Good Friends and Squirrel Bombs

The week before Christmas was unseasonably warm this year. Remember?

Everyone left town early, until it felt like it was just G and myself, the rest of Glover Park entirely empty. Smoking on my porch before bed one night, I thought: even the lights on the horizon look dimmer. We took to the porch again the next night, finished a bottle of wine nestled in second-story beach chairs. We went inside, then away for our holidays. I left the bottle out there for months.

I am the kind of asshole who clutters a perfectly lovely back porch with unwanted furniture, disintegrating cardboard boxes, discarded books, bags of clothes for Goodwill. Why bother with a table and real chairs when we could just sit on this old desk? You're too good to sink your ass to the floor into one of those terribly awkward canvas chairs? Of course you're not, I'm just kidding. I'm aware it's a terrible system. I've thought about changing it, about throwing all the shit away and making it a pleasant space to sit and chat. I think about it for two minutes before declaring: 'Isn't it already a pleasant place to sit and chat simply by virtue of being a porch? Just let it be a porch!' So it stays how it is, and yes, I see that's pretty bullshit and mostly a function of my general laziness and because sometimes I am a shit friend who does not care about your comfort. You know who is not a shit friend? Kyle.

A few weeks ago we were standing out there while I determined the proper outerwear, and Kyle, as he has done in the past, handed out the gentlest of porch shamings: 'It's so nice out here; 'Chairs would be awesome'; 'I could help you take the boxes down'. Wonderful, kind hints to which I typically respond "Come on Kyle, then I couldn't throw my garbage out here" because I am the kind of person who will regularly throw a bag of garbage or empty box of wine out onto the porch rather than carrying it down to the cans. Then, as usual, he left it alone. There are only so many times you can ask an adult to throw her trash away properly before you start wondering why you're still friends with this lunatic.

I had to go to New York last week for work. The Saturday before I left it was sunny and kind of nice and I opened the porch door hoping maybe it was reading weather. It wasn't. Even if it had been, the environs weren't exactly conducive to relaxing. Unless broken pieces of ashtray, scattered dead leaves, crumbling boxes and mildewing bags of clothes are part of your preferred spa experience. I picked up the months-empty bottle and accompanying glasses, took them inside to the kitchen. Got a garbage bag. Went back and swept up the leaves, the shattered bits of lacquered ceramic*. I pushed the broom under the a/c unit in the window, and noticed something protruding from the largest bag of Goodwill clothes, an enormous black canvas duffel bag, characteristically unzipped.  What initially looked like a stick, was, after closer inspection, clearly a leg. A small, furry leg.

My first thought: How did one of Baylor's toys get in there?
My next thought: Oh that is not a toy that is not a toy that is not a toy that is a dead fucking squirrel and it is super dead, super dead, all the way live dead, how do I get it out of...do I reach in...are there more...OHMYGOD NO, OH MY GOD DEAD SQUIRREL TOUCHING CLOTHES THAT USED TO TOUCH ME. 

I went back inside and had some wine and decided it was time to start packing. And I did. And I shut the squirrel out of my brain for the rest of the afternoon.

A few hours later, Kyle came over. We were hanging out, deciding where to go for food, and I actually considered not saying anything, but then I did: "Want to hear something really horrible that happened to me today?"

I finished telling him, and I think I assumed it would be like confession - once it was out there, the squirrel would magically disappear. I said "I didn't know what to do about it, so I just did nothing." Without judging the ridiculous words that just came out of my face, he said, clearly, reasonably: "Okay, you have to do something." He was right. I did. He helped.

What happened next was Dennis the Menace masterful, something I never would have thought up on my own. It was Kyle's idea to put garbage bags on our arms, Kyle's idea to position the giant outdoor trashcan directly below the porch, to maneuver the monster duffel over the porch rail together, heave it at the can. When the bag failed to land as aimed, crashing face down onto the patio stones a foot away, scattering clothes but concealing the squirrel carcass, I want to say it was my idea to get the snow shovels out of the utility closet and scoop the clothes into the trash can, but that was probably him, too. I invented the term 'Squirrel Bomb', although I also invented the situation that created said Squirrel Bomb, so I'm not sure what kind of pride to take there. Regardless,  the squirrel bomb was successfully diffused. And then we went to Surfside.

