May 18, 2007

Regarding the Events of Tuesday, May 15: What’s left to say?

As I rapidly approach my 30th birthday there are a lot of experiences I have been wishing I’d had in my 20s. I wish I’d dyed my hair a crazy color. I wish I had done more traveling. I wish I’d been brave enough to go out dancing at a club. One of the things that was most certainly not high on my list of things to do was to have my apartment robbed. And yet, that’s the one I get to add to my list of experiences I squeezed in during the final months of my 29th year.

Tuesday we came home at lunch to find our apartment had been robbed. Chunk of our DVD collection? Gone. Brand new digital SLR camera? Gone. Six-month old laptop that was practically like a child to me? Gone. Faith in my security and the sanctity of my home? Yup, they got that, too. Bastards even stole my backpack to take my possessions home in.

I’m not going to drone on about this. I was sick of telling the story the first time I told it, and I’ve had to tell it a lot of times now. Am I sad, angry, bewildered? Yes. Do I feel violated? Yes. Have we now got three deadbolts, including one on our bedroom door? Yup. (So in case you, the ass with my laptop, are reading this, don’t even bother coming back for seconds. Also, I hope you’re happy with your newfound wealth of half-written articles about Boston and images of obscure British actors carefully culled from the internet. I certainly was before you took them from me.)

What I do want to say is that everyone has been really supportive. Coworkers, friends, relatives, the property manager, the police—and I really appreciate it. It’s refreshing after having seen the worst of people to also get to see the best of people. So for that, I wanted to thank you all (except the prat with my laptop—you can die a slow, horrible death).

posted under Rants | 6 Comments »
September 1, 2005

Fanta’s Shocker: In which I uncover truth so real it’s probably fake

I was reading earlier this evening and I came across an urban legend I had never heard before: Fanta was invented by Nazis. Now this rumor is patently absurd and has been proven false by the good people at Snopes, so don’t you worry. (read the full story)

True, Fanta was created by a German-born Nazi-era Coca-Cola man, but not at the request of the Third Reich (who probably thought soda would rot their perfect Aryan teeth). Rest assured there is nothing inherently evil about the origins of Fanta soda. But the tale doesn’t end there, oh no.

Contrary to popular belief, Hitler survived the war and has spent the ensuing years living in an underground bunker, collaborating with Satan and the Easter Bunny to have his revenge on America. And as can plainly be seen today on billboards and in theaters across the country, his sinister plan has finally been realized.

Evil plan

That’s right, the Fanta girls.

Absurd? Paranoid? How else can you explain what may be the single most painful advertising campaign in American history. Nobody who actually had an ounce of respect for the American public would have subjected us to what is, let’s face it, low-level torture. This is obviously the work of a madman! (See photo evidence below: Hitler, Satan, and the Easter Bunny discuss the campaign with their advertising executive Phil.)

Evil at work

Now I know what some of you are thinking, “What’s Doc Smartypants’s deal with soft drinks? First Moxie, now Fanta, what’s next?” But let me just point out that while Moxie remains to this day the most heinous and vile-tasting beverage on Earth, its marketing campaign was in no way conceived of by Nazis or giant rabbits.]

p.s. Dear Fanta, please don’t sue me.

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July 26, 2005

The Girl’s Got Moxie: Two warriors enter the arena; only one will leave alive

On the final day of my 27th year on this planet I did one of the stupidest
things I have done in my entire life: I drank a Moxie soda. To be fair, Larry
was the one dumb enough to buy it, but then he had the good sense to
stop after the first swallow. But let me back up a moment.

We were up in Stowe, Vermont, for my birthday weekend. Stowe is one of those charming little artsy towns full of quirky shops. It was in just such a shop that Larry spotted the Moxie in the soda fridge. He’d never heard of Moxie, though I had a faint notion that it was some kind of cola, and the boy’s
a daredevil so he bought one. We stepped out of the store into the sweltering
heat as Larry took his first swig. It was like one of those cartoons where a
character accidentally drinks a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I’ve never seen
him react to anything in quite this way. There was swearing, and blustering,
and a look of absolute violation. It’s entirely possible that steam came
out of his ears. He declared it to be the foulest thing he’d ever tasted,
so, being the person I am, I demanded a taste.

