, I’ll be hanging out with these guys come August. I’m stoked as I seriously think Das Racist are lyrical Einsteins while also being super funny and rapping about some of the things I love most in this world...Saved By the Bell, Pocky Sticks and White Castle?!? Get the fuck out. Too bad ass for their own good. 

Peace. Das Racist is the new Kool G Rap.

*George loathed that he does most of my gentlemen friends...he's the jealous type. But he knows how to work 'em for good petting. That's my boy!

Sunday, April 22, 2012

I just had to text my best friend, John, aka Jomo (John + Homosexual = Jomosexual = Jomo), after suffering a near heart attack while reading an article on NPR this morning claiming that 80% of our most significant life experiences happen by the age of 35. I’ll be 33 in 3 months...which means I’ll be 35 in 2 years and 3 months. Do you know how frightening it is to think approximately 77% of the big stuff has already happened? I must have been in the napping or at getting my Pinkberry card stamped when all of this shit went down because the most significant things that have happened to me thus far are 1) I’m no longer a virgin, and 2) I’ve taught myself how to apply mascara without stabbing out my own eyeball.
Jomo is at the movies right now and not getting back to me so he’s kinda dropping the ball on the BFF front. Pay no mind, John. I’m just sitting here, freaking out, scooping handfuls of Skittles into my mouth and wondering how in the fuck, between candy eating, hip hop beginners dance classing and George Michael training, I’m supposed to break in the ‘ol bucket list in 2 short years and some change.  
Since my panic mode means freezing in place and playing dead, I’m listening to a couple of tracks in an effort to calm down until I can regroup and just start crying and running around my apartment in circles until I pass out from exhaustion only to wake up tomorrow morning when George starts licking my face for his first stiff cup of coffee a walk. Yeah, that sounds about right. 
Have a nice week, ladies and gents. 

Perfume Genius, Hood and Normal Song

Lost in the Trees, Walk Around the Lake

Mr. Little Jeans, The Suburbs

The Walker Brothers, The Electrician

Saturday, April 21, 2012


George Michael and I have been working on his trick abilities lately. It's not going well. Enjoy.


P.S. A shout out to my home girl, Molly, over at Double Zero, who recently brought home her new pup, Frankenstein. He's fucking adorable. And George and I were sure to send our personal well wishes a few weeks back.

Per usual, GM wasn't in the mood to cooperate.

It's a lost cause...

Someone get the chips, already.


Tuesday, March 20, 2012

2+2 = Shoot Me.

Me? Oh, I've just spent the last two hours starching and ironing my sheets and ordering specialty paint online because what better way to camouflage a 1950's busted bathroom radiator than to cover it in three coats of  metallic gold latex. And yeah, maybe the only real social interactions I've had today were with a bus driver and the Vietnamese woman who waxes my bikini line every four weeks - and not to get my bikini waxed - but to attend her 10 year-old son's birthday dinner at The King and I Thai Palace down the street from my house. Did I also possibly make not 1, not 2, but 3 phone calls to 3 different non-working  numbers trying to track this down? Yes, yes I did. Back off, homey and don't worry about it. I should be self imploding in approximately 30-45 days as a direct result of crazy overload. Just sit back and enjoy the show. I only pray that my destruction goes down like a 4th of July Fireworks Spectacular because really, I can't imagine a better way to duck out of this game and it would be perfectly fitting as I've spent my entire life trying to get everyone's attention through the most obnoxious avenues available to me at any given chapter in it.

This week has been a royal bitch. It's budget time around the office and budgets, along with showing up to work by 9am, can be logged away in my "weaknesses" folder in trusty 'ol HR filing cabinet. In my defense, I have always been honest about both of these truths during the interview process. Unfortunately, I cannot defend the powers at be for not taking said disclosures seriously when I've divulged them.

Budgets never fail to depress me (um, maybe the stupidest and most obvious sentence ever written). Year after year, every February, when the sun is still going down immediately after lunch and it's cold outside and your social life is in the can because no one wants to go out for fear of getting stuck hailing a not existent, shitty Boston/Cambridge cab at 2am in 4 degree weather because you'll NEVER get one, budget time rolls around. And it is, without a doubt, the saddest month of my entire year. The whole process leaves me hating work, hating life and wishing I had taken up pottery instead of college and moved to an island long ago with my dog and a man that knows how to make great love, and more importantly, delicious soft tacos.