And my goodness, if the porch doesn't look so much better without that giant bag of unwanted clothes! And their attendant dead rodent limbs! Who knew? I'm thinking about getting rid of all the boxes now. I'm even considering a table and chairs**.

Happy Birthday Kyle!

*Sorry, D, I really did love that ashtray.
**Where do people get tables and chairs?

Lunches, Brunches...Dinner's Not So Cool

Sorry for the lack of new shit lately. (That apology is mainly to my dad, who will be horrified by what is to follow.) I have a couple posts I've mostly written - one about my lack of SmartPhone, another about my embarrassing crush on Adam Levine - they're funny, but I can't bring myself to finish them. Because I'm in my June Blahs, I think. I always forget about these.

Two months a year typically kind of suck for me - February and June. February, I'm always prepared for - come on, that month is the WORST - but June always surprises me. I don't know why it's tough. It just is. I'm sure that reads as a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it's the truth. Every few years I might have a perfectly nice (aka not soul-crushingly-awful) February and think the curse is lifted, but the next year, WHAM. It's back, stabby with a vengeance. Same deal with June, which is a shame, because at least a quarter of my favorite people have June birthdays. It's a lovely month! I just get bummed out.

When I am bummed out, I sort of hate everything. Topping that list tonight, is dinner. Just fuck off, dinner.

Dinner's a complicated meal for me as it is. Breakfast and I are cool, lunch is practically my boyfriend, but dinner? Lose my number, thanks. Not like I don't eat the exact same salad-with-salmon-burger 95% of the goddamn time, so I'm not at a loss for what or how to eat it. It's just that by the time I get home from work, and walk the dog, and settle down, I feel like I should be through with the responsible part of the day, and now you're telling me I have to fucking FEED MYSELF AGAIN?

(You will note that dinner is not a problem when I am staying with my parents, or Miss D, or any of my boys. I will enthusiastically help prepare the dinner, and I will certainly enjoy the shit out of it. This all ties into my Peter Pan complex. I realize this is a fairly significant obstacle on my path to self-actualization.)

And dinner in the summer? Oh, just shut up. It is HOT. And humid. Can't we just sit outside and drink white wine and watch people walk by and forget this whole 'evening meal' business, which seriously cuts into aforementioned sitting outside time? I'm sure plenty of bugs will crawl into our mouths while we're sleeping. Bam, protein. Rebel against this tyranny of dinner!

Happily, there is one thing I always want to eat in the summer: Watermelon. Watermelon is the greatest! There's this one salad you can make with watermelon and feta and black olives and mint and it is so good, I could eat a pound of it before I remember that I want to strap dinner down and inject it with a massive dose of sodium phenobarbital. Another excellent dish is watermelon-vodka salad. Oh yeah. Here's the recipe:

Watermelon-Vodka Salad:
What You Need:
- Any amount of watermelon you feel like eating
- Any kind of vodka you feel like tasting (the nicer the better. Even though you're just pouring it over melon, spend the extra fifteen bucks and go to at least the middle shelf -- it makes a world of difference. And feel free to experiment with flavors, but cucumber is by FAR the superior choice, if you can find some. The only cucumber options at Pearson's tonight were like, $40 for a 750, though, so I called an audible and went with Absolut Citron. We'll see how it goes. Oh, and if you're like 'what about that new Smirnoff marshmallow kind?' please, please close your browser, and leave us in peace. Maybe jump off something high. Or something less dramatic,whatever, but you people should not be passing your predilections for disgusting alcohol onto future generations.)

What To Do:
- Cut the watermelon into whatever sized chunks you find appetizing. (Bonus points for maximizing surface-area-to-volume ratio!)
- Put the chunks into some kind of container. Tupperware with a lid works best.
- Pour vodka all over the watermelon chunks.
- Shake (or stir, if you're less Bond/don't have Tupperware with a snug lid)
- Put that shit in the fridge for a while.
- Eat it.

Oh my god, isn't your night so much better now? Do you maybe even feel up to going back in the kitchen and assembling a reasonable, wholesome meal for yourself? Yeah? Okay, then. Go make that spinach salad your bitch.

Dinner, we live to spar another day.