There are no adequate words to describe the putrescence that is Moxie soda.
But I’ll try. First off, it tastes a bit like black licorice and gym socks
marinated in cough syrup. The minute it hits your taste buds you can feel the
bile rising in your throat and your whole nervous system gives a little shudder of revoltion. And just as you’re starting to recover, the aftertaste hits you. And if such a thing is possible, it’s actually worse. The
bottle proudly states the year 1884 and I couldn’t help but wonder if
this was a bottle of the original batch. But at least the name finally made
sense because you’d need a hell of a lot of moxie to make it
through one of these bottles.

But as I said, it was the day before my birthday. My 28th birthday. And so, in a fit of insanity, with a touch of near-suicidal birthday bravado, I declared that I would drink the entire Moxie. Even if it took me all day. One of us was coming out of this alive and it wasn’t gonna’ be the soda!

I hoped.

Larry, usually the thrill seeker, was looking at me like I was nuts. But I
stuck firm to my decision. And the day got hotter. And the Moxie got more and more revolting. Now flat and warm, hours later I was still at it, plugging away diligently, stopping for long periods to recover. Determined not to let this one thing beat me. There may be a lot of things bringing me down, I said to myself, but this soda isn’t gonna’ be one of them. No, sir! Nuh-uh. Noooooo way.

Eventually the weather got so unbearable we decided to scrap the cute shops
and see a movie. Sitting in the parking lot of the triplex waiting to buy tickets
for Wedding Crashers I realized it was now or never.

So I chugged the Moxie.

Then I cried.

Then I chugged some more Moxie.

And in the end I was declared victorious, though one has to wonder if anyone was really a winner in this contest. Maybe it was a metaphor for life a la The Seventh Seal. You can fight kicking and screaming and maybe you’ll
feel like you can win if you can just hold off Death, outsmart him somehow,
but in the end we all end up the same, drinking really crappy soda. No wait,
that doesn’t sound right. Oh well.

So I drank the Moxie. I should get a T-shirt, like when you run a marathon:
“I Drank a Moxie and Lived to Tell the Tale.” To be honest I did feel a certain degree of pride as I sat there gagging, my tongue lolling and my eyes watering with the empty bottle on my lap. I hate birthdays, but in my
soda-induced misery I was reminded that I was alive—like a near-death
experience. So what lessons have I learned? Well first, there’s a reason there
aren’t a lot of sodas still kicking around from the 1880s. And two, there’s
no obstacle you can’t overcome if you put your mind to it, but maybe there
are a few that are better left unchallenged.]

See the big finish slide show! 100 percent authentic action photos! (Currently only works on PCs)

posted under Rants | 4 Comments »
July 7, 2005

Not Cool, Loews Cineplex!: In which the movie moguls interrupt my summer of FREE stuff

I’m a firm believer in the platitude that everything is better when it’s free. Think about it. You’re at Costco and you get a sample of some new fat free crab puff soufflé shish kabob shake. In that moment, contained in its little paper sample cup, it is one of the best things you’ve ever tasted. Then you get it home, fix yourself a serving and realize that somewhere between the check-out line and your kitchen it turned into crap. And it isn’t just food. Free stuff just has fewer expectations attached. It’s why we watch sappy made-for-TV movies, accept someone’s hand-me-down fuchsia muumuu, and why despite living in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet, Larry can’t resist bringing home every piece of furniture or electronic
equipment he finds left on the curb.

This summer I’ve been going to the Loew’s free movie Thursdays. You sign up online, print up the ticket, and then trade it in at the box office for a real ticket. Easy. So far I’ve seen Spiderman II, Terminator II, Jurassic Park III, and Forrest Gump. Every week I eagerly look forward to my free movie, even if it’s something I wouldn’t watch if it came on TV. It’s become a ritual. There’s just something delightful about spending two hours in a nice, air-conditioned theater on what would otherwise be a boring not-quite Friday night, enjoying a mediocre movie with friends. Free. And I’ve been quite the loyal Loew’s disciple, encouraging others to attend. Hell, I got five guys to see Jurassic Park III with me! I think that’s more people than saw it when it was first released. And so even though I hate Mel Gibson and am the least patriotic person alive, I was all set to see The Patriot tonight. That is until Loew’s stabbed me in the back.