I know we just did this but I've been making my way through the whole budget thing this week with the help of a lot of coffee and two tracks on a constant rotation during my morning commute.

Music, as I hope we all can agree, is so spectacular because it has the undeniable ability to change your mood on a dime. One minute you're listening to Randy Newman and crying about a boy you dated in your early twenties who is still seen through rose colored glasses even though you're pretty sure he cheated and definitely once called you a cunt because you accidentally broke the XBox when you tried to make it play a Nelson CD. And then, the next minute, you're on Cloud 9, happy as can be, coordinating an impromptu strip tease to Little Red Corvette in front of your full length Ikea door mirror (but you give up when your sweatpants get stuck over your rainboots that you forgot to take off when you got home 3 hours ago, and instead, retire to the couch to finish watching a Hoarders marathon).

Program Interruption: Coincidentally, a few weekends ago, I attended a lecture where this guy spoke on Prince, and particularly, Little Red Corvette, as the most sexually suggestive song ever recorded while noting that Prince was simultaneously commenting on the impending AIDS crisis in the early 1980's. While I'm not sure I fully bought it, I was nonetheless completely absorbed...until my friends and I left and went out for nachos. I sorta just remembered the whole experience right now. Hmmm. Next!

Music is so often the foundation of my well-being on any given day and I genuinely believe it stands alone in having the ability to dictate one's state of mind more immediately and powerfully than any other artistic medium.

So, around 8:45am every day this week, right as my stems hit the street, I hit play on jj and allow myself 15 minutes to walk through the park, prepping for a day at a desk with an oversized calculator, a mauled pen behind my ear, a Diet Coke and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. See? I told you it was depressing.

But then! I get on the train and with the timing of a thunder cat (go with it...I don't know what it means, either, but go with it), I switch over to Azealia Banks and get ready to fucking RAGE on some Excel!

I envision my spreadsheets and projections and formulas as the direct subjects of this number and mentally prepare to dominate:

What you gon' do when I appear?
When I premiere?
Bitch, the end of your life is near.
This shit be mine!

Need we concern ourselves with the lyrically explicit details of lesbian sex and men ejaculating all over stuff? No. That's neither here nor there. What matters is that Ms. Banks is turning my frown upside down, or at least providing me with an expression of general indifference/anger, and by the time I enter the doors of my workplace, I am on a fucking terror to own some number crunching.

I usually proof these things before posting but you know what? I think I'll pass on that this time. I'm slowly recognizing that we've just discussed ironing my sheets, hanging out with the woman who waxes my vagina at a birthday party and how I've taken to understand Excel as a living, breathing animal that I'm intent on murdering. Holy shit, I'm lame.

But then again, you're here too, sucka.

Until next time...

P.S. That Nelson link might be the best thing I've rediscovered all year. Well worth the next six minutes of your life.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Some Music

My computer tells me that I came into possession of this song last year but that information was not received by my ADD brain until about three weeks ago and now I'm completely hooked. Please take a moment and listen to Alexander of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros fucking kill this track, Truth:

I have to admit that I feel a tad uneasy about my sexuality when I watch this as he is the epitome of what I gravitate toward in the physical appearance department despite looking a lot like Jesus Christ and acting like the tweaked meth head harmonica player I occasionally see near the McDonald's at South Station. I really hope that my moral compass hasn't become so corroded that I would be down with banging Jesus or a homeless dude. And that's not because he's homeless per se, but more for fear that I could so easily be tempted into the lifestyle. I mean - harmonicas, McDonald's and making out on the train all day - what doesn't sound awesome about that scenario?!? Jesus, on the other hand, well...everything about hanging out with Jesus just sounds super boring...all the "good deeds" part, anyway. I might show up for the annual Water To Wine Party. Actually, who am I kidding? I'd do 'em all. Thank you, Alexander, for providing a jam that reminds us dirty birds that honesty is indeed the best policy and if Jesus is our personal dreamboat, we shouldn't be afraid to shout it from the rooftops! Truth.

