Thursday, April 2, 2009

Is it number one or number two? I just want to know how much time I have.

I have a growing concern that something awful has happened in stall number 2 of the 8th floor restroom at my work.

For the past several weeks, this door has been locked from the inside. It may seem strange that I even notice, but my stall of choice is one directly to the left, and considering my frequent urination due to extensive daily water drinkage, I'm in there enough to recognize the abnormality of this matter.
There have been several times that I have considered crawling under said stall and unlocking the door, to get this nonsense over with - I mean, there's NO one in there using the toilet, what are all these shenanigans about?

So each time I consider this, a different plausible outcome stops me. First of all, the idea of getting on hands and knees in that bathroom isn't exactly appealing, but lord knows I've done my share of unsanitary things in the past, and that wouldn't be the worst. But this isn't the one that stops me.

NO that's not me. But it wouldn't be that weird if it was.

The most common scenario that drifts into my head and halts my rescue plan, is that there is something so horrible and graphic on the other side of that door, that there's a reason the custodians keep it locked. Like, what if there's a floating head in the toilet? I mean, that could happen, right? Seems the perfect scene for gruesome murder - no one wants to knock on the door and bother someone on the other side while they're doing their business....why not leave the decapitated head there?

Now if this isn't the case, there's always the plausibility that someone committed a bodily function in there so vile and unconscionable that the stall is being laid to rest and quarantined for all eternity. Even attempting to imagine the type of disgusting activity that would have had to take place in there to shut it down for life makes me gag, so I usually move past that reason fairly swiftly.

Lastly I wonder if some asshole is playing us all, and this 'locked stall' trick is just an evil ploy for some b to get a stall to herself every goddamned day. For all we know, she could have a plush toilet seat and flat screen tv in there by now! What a whore.

And then I breathe a heavy unsatisfied sigh and I zip up. And I flush. And I move on.

All this while I pee. Damn I need a life.


Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.

Today I look like I've been struck by lightning.

And not in the fun, neon, going-to-a-Eurythmics-concert kind of a way. More like the looks-like-I-got-laid-by-a-lion-but-I-wasn't-even-THAT-lucky kind of a way. Circles under my eyes, hair contorted into a frizzy jumble of curly slash straight slash ponytail not to be tamed, and most likely the saddest blankest look on my face since I heard they took the Jelly Belly display out of the Ralph's by my house.

Basically I'm a mess.
After 10 glorious days in Italy, downing bottles of vino daily and eating my weight in bread, cheese and marinara, I'm back. Here. At work. In LA. And I've been sleep-working for the past three days, pretending there's not a gloss of I Don't Care mixed with I'd Rather Be Folding Laundry While Getting Vag Waxed glazed over my eyeballs.

Here's the thing I discovered during my traipses in the Vespa capital of the world*: The consequences of drinking and eating and walking too much, combined with the occasional one (or four) drunken stolen cigarettes? ZERO. It feels GREAT, why can't we do that EVERY day? I am convinced that these people have discovered the secret to a happy, stress-free life, and it should be incorporated into every culture the world over.

Let me give you an example. While cruising on a nite ferry for 12 hours, I somehow managed to eat a full gut-busting meal, drink a full 2 to 3 bottles of wine, smoke a full 2 to 3 cigarettes, and sleep a full 40 minutes. Next day? Felt GREAT. Better than usual, actually, and my Italian had improved.

I'd for reals do this.

But now, back at work, back on my healthy diet with splashes of exercise, all I am is English-speaking and TIRED. The kind of tired that makes me stutter and put my underwear on inside out. The kind that causes me to mumble incoherent musings under my breath and not realize I'm even speaking aloud. I'm the kind of tired that just caused my boss to ask me if I've been drinking, because I'm laying in my chair with my head back and jaw hanging open.

But even after woe-is-me-ing myself to death about how moving to Florence would be much better than sitting in LA at my crap job, I secretly missed this little place. Not so much the place, but the people it houses - my friends, my roommates, my family, and my snowboard and bike, but on a lesser level.

I love that this weekend I'm going to ride to the beach and get day-hammied with great friends, probably fall off said-bike and re-open my skinned knees, get hung-over while I slog through a fatty dinner, and start to drink again. How could I do that in Italy, without my favorite people by my side? I COULD do it, but it certainly wouldn't be the same. Mostly because I'd have a dirty Italian trying to jump my bones while I was passed out, and that's just not ideal.

So lightning may have struck, and I may be closer to eating shit on my keyboard than eating pasta in a piazza, but all in all I'm fine with the outcome.

At least we have Jelly Bellies here.

That's a mosaic. Of Ronald Regan. Made of Jelly Bellies. And I wanna eat it.

*I also discovered there are in fact a LOT of Italians there, and my ability to blend in as the 'little dark one' on the trip allowed me to escape the grasp of most of them.