Lefty, Larry and I showed up a good half hour before the movie, well before our normal arrival time. Standing in line I noticed the electronic show times board was saying Black Hawk Down had sold out. Huh. Black Hawk Down? Perplexed, I leaned over to Larry and whispered, “Isn’t that an old movie?” Somewhere in my brain alarms started to sound. As we reached the front of the line I noticed that Black Hawk Down was listed as an 8 p.m. only show—the traditional time for our free Thursday movie. Sure enough the ticket sellers told us the free show was sold out. So not only did they replace The Patriot with Black Hawk Down without telling us, they oversold tickets to it! Larry suggested we see another movie but I refused to give them any money after they’d tricked us. I stormed out of the lobby with my best Winston Churchill scowl, huffing and puffing and threatening not to buy popcorn when I showed up for next week’s free movie. I guess I could have come up with a better threat, but next week is Independence Day (I’m sure you understand). The worst part, and even in my daze of anger and hurt I saw this clearly, was that I was so super pissed to not be watching a movie that I actually never liked in the first place!

Just so you don’t worry that our entire night was ruined, we did go to the video store and rent The Rocketeer. It was fun, but I can’t quite wash away the bitterness of having to part with $4 to rent a video when we should have been spending the evening in that blissful state that can only be attained by getting something for nothing. Oh Loew’s, why hath thou forsaken me?! Jerks.]

posted under Rants | 5 Comments »
April 8, 2005

Wedding Weekend Recap Part 3: Too Damn Sober to Party with this Crowd

OK, you asked for it, you demanded it, you threatened to slap me if I didn’t
post it, so here it is—Bachelorette Party! When you last saw me I was
heading into the hotel lobby toward feather boas and certain doom. The first
sign of the impending apocalypse came when I realized I was expected to wear a purple boa with my red shirt. But, for Courtney, I soldiered on, now also equipped with a preprinted nametag reading “Loosy Goosey.”

Our limo arrived and our driver Mr. Gay (yes, Mr. Gay) helped us all in and
asked where we wanted to go. Amber was a woman with a plan; a plan, and a big thing of vodka. So off we went to a snazzy restaurant for pre-drink snacks and some opening cocktails. I of course wasn’t drinking because of my medication (though you’ll recall I had actually lost most of that during my plane puke-athon).

At the restaurant, Amber, who briefly studied the drink menu, decided to simply order “one of each.” This move filled me with just an inkling of
awe, mostly of the financial variety, but also because of her confident delivery.

It was like something out of a movie, or maybe Sex in the City. Courtney’s
bachelorette party veil, equipped with flashing phalluses of assorted colors
was by this point drawing many stares, mostly I think from people trying to
make out exactly what the flashing objects were. One woman actually stopped by our table to tell Courtney how adorable the veil was, but as she walked away she seemed to realize that, y’know, the veil was covered in penises, and she made the most priceless expression, sort of like she’d just stuck her hand down a garbage disposal and flipped the on switch. Drinking war stories were exchanged, snacks were consumed, and some crazy (very divorced) ladies in the bathroom kept yelling at Courtney to “Run! Run while you can!”

The next stop on Amber’s itinerary was a club which looked closed when
we arrived. Mr. Gay checked it out for us and reported that it was “Goth
night” and that it wouldn’t really be getting started for a while.

Now I was torn because on the one hand Goth night was something I figured I could handle, but on the other hand I didn’t relish the notion of walking into a Goth night with this group. It’s not that I feared the Goths, but just as I wouldn’t wear a clown suit to a funeral, I wouldn’t normally show up in a purple boa and trendy shoes to hang out with a bar full of Goths. Luckily for me the other girls were decidedly anti-Goth night and we decided to head elsewhere.

As we toodled around town looking for someplace promising we passed what appeared to be a dead man lying face down in the street. He was surrounded by firemen and the like and we tried to decide if this was some sort of bad omen. We stopped so one of the girls could find a bathroom and some random college boys outside a bar reported that the dead guy wasn’t so much dead as he was very, very drunk. Apparently he just sort of toppled over face first onto the pavement.

With the mood somewhat restored we headed in to use the restroom at a festive place whose name I have forgotten. It wasn’t a biker bar, but it was definitely less preppy than other places we went. Everyone downstairs was friendly but the bathrooms were upstairs in what seemed to be a more private area where we got colder, more incredulous stares. The bathroom itself was awesome. The outer door looked kind of like a port-a-potty or something, and the inside was covered in graffiti. I wouldn’t have minded staying at this bar, but the girls wanted to dance, so off we went to continue our search!

Back in the limo I had one of those terrifying moments where a seemingly small generation gap suddenly cracked open wide like the Grand Canyon. It was when all the girls were singing along with the radio, rocking out and having a great time. I was encouraged, nay, commanded to join in, but reluctantly had to decline because I only knew one per every dozen songs played. Luckily people were getting so drunk they probably didn’t much notice. Or they just figured I was totally lame. Which, y’know, I pretty much am. But still, the only thing worse than being the sober person at a bachelorette party is being the sober uncool person at a bachelorette party.