On the other end of my obsession with Alexander lies my obsession with The Weeknd's, Wicked Games (nothing actually happens in this video link so just click play and listen while you fold a few pairs of socks or something):

Do y'all remember when One Republic struck teenage angst gold when Apologize was way hot on any and all radio stations containing KISS in their handles shortly after that random Kiera Knightley movie came out a few years ago? Well, the fact of the matter is that I loved that song but I was too embarrassed to admit it because I was still trying to convince the world that I was a some hipster chick that would only ever be caught listening to obscure German house music while debating the intersections of art and social welfare in an ironic t-shirt with a faux turkey feather dangling from my ear. When I looked down to see myself dressed in a smokin' pair of J.Crew office slacks while at a Die Antwoord concert last year, I finally realized the jig was up (ed. note I love Die Antwoord and would never wish to imply otherwise. The "Pretty Wise" tattoo on Ninja's neck is maybe the most bad ass thing I've ever seen)  and I might as well just start claiming the shit I like if I fucking like it and quit worrying about the fact that I most definitely resemble a nondescript, preppy, 32 year-old, white, 9-5'er with a tramp stamp, a college degree and divorced parents. Because that's exactly what I am. We're a dime a dozen and even when I paint my nails blue or put random braids in my hair, I still look the same...just stupider. I'm slowly learning to accept this. To that long winded point, I absolutely adore this number even though I'm pretty sure I'll get made fun of for it and Abel Tesfaye is singing to a stripper about how they're going to do a bunch of drugs together and then she'll grind up on his goods - but not before rinsing off her perfume so his girlfriend doesn't find out?? I don't know, but I'm into it and maybe you will be, too.

Aside from my music indulgences as of late, I guess I could quickly report that life in the Culture Cube bubble is coming along nicely. I hung out with this genius director last weekend, I'll spend my work day  tomorrow with My Brightest Diamond, I'll be in New York next weekend at The Armory and I just bought a ticket to Paris for my 33rd birthday celebrations in July. I say all of this to 1) subtly brag so you're tricked into thinking I'm cooler than you (fact: I'm not) and, 2) in an effort to forget that I also drank 2 beers sitting on my bathroom floor by myself after getting home from the encounter with said director; I have to go to the doctor before the My Brightest Diamond show to check in on the medicated progress of a sexy infected toe nail; last time I went to the Armory I stayed in a hotel that doubled as public housing and George Michael is still trying to ruin my life - this time by forcing me to give him a butthole "haircut" on Tuesday since he keeps shitting all over himself on our walks. That alone earns me a trip to Paris, right?!? Y'all know just as well as I that the majority of that trip will be spent in a hotel room, eating chips or crisps or whatever they call them over there, while watching French re-runs of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Also, last night, I fell asleep in bed wearing mittens. And I woke up with an almond halfway in my mouth. I still don't know how or why either of those things  happened.

It was nice catching up with you folks; it's been too long. Oh! And I almost forgot! Better late than never - I hope you each had a fantastic Valentine's Day and were able to spend it with your lovers and The Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs is hands down the most Valentine-y album of all time and I leave you with my favorite song off this masterpiece. It's a sad one, but I spent a good portion of my evening talking to a friend on the phone who has recently found herself back in the Land of Single Ladies. While not terribly upset, she was certainly confused when her ex snail mailed a disposable, used razor that she left in his shower before they called it quits. No note, no card - just a razor in a business envelope. That makes sense.

It's moments such as these when I feel like a lot of the time, love can be kinda bullshit. But, when you have it good, it can be pretty fucking amazing, too. So, on whichever side of the fence you may fall, I hope this past Valentine's Day found you in love with something in your life. For me, it was, and will always be, Grand Canyon.

