It’s almost November, which in Blog World means NaBloPoMo or, National Blog Post Month. I, CKD, do solemnly swear to post each day for the month of November. However, as my friend Habesha Child said, there are no guarantees on quality here. We’re shooting for consistency and that might mean a photo essay on my closet or my thoughts on Liz Lemon’s hair this season.
It’s on.
One of my worst fears came true this weekend. I was stuck in an elevator. Claustrophobic CKD was STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR AND COULD HAVE DIED OMFG!!!!!!!
OK, maybe I was never in actual mortal danget at any given moment, but at the time I was convinced I was going to die. In the Concord Hilton. During a conference. Can you imagine?
Basically, the hotel was overloaded between our conference, regular guests and a high school reunion. There were serious lines to get into one of the THREE elevators available. Yes, I could have hauled my ever-widening ass up the stairs but in my defense I am a lazy bitch had been up since 4am and was wearing heels. So shut up, Judgey McJudgerson. Anyhoo, each time an elevator was available everyone played the Let’s Test the Weight/Person Capacity of this MoFo Game and packed themselves in like sardines. I have some fairly intense claustrophobia issues, but figured I could suck it up since I was only on the second floor (seriously, I will cut you if you judge me for not taking the stairs).
Some random dude who was not part of our conference gets on with a bunch of us who are all wearing nametags and whatnot. I am pushed to a far corner away from the elevator buttons. Also, away from the door, which tends to make me nervous. I mean, if there’s an emergency I AM DEAD, right? Since Random Guy Not With Our Conference is closest to the buttons he obligingly pushes half of them since every single one of us is on a different floor. I quickly note my luck at being able to escape the elevator quickly (see aforementioned fear of ever being stuck in an elevator) once we get going.
We sit there for a good minute, chatting away and realize the doors have not opened. We have not moved. I flash to the scene in Speed where Keanu Reeves and Jeff Daniels have to save all those people in the elevator and realize I am fucking toast. One of the women says, “I don’t think we’re moving.” People chuckle and make jokes about being stuck.
“SOMEONE PUSH THE ALARM OR CALL FOR HELP RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I AM ABOUT TO LOSE IT!” is heard from the back corner. Care to guess who busted out with that? Yeah, it was one of my proudest moments.
Random Guy hits the DOOR OPEN button, mercifully they open and I push my way out of the elevator like George Costanza escaping from a kid’s birthday party when a small fire breaks out. It was…bad, you guys. Like, I hope-to-God-my-nametag-was-hidden-and-I-never-see-those-people-again bad.
To top off my streak of good decisions followed by normal behavior…I waited for another elevator. Do you expect me to take the stairs when my legs are shaking?
Be proud you know me.
IM conversation at 9:02am:
Boy Chris: i need a teammate for my “Mid-Morning Cocktail Drinking Team”
Interested?
Me: Fuck Yeah!
1.) Sipping tea on the couch under a soft blanket.
2.) Witnessing the excitement over fantasy football victories.
3.) Crepes and wine at a new restaurant.
4.) Season 4 of 30 Rock has finally begun. Liz Lemon! Jack Donaghy! Hilarity!
5.) Rainy days mean homemade soup and a reason to bust out the polka dot galoshes. Holla!
While getting ready to leave for Tahoe for the weekend:
Mom: “Are you packed yet?”
Dave: “Uh, no, not really.”
Mom: “You had ALL THIS TIME TO PACK. Why aren’t you packed?”
Dave: “I don’t know! What do I bring?”
Mom: “You don’t know what to bring? First of all, get your suitcase.”
Dave: “Fuck it, I’m taking my clothes in a garbage bag like Raymond.”
Mom: “Christen, get in here and make sure he packs what he needs. And make sure he doesn’t use a garbage bag for his stuff.”
Me: “What the hell? You are not a hobo! Go get your suitcase. I can’t believe you can’t pack for yourself.”
Dave: “I can do it! Wait, how many days are we going to be there?”
Mom: “Forget it, I’m taking her *gestures to me* and you can stay home.”
Me: “Fine with me. I can have my stuff packed in two minutes and don’t require adult supervision.”
Dave: “Why can’t I take the garbage bag?”
Mom sighs heavily and leaves the room.
And SCENE.
In the car with Mom.
Me: “Here, try this lip balm. And then put this lip gloss over it.”
Applies lip balm and gloss.
Her: “OK. What do you think?”
Me: “It looks great! You’re adorable!”
Her: “Well, of course I look great. I mean, I’m fabulous to begin with. It can’t help but make me look good.”
Me: “Well aren’t we the confident one?”
Her: “Yes. Yes I am.”
It’s sort of horrifying when you realize that your tolerance ain’t what it used to be. And, you know, you’re just getting old and can’t party like it’s 1999 anymore. (Incidentally, 1999 was the year I turned 21. Fun fact.)
It’s also horrifying when you awake the morning after drinking way more than you intended to (swear to God, we just planned on having a drink before dinner, some wine, and calling it a night) and it hurts to open your eyes. Not that the room was excessively bright. It physically hurt to open my eyes. Why the hell did I make plans to meet my parents for breakfast at 9am? Oh yeah. Because I am a fucking moron.
The dead giveaway to my sad state was when I ordered a Coke with breakfast. My mom knew instantly that I was in Hangover Cure Mode; I love coffee but it doesn’t agree with a booze-lined tummy. Plus, Coke is part of my mom’s surefire hangover remedy: spicy food and a Coke. I also tend to favor the Hair of the Dog method, but it also makes me feel vaguely like an alcoholic or Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Given the fact that simply reading the menu made me feel like I had motion sickness, I was excessively relieved to see the restaurant had linguica on the menu.
And then I ordered a mimosa because I figured if I doubled up on hangover cures I’d be in excellent shape way faster. Yeah. My dumbassed behavior: it is a thing to behold.
Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go drink more water and try not to dry heave at the sight of a bottle of wine.
Him: “Aw, you’re cooking for me. This is nice.”
Me: “I’m not cooking, I’m reheating soup.”
Him: “Homemade soup.”
Me: “Yeah, but Dave made it. I didn’t cook any of this. But I did put it in some tupperware to bring here… If you’re impressed with this maybe later I’ll microwave my leftovers from Chili’s for you too.”
And SCENE!
I don’t know how else to describe this, but I have some sort of nesting instinct kicking in. At first I thought it was my seasonal urge to clean out my closet and organize – no big whoop. But now that I have done that I find myself wanting to take on other projects. For example: cook a roast*. Um, the hell? I have never cooked a roast, don’t know where to begin (other than, you know, going to the store and buying one to cook), nor have I ever felt compelled to do so. Don’t even get me started on baking.
Then there’s the obsessive website trolling: Restoration Hardware, Williams-Sonoma and various design blogs. The desire to create a home office space for myself can only be described as a craving. And not like the way I crave M&M’s when I’m PMSing. I mean, I think there’s, like, science to back that shit up. But this? This is a crazy-assed-sign-of-the-apocalypse-and-some-sort-of-undiagnosed-mental-illness full tilt trip to Crazytown. Or, I am just turning into my mother.
I am sort of chalking this up to Fall and how for me cooler weather=making home a cozy place to be. Usually this entails lighting some candles, pulling out the throw blankets and making tea in the evenings. Normal stuff, right?
But a roast? That is just outside the paint.
*Yes, cooking a roast would be considered a “project” for the culinarily-challenged type like me, OK? Back off.
Is This Thing On? 