Looking for some excitement we headed for one of the local casinos, a huge place with a ceiling painted to look like the sky. Did we gamble? Nope! We went to the arcade, which was preparing to close, and played Dance Dance Revolution. If you’re not familiar with the game it involves dancing along to moves displayed on the screen. Courtney and Amber were making a pretty bad show of it when the arcade attendant offered to step in and show us how it’s done.

This was, without a doubt, the highlight of my entire evening. He put it on expert level and as It’s Raining Men blasted from the speakers he did the most amazing dance ever! It only got better when his little friend from the movie theater across the way joined him in the second DDR spot. The two were like a couple of pros, totally in sync with each other and the game as we all stood around laughing and cheering. Believe me; you had to be there to really understand what a perfect only-in-the-movies moment it was. After the DDR hijinks we decided nothing else in the casino could possibly compete, so we left in search of batteries for my digital and a new disposable camera for Amber.

After some brief stops the girls decided to keep Mr. Gay for an extra hour and
it was off to the final bar of the night (somewhere very college hormone meat-markety with “America” in the title). This was where the sober-drunk gap became most noticeable. I couldn’t dance because of my back and there
was nowhere to sit, so I stood at the side of the dance floor while the others
got their groove on. Let me tell ya’, nothing attracts young, virile, obnoxious college men like a group of drunken bachelorette party attendees. They swarmed en masse and proceeded to do some dirty dancing that woulda’
made Patrick Swayze proud. Courtney took time out to jump up by the DJ and pretend to play an electric guitar for a bit. The girl never ceases to amaze me. At one point an overly exuberant bridesmaid/horny college boy couple was so involved in their make-out session on the dance floor that when they literally fell into me knocking me backward onto the stairs, they never stopped to acknowledge it.

Camille (or as I like to think of her, The Empress of Georgia) and I left the
dance floor and she proceeded to have some of the most entertaining conversations with strange men I have ever witnessed. She was so smooth. One guy came up and wanted something, not sure if it was her or her feather boa, and she was like “No, you can’t have it” but then let him take one feather
with him. It’s all about the attitude and presentation, something I’ve
never been able to pull off. Case in point: One young man, who I fear took my
polite/awkward smile as an invitation, attempted to put the moves on me, but after I replied that, yes, I did in fact have a boyfriend he said, “Oh,
never mind,” and walked away. I had one other brief verbal encounter with
him later in the evening, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Maybe
he’d begun speaking in code. Hmmm, maybe he was actually there to meet
a fellow secret agent and was trying to drop those little “The black dog
flies at midnight. Wear only yellow rain boots” contact lines. Or he was
drunk. Whatever.

As the night turned to early morning I found myself back near the front of the bar with Courtney, Camille and a man who I feel certain would proclaim himself to be 100% heterosexual. He kept telling Camille how faaaaaabulous
her boa was and then he’d offer (threaten?) to spank the three of us. He was finally kicked out after he fell off of his barstool for the third time in five minutes.

By this point I was beyond ready to bid the America Pub farewell, but that’s
an unfortunate side-effect of being 27, attached and sober. Oh, who am I kidding? I felt the same way when I was young, single and…still sober. Hmmm. Anyhoo, eventually bachelorette party victory was declared. We left, Mr. Gay dropped us back at the hotel and Larry came to pick us up. By about 3 a.m., after Amber and Camille had been shuttled home, Larry, Courtney and I arrived at our hotel and collapsed with the knowledge that in a few short hours we’d be braving that fearsome beast known as…the manicurist!]

Click here for photos of Bachelorette Party Shenanigans!

Stay Tuned for

Wedding Weekend Recap Part 4

In which Larry is encouraged to take photos in a women’s restroom!

posted under Events, Travel | 2 Comments »
March 17, 2005

Wedding Weekend Recap Part 2: Larry vs. the Banana Chocolate Swirl

We were picked up at the airport by the groom’s twin brother Jason (the
best man) and his step-sister Becka (tiny bridesmaid). We’d only met Jason
once, but he was easy to locate since, y’know, he looks just like Ryan.
There seemed to be some confusion about where Larry and I were staying that night, which turned out to be because we apparently had nowhere to stay. But figuring it would all be worked out eventually the four of us headed to the hotel to kill a little time in one of their rooms.

