amusement. “C’mon, Madison, let’s get you home.”
Kars is soon beside us, giggling nonstop. Keeping a firm grip on my arm, Mika wrestles with the lock, yanks the door open and deposits me into the back seat. Kars clambers in after me.
Languidly, I stretch out while Kars arranges herself in a fetal position. Sometime later, we’re coasting down the highway and my head is throbbing like a busted subwoofer.
Pressing my forehead against the windowpane, I watch the world outside whiz by. Ugh. I’m feeling woozy.
I’m going to do this. I’m going to tell him.
After what seems like an eternity, Mika’s car pulls up to our apartment complex. Kars inches out the back seat, mumbles good night and slams the door in my face. [email protected]#%.
Huffily, I crank the door open. Slowly and very steadily, I step out and position myself by the driver’s side. Mika rolls down the window. “Hi there,” I mutter, my eyes glassy and unfocused.
He pins me with his gaze and I drown in his liquid green eyes.
The vodka emboldens me. “I…err…need…to…um…tell you something—” I clap one hand over my mouth.
Aiii Yi Yi! I can feel the bile rising in my throat. Spinning around, I stumble to the nearest shrub and bend over.
Dammit! It’s a fancily decorated shrub, strung with hundreds and hundreds of multicolored Christmas lights. They glisten in the night, like twinkling fairies. But it’s too late. My stomach heaves and I upchuck all over the festive bush.
“Ugh,” I groan, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Reeking of vodka and vomit, I stagger toward my apartment complex. The automatic glass doors swish open and whoosh shut behind me. I squint over my shoulder, blinking in the headlights.
Mika’s Impala backs up the driveway, bumping along the icy, snow-filled road. Then it dawns on me. Egad! Mika saw me retching all over the festive shrub.
I swear I’m never drinking vodka again.
Or as Ingeborg calls it—vadka. No more vadka for me.
That will be my New Year’s Resolution.
HICCUP.
Sixteen
The day after Christmas, I’m back at work, suffering from a permanent hangover. The calls have been trickling in; it’s been so slow that management was offering VTO—voluntary time off.
As tempting as it was to take VTO, I decided to stay.
I splurged over Christmas, drinking the Crewlade (those darn J.Crew catalogs reeled me in with their guava colored cardigans) and going a little overboard at Anthropologie, so I need to stay at work to offset the damages made to my Visa.
Plus, why not stay at work when there’s no work to do, right? It’s like getting paid to browse the internet, chit chat and do absolutely nothing.
As I look around, I see that we’re all lumped together by the common bonds of disinterest and ennui. I pull up Outlook and begin banging out a mindless email.
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Word of the Day
Word of the Day: ca·pa·cious
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin capac, capax capacious, from Latin capere
Meaning: Capable of containing a large quantity; spacious or roomy
— ca·pa·cious·ly adverb
— ca·pa·cious·ness noun
Example: I need a capacious handbag to haul all of my crap.
And then I click Send.
‘Capacious’ is a fancy schmancy word I come across all the time. Journalists and famous writers love tossing it around, and I always get such a kick out of it.
Within minutes, I receive a flurry of emails in my Inbox.
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Word of the Day
My cubicle is NOT capacious
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Word of the Day
Do these pants make my backside look capacious?
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Word of the Day
I marvel at the vast capaciousness of Tyra Banks’ forehead
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy. How can I help?”
“My name is Amy Heinz, and I can’t connect to the internet.”
Her voice is low and raspy, like too much testosterone is pumping through her veins.
“Um, Mister, sorry, err Miss Heinz, I can help. But I’ll need to verify you first.” As we’re going through the whole authentication rigmarole, I jab the MUTE key. “Truong!” I cry. “This woman I’m talking to, a Miss Heinz, I swear she’s a man.”
“Must be a woman smoker.”
Releasing the MUTE button, I proceed with troubleshooting. I ask the caller to check if the light on the modem is turned on, still very much unsure if I am speaking to a man or woman.
Perhaps I am speaking to a transgender. And if indeed I am, do I address a transgender as a he or a she? The transgender could be a male