Goodnight. Mwah.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Let's Get Right To It

I’m unemployed. Yes, that’s right; I have been without a job for one full week now and I have about 10-ish days left to go. The good news is that I am willfully unemployed as I have accepted another position at another joint in Boston where I somehow tricked a group of, by all accounts, intelligent people, into hiring my dumb ass, giving me a fancy title, a full staff and an office. The bad news is, in the meantime, I’m so fucking bored I can hardly see straight. This goes against everything I once believed so deeply about myself...that I’m a lazy bag of bones who would love nothing more than to one day never have to work again, but alas, I no longer think this is the case. And I hate myself for it because I fear this can mean only one thing. I am an official adult who (starting to gag...yep, full gag coming on) enjoys her job. Ugh.
Anyway, the list of things I have done to combat said boredom is starting to freak me out. All of my laundry is clean and neatly folded; I’ve been to the tailor and the dry cleaner twice; I’ve grocery shopped (my refrigerator usually consists of a carton of soy milk, an avocado, and during a bountiful week, maybe some leftover Thai); I cooked vegan Sloppy Joes (what.the.fucking.gross.); I’ve given George Michael 3 baths and a haircut; stepped up my running routine - you all have a free punch redeemable at the entrance of my fat mouth for being such a white girl with that statement; vacuumed my windowsills and every other square inch of this apartment; called my grandmother; undertaken a minor but also quite sophisticated plumbing project and finally invested in a new phone after dropping mine outside a CVS last December, shattering the screen and keeping it held together with scotch tape for an entire fucking year. Who am I?!? What have I become!?!?! Someone send a case of Fuzzy Navels, a Benetton tube dress and some caramel flavored condoms my way stat. This ship is sinking fast and if I’m gonna go down, it best be on the Myrtle Beach Booze Cruise and not one of those fucking Disney Family Adventure shit shows.
The laundry room in my apartment building is, like many apartment buildings, located in the basement. The difference between your basement and my basement is that I’d be willing to bet that your basement was built sometime after the turn of the century where as mine was most likely a Revolutionary War bunker, is most definitely haunted and houses a large sink that I’m convinced dispenses congealed animal blood as opposed to actual water. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from making out in the basement - not once, not twice, but three times and then finding a missing boot and an earring down there after the fact. I also once found a pair of my high heels in the recycle bin post random makeout in the lobby of my building. I decided it was probably a good place to store them during the deed...but that’s a story for another time. Okay, no it’s not. I made out with a guy I deemed too sketchy to bring into my apartment, but totally safe enough to roll around with in the elevator for a few minutes before asking him to get out so I could hitch a ride up to my pad. Brilliant. Just for the record, I have made out in my bed before. I think.
Moving on, and as I had nothing better to do last Monday afternoon at 3pm, I figured I would finally use the laundry room for a different kind of spin cycle and see if this Preemie Baby Placenta  scented Tide I’ve had stashed under my stove for two years was worth all the hype. I gathered up my most delicate of delicates (so like, jeans and t-shirts and a sock), and headed down to the basement with George Michael trotting right alongside me. 
George loves a good adventure and since the laundry room is full of all kinds of crazy, I usually let him come down to hang out while I attend to the 35 quarters required to turn on the washing machine - its power capacity only rivaled by that of my electric toothbrush. We made our way to the bunker and I began the usual sorting, pulling other people’s clothes out of the washer, seeing if there’s anything I like in their load (one can never have too many navy blue washcloths or moth eaten boxer shorts!), transferring to the dryer without their permission and then dumping a bunch of detergent over everything before busting out the fire proof safe full of $1,000,000 in quarters. As I was too preoccupied with shoving my neighbor’s Thanksgiving themed dishtowel down my sweatpants, I had momentarily neglected to keep an eye on George Michael, and sure enough, when I was ready to Bounce (get it!?!? Laundry product placement! Hit me up, Bounce. There’s plenty more where that came from, big guys!), he was nowhere to be found. I called him; he didn’t come. I looked down hallways and in the breaker room; he wasn’t there. I threw a pair of my neighbor’s underwear on the floor for the taking...not even a sniff. He was completely missing in action. Feeling a hint of panic begin to set in as, despite the fact that he was born to destroy me, this dog is the only thing that evokes any sort of emotional reaction in me whatsoever, and should he ever leave, I will immediately crumble into a pile of ash, empty tins of lip gloss and press-on nails, I did the only thing I knew to do. I sat on the stairs, drummed up my sweetest, most obnoxious toddler voice and yelled out, “Treeeeaaaat!!!”