From there it was off to the fantabulous Pizza Street (think Godfather’s meets…a crappy Midwest pizza buffet). All of the twenty-somethings attending the wedding were there and it was meant to be a sort of mingling get-to-know-each-other thing. Everyone seemed very nice. I was sitting between the groom and tiny bridesmaid, who it turned out, is only a senior in high school. (Insert joke about my ancientness here.) Despite my marathon puke-fest that morning, I decided to brave the buffet.

If you’re ever there, I recommend the spinach alfredo pizza. Larry, daredevil
that he is, had some of the Banana Chocolate Swirl pizza (back by popular demand!). He mostly just poked at it and then went off to get some soft serve ice cream. Obviously his taste buds aren’t as refined as those of the Kansas City natives.

After pizza and socializing Larry and I ran some errands with Courtney and
then the three of us went to her grumpy grandma’s house. I only describe
her as grumpy because if Courtney ever reads this I don’t want her to
be offended by my using a more accurate descriptive like, say, insensitive old bitch. The minute we walked into her (terrifyingly) immaculate home she went off on Courtney about leaving a mess around, which was in reference to the in-progress flower girl baskets Courtney had left neatly stacked in a corner. Uh-huh. The rant might have been excusable even with Courtney being a stressed-out bride-to-be who really hadn’t left a mess, but when Courtney repeatedly apologized and said that she understood and yada yada the grandma JUST. KEPT. GOING. It was all I could do to not step in and say, “She gets it, OK?! I get it, Larry gets it, the dog gets it! DROP IT!” Eventually the grandma left and we started running around getting ready for the bachelorette party while Larry called hotels trying to find us a place to sleep for the night (grumpy grandma didn’t want us to stay there, probably because our very presence might have disturbed the museum-like
austerity of her crypt, er, I mean home). [Courtney has assured me that her grandma is a very nice lady and was just stressed about having to host a brunch on Sunday. She would know, it’s her grandma. I guess that makes me the insensitive bitch in this story. Sorry.]

We were scheduled to meet the last of the bachelorette party at the hotel downtown, so as we were running late, we rushed out of the house and headed that way. Larry continued to try to find somewhere for us to stay and agreed to pick us up when the night was over (hooray for the good boyfriend). He dropped us off at the hotel and took Courtney’s car. We had to call him back five minutes later because Courtney left something in the trunk, and I ran out into the freakin’ windy night to grab it from him. Then he took off to cruise the streets of Kansas City and I headed into the hotel lobby toward feather boas and my certain doom.]

To be continued in

Wedding Weekend Recap Part 3: Too Damn Sober to Party with this Crowd

(I know I promised drunken bridesmaids, but I wanted to be able to devote
an entire post to the bachelorette party next time, so, y’know, rough it.)

posted under Events, Travel | 6 Comments »
March 15, 2005

Wedding Weekend Recap Part 1: It’s a bird; it’s a plane; it’s…a weenie toaster?

Thursday at 10:10 a.m. I was already flying high even though our plane was
still on the ground. Larry and I were seated on our United flight waiting to
take off. I knew my back was going to be trouble on the long flight so I had
taken my prescribed Percocet and Valium combo with a bagel and apple juice.

Midway through the safety video the mix really started to kick in. A sample
from the journal I was writing in at the time: “My back really hurts but
luckily I just can’t seem to care. I was looking in the Sky Mall catalog and they had this pop-up hot dog cooker, like a toaster for weenies and buns! Bloody brilliant!” So that should give you a sense of my overall mindset. A little before takeoff I started to feel kind of sick to my stomach and the takeoff itself was pretty bumpy. Three minutes after we left the ground I puked in an air sickness bag for the first time in my life.

No one noticed except Larry, but I was humiliated and felt like death warmed
over. By 11:35 I had puked for the third time (the second two were in the airplane restroom) and was now seated in the aisle seat praying to just die and get it over with. Every flight attendant on board knew I was sick and kept trying to give me ginger ale or water. I must have been extra pale and glazed because anyone who saw me looked frightened.

At 1:05 we landed at Chicago O’Hare and I was starting to feel a bit better. The flight attendants had offered to get me a wheel chair but I escaped before they caught me. O’Hare is a weird airport. They had a full-sized dinosaur skeleton replica in one area. More spectacular was the insano underground bit with a moving walkway, which looked extra freaky to my addled brain. It’s kind of dark with all this rainbow neon stuff on the ceiling and alternating glowy pastel blocks on the walls. There was this crazy tinging new-agey music and the only thing missing was a generic 1950’s narrator saying, “The future…it’s closer than you think,” or some such nonsense.