(Seriously, Mom and Dad, I ate dinner as I was writing this. And it was totally nutrient-rich and fortifying. Also, watermelon is SUPER good for you.)

This Hardly Qualifies as a Dope Beat

I write to myself all the time. Everywhere. It's like thinking, but you look crazier. The following is some shit I wrote to myself on the subway last week, loosely titled 'On Work Travel'.

April 17, 2012

It's possible that this hotel was created specifically for me.

It's pretty swag inside, yet situated between a police station and a methadone clinic. Precisely how I prefer my luxury: with a side of recovering heroin addicts.

The bed is awesome. I thought about lifting up the sheets and checking out what kind of mattress action this is, but I don't really care that much. Also, mattresses are hard to move, and I don't know where I'll be living in six months. (Not that I have concrete plans, of course. That's just like, a general truth.) Also, I'm poor and those shits are expensive as hell.

The shower! First of all, there's a window, which I always like. And the water pressure is on point. I don't know how anyone would manage this showerhead if they were more than an inch taller than me, but I don't care, because I am not more than an inch taller than me. The downside is that there's no tub (is it gross that I take baths in hotels? I don't know why it would be any grosser than anything else you do in a hotel. Not like it matters. If there were a resounding chorus of 'that's gross', I'd still do it.) but the shower door is this whole glassed-in floor-to-ceiling situation that would allow one to hotbox that section of the bathroom in the morning before a 75 minute subway ride to far-far-far Brooklyn, if one was inclined to do those sorts of things.

HBO. I realize free HBO was available at like, the Bates Motel, so it's not exactly a drawing point, but I was really excited to watch the premiere of 'Girls'. That was, of course, until I watched the premiere of 'Girls'. I think I hate it. Fuck. I did not want to hate that show! (I've watched it since, and I still hate it.) I really like Lena Dunham. And I really, really liked 'Tiny Furniture'. 'Girls' is like a watered down 'Tiny Furniture' with more annoying characters. I mean, I am the demographic they're appealing to, so I should empathize with the inertia inherent in the whole 'suffocated by our myriad opportunities' thing, and I do, but I also have limited patience for all this whiny bullshit. Oh, your boyfriend is too nice and the sex is boring? Break up with him. Oh, you hate your job? Find another one and quit. Oh, your parents aren't paying for your apartment anymore? Thank them for helping you this far - graciously, and figure your shit out. Although, her parents were kind of dicks. They just left the hotel without saying anything? My parents would not pay my rent, but they would wake me up and have coffee with me and tell me they loved me and that everything would be okay before they left. That's probably why I'm not an asshole, though. At least, not the 'Girls' kind of asshole. I did just talk about hotboxing the fucking shower. At least I don't eat cupcakes in the bathtub. What the shit was that about? You can't...you can't eat in there. Especially not baked goods, just...no.

(Okay, I have TOO MUCH to say about 'Girls'. I'm going to watch more episodes and give it its own post. Which will not talk about the show's lack of diversity, because that's the only realistic part. Have you ever met girls like that? They are only friends with other girls like that. That was the only part of the show I didn't want to stab at least a little. No one complained about the lack of diversity on 'The Sopranos'. It's a snapshot of a subculture, and that part, at least, was pretty right-on.)

The bar downstairs has really decent cheap red and an attractive bartender who is married with kids that I instantly asked to see pictures of, so all sexual tension is reassuringly put aside (seriously, this is a great technique, especially if you travel all the time and like to sit at the bar by yourself. Pictures of someone's kids are an automatic tension disabler.) and he just pours me a bunch of free wine. He also acted really irritated at other patrons, and shooed kids away from the bar like an angry grandpa when most people our age would have tried to play it cool. I love when people are over being cool. I just really adore cranky and/or emotionally volatile people. I have been totally Stockholm Syndromed by my upbringing; it's stamped all over my life. What can you do, though. I love a grouch.

We talked about California - he's lived everywhere. I like it when a bartender talks more than you do. Another reason dive bars are the best. You learn so much! I wish you could send your kids to bars with permission slips. I would send mine to the Tam at 16. Nothing bad's going to happen. That's a satiated addicts bar; everyone's got their fix. They aren't looking for much else. It took actually dating the bartender to get myself in trouble there.