And there he was. My love, my little monkey, my Georgie. 
With a fucking mouse in his mouth.
Now, I’ve seen a rodent or 12 in my day. When I was a kid, I have a vivid memory of my mother coming into my bedroom late at night with blood all over the front of her nightgown after our dog, Henry, caught a rat in the kitchen, murdered it and then delivered the kill on my mother’s stomach while she slept in bed. She woke me up so that I could sweep the dead rat into a plastic bag because she was too scared to do it herself. Ah, a mother’s love...
I had a garden level apartment in 2006 (“garden level” is fancy speak for “in the alley”) where the only place I could get cellphone reception was by my living room window which overlooked a large rat den that I became quite familiar with over the course of my lease. Like, I could tell them apart and stuff. Not my finest hour...or annual compensation package. 
And a few years ago, I was peeing at a friend’s lake house when a mouse ran out of the shower and made a mad dash for my feet before I was able to drop the lid, stand on top of the toilet with my XL tankini bottoms in hand and scream bloody murder until my boyfriend came to rescue me. My other friend heard my shrieking and thought someone in my family had died. No, it was much worse than that. 
All of these events pale in comparison to watching George Michael chew on a dead mouse, blood squirting out the sides of his mouth, the sound of tiny bones breaking and popping through flesh permeating my eardrums while I began to softly squeal and slowly back away from the little dog who was now more than happy to follow me up the stairs in the hopes that I had a Cool Ranch Dorito in my pocket.
I know my neighbors have seen me at my best (lie and never) and very worst (truth and daily). But I think none of them were quite prepared to see me dominate four flights of stairs in approximately 7 seconds while being chased by a dog that could fit in a fucking Kardashian carry all, only pausing to yell, “Drop it! You’re an adopted lunatic asshole! I hate you!!”, before diving into my apartment and slamming the door in his face. One neighbor in particular (he actually moved out two days ago...hmmm...weird), who lived across the hall from me has come to my aid on several occasions. There was the time I got trapped in the elevator and he had to pull me out in my pajamas but only after I made sure he got my Slurpee first, there was the second time I got trapped in the elevator and he decided it best to call the landlord then go through that mess again. There was the time I left my keys on the train so I woke him up at 1am for my spare set, the time I blew our circuits when I was drying my hair, while listening to my iPod, with the TV, both airconditioning units, and all my lights on and he came over to reset my breakers. There was that other time when I thought I heard a burglar in my house so I asked him to go look but it was just George caught under a blanket randomly bumping into things. And finally, the time when my boyfriend got stuck in the elevator and we pulled him out but not before he insisted I get his bottle of whiskey out of his coat first.
Sure enough, my poor neighbor was home, heard the commotion and came out to assist me (or kill me. either/or). I cracked my door open while he blocked George Michael from alternative escape routes as I threw candy corns in the hallway to entice him into dropping the mouse. After a few minutes, 20-30 candy corns littering the common area, and my neighbor instructing me to “aim for his mouth! Or maybe his eyes! Yeah, try to hit him right in the eye!”, our efforts paid off. George dropped the mouse and ate some candy while I snuck up behind him with a garbage bag, scooped him up (not like, in the bag. I didn’t want to suffocate him. Not yet, anyway. Just sort of wrap it around his body so my hands wouldn’t touch his freshly infected AIDS fur) and rushed him to the bathtub where I doused him in hot water for the better part of an hour. I also brushed his teeth. Twice. And forgot about my neighbor. He told me the next day that he had cleaned up the mouse. Oops. So, I bought him a cookie. I just forgot he already had moved out.
I’ve taken to calling George by a new name - George Mouse Mouth Michael - and he is forever banned from the laundry room. Me, however, that’s harder to say. If I don’t get back to work soon, it’s quite likely I’ll drag some bum down there again for a little afternoon delight...and then slip a 10 spot in his pocket for wrangling up any loose vermin by way of the blue cheese dressing matted in his dreads from our earlier dinner date at the Outback Steakhouse dumpster.
Hey, what was the point of this post again? Oh yeah...I’m outta work and fucking bored. Any of you play Words with Friends? It’s my new jam since I’ve come to realize I suck at Fruit Ninja (like most anything else that requires the most basic eye-hand coordination). Yes, I know I’m late to the party, but remember my old phone that was made out of scotch tape? 
I’m Culturecube. Bring it.