The second leg of the journey turned out to be, if you can believe this, worse.
The mean old man in the aisle seat wouldn’t trade spots with me even though
Larry explained I was really sick. I decided to puke on him if it became necessary.

This flight had the worst turbulence I’d ever experienced and I spent
the last half of the flight with my hands clapped over my mouth, determined
not to puke in another bag. The minute we got off the plane in Kansas City I
went straight to the restroom and as soon as it sounded pretty empty I puked
for the fourth and last time that day. ]

Stay Tuned for Part Two of the Wedding Weekend Recap

Featuring a pizza buffet, feather boas, drunken bridesmaids, and a Dance Dance Revolution!

Coming soon…

posted under Events, Travel | No Comments »
February 15, 2005

UPS WTF?!: In which the boys in brown declare war on me

The following is a new tale of woe for those who have been following the continuing misadventures of the Bridesmaid Dress of Infinite Plunges.

Friday I came home from work to find the most annoying piece of paper stuck to my door. Yes, dear friends, it was a note from the UPS folks saying they had missed me (imagine that-in the middle of the day!) and would not relinquish the Dress of Most Unfortunate Design to me until I signed for it in person. Next delivery attempt? Between 2 and 5 p.m. on Monday. Of course, because everyone is apt to be hanging about the house between 2 and 5 on a Monday! Heaving a great sigh of resignation I decided I would simply have to take the second half of Monday off. OK. So Monday I arrived home at 1:30 p.m. and began my UPS vigil. I waited. And waited. Then, at last, the door buzzer! Hitting the door-open buzzer and racing down the stairs at breakneck speed I arrived just in time to see a package hurled into the inner doorway. Not from UPS and certainly not dress sized (especially not my dress size). I trudged upstairs with the package, which turned out to be three cans of Pibb Xtra for Larry (thanks, Dad). I resumed my vigil.

I became very drowsy but knew I couldn’t give in to my sleepiness lest I miss the UPS driver. Catching a UPS driver, you see, is very much like catching a leprechaun or seeing Haley’s comet: you’re lucky if you get even one chance. Some cheese and crackers later and the buzzer! Again I hit the open button and charged down the stairs only to fling the door open and find…some totally random dude. Apparently he was there to box up the first floor apartment of the building’s previous owner (now deceased for some time) but he couldn’t get his key to work. Not surprising since I can barely get in myself most days, but that’s another story. So I put on the brave face (no problem, sir, I love running up and down the stairs at all hours of the day) and climbed back up to continue waiting. And waiting. And waiting…

At 5 p.m. I said to myself, “What in the name of all things holy? Heads are gonna’ roll!” Obviously I had been outmaneuvered again and UPS must have arrived earlier than anticipated and left with the Dress of Ultimate Exposure. So I decided to track my package online using the number on the infamous Friday afternoon non-delivery slip. So I tracked the Dress of Doom, fully expecting it to be safely nestled back at the UPS lair, but instead I see: Status-Delivered, Signed for by COHEN. ~blink, blink~ Uhhhh…whaaaaa’? A pause to digest this and then I believe I yelled something to the effect of, “What the FUCK?!?!?” So I ran downstairs (though I might have strolled at this point) and there, sitting in the outer entryway, was the Dress to End All Dresses. Huh. I called Larry. He hadn’t signed for it. There is no other Cohen in the building. In fact, at that hour there probably wasn’t another living soul in the building. And UPS never so much as touched the buzzer for my apartment. This leads me to the following possible conclusions:

1) UPS are a bunch of wankers who fake signatures and toy with their customers mercilessly.

2) The ghost of the dead building owner, disturbed by the presence of a stranger in his apartment, was hanging about in the entryway and figured he may as well sign for my package assuming I wouldn’t be home to do it myself.

3) Larry signed for it and is trying to drive me mad like Charles Boyer did to Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight.

4) A future me traveled back in time to ensure that the dress was delivered, signed for it, but hated me so much she didn’t bother to ring me to let me know.

5) In a Donnie Darko-esque schizophrenic daze I actually signed for the package myself and then left it in the entryway, perhaps hoping it would be stolen thereby freeing me from any obligation to wear the Dress of Sincerest Unflattery.]

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