I am writing this on the train and everyone can see, and Pops called me out on not posting anything new lately, so this is probably going to turn into a blog entry. So self-aware! That  is going to be awkward to type. (It wasn't that awkward.)

Were the BareNakedLadies kind of awesome sometimes? Or is my appreciation of 'Brian Wilson' just a wicked case of nostalgia? I literally cannot tell. No idea.

Sometimes you notice a girl, and she's so pretty, it breaks your face in half, somewhere really deep. Like, it just cleaves you. I don't think anyone ever feels like that about boys.

I am obsessed with where I might have left my deodorant. (I lost it between leaving the hotel for dinner with S, and not-finding it the next morning. What? I don't even think I took it out of my purse. Yes, I carry deodorant with me at all times, and you should, too.)

The sanitation grades here are a nice thought, but every time I eat anywhere in an old East Coast city, I pretty much assume there's trace elements of rat feces in whatever I've ordered. I don't like, actively think about it, because that's super unappetizing, but come on. Kitchen's are gross. Especially kitchens in the basements of 150 year old buildings.

History, yum.

Things We Learn About Alcohol With Age

1. 18 year olds can afford to be creative. Really. When I was 18, I would drink anything. Of course, scarcity was a major motivating factor there. But my favorite drink, for an entire summer, was Amaretto and orange juice. Amaretto and orange juice! Jesus fuck! If I drank that now I would immediately throw up, and then cry. But 18 year olds have livers like big juicy pomegranates, and 26 year olds have livers that resemble the human brain.

2. Whiskey is A Solitary Libation. Please respect that.

3. That 'beer before liquor, never sicker; liquor before beer, never fear' rhyme can be disproved in a variety of ways, none of which are especially pretty.

4. Champagne has its own set of rules. Rules that should be obeyed unless you totally don't care about publically engaging in bouts of insane giggling, impromptu speeches, or over enthusiastic dance moves.

4a. The only things you should mix with champagne are orange juice, cranberry juice, grape juice...ok, 'juice', Chambord, Creme de Kassis...

4b. Ok, mix it with whatever you want, just don't use Sangria. Especially 'sangria' concocted by your friends out of all the fruity shit they found in their fridge.

5. Never Mix the Grape and the Grain. How did I not learn this until I was 26? My father dispensed this crucial nugget on New Years Day, while I cried into my gingerale wondering how on Earth two (ok, two rather generous) glasses of red wine and 2 large helpings of Jack and Coke were making me curse the gods. Also, I should have remembered Rule 2.

6. If you're of legal drinking age, you shouldn't be drinking anything served out of a plastic garbage can or a bathtub. Especially if it's purple. I'm not saying 'don't do it', I'm just saying 'don't tell everyone in the office about it', because they'll judge you.

7. Rum Makes You Steal.

7a. Wait, that's just me? Whatever. There's one drink that makes you more likely to steal than others. If you're at a party, and they're serving that drink, do the decent thing and advise the host to protect their lawn ornaments accordingly.

8. Just because you can make anything into a drinking game, doesn't necessarily mean you should. Necessarily.

9. Some people sweat out booze the next day, some people do not. You need to know which group you belong to if you ever plan on drinking on a weeknight post-college.

10. If you don't have at least 3 different hangover remedies by the time you're in your mid-twenties, your mentors have failed you. And not to be harsh, but you need better friends.

Other Uses for Your Ridiculously Excessive Collection of Shot Glasses that You Acquired in College, Can't Throw Away, and Which Have Become Irrelevant in Your Apartment, as Gone Are the Days When You Routinely Took Shots of Vodka with Thirty-Five Other People

1. Ashtray.

2. Collection Device for Rings (or earrings, or thumbtacks, or cufflinks, or other such tiny items that you can never find; especially useful for items that come in pairs, but for which you can never locate the partner item.).

3. Tinier receptacle in which to hold salt, or in which salt can be transported from room to room, when you have misplaced your salt shaker once again, but have retained, as always, the large blue Morton salt container from which all salt comes to the table.

4. Bedside aspirin holder.

5. Pepto-Bismol dispenser (for when you have dropped the one that came with the bottle in the scariest corner of the bathroom and are too terrified to retrieve it, never mind consume medicine out of.).

5. Single-serving soy sauce cup.

6. Water dish for guinea pig or giant hamster.