Persiflage

Dichotomy

Ex-girlfriends of current gentlemen friends come in two, and only two, flavors.

Ex-Girlfriend Variety A: Cute, and therefore slightly threatening.

Ex-Girlfriend Variety B: Not cute, and therefore slightly insulting.

Fundage Suckage

Whilst driving through my bank's parking lot yesterday en route to the carside ATM, I noticed a woman (not, judging by her attire, either a bank staffer or the employee of a cleaning franchise) loading a vacuum cleaner into the trunk of her car.

Even the wellsprings of my creative mind cannot devise a reasonable scenario- short of a very unique and very successful heist- to explain this situation.  However, I feel that it simply cannot auger well for my financial futures.

Add to this the unpleasant encounter with a customer who exploded into a ballistic embolism of rage, ranting about "illegal and unacceptable currency," when I handed over a Canadian quarter as change, and you can see why it's been something of a rough week from a monetary perspective.

Fun House Mirror

My mother frequently reminds me that an oft-cited definition of insanity is the doing of the same thing over and over while expecting different results.

I, in turn, remind her that I suffer from a related, yet different malaise: that of doing entirely different things and ending up as charred human wreckage at the same twisted crash site.

It's like a horrible, vivid nightmare, where you're buying tickets for the merry-go-round and standing in line for the merry-go-round and climbing onto the pretty horsie on the merry-go-round and the ride starts and all of a sudden OH MY GOD, how did I end up back on the roller coaster, ROLLER COASTER OF DEATH?!?"

Running: A Love Story

Those of you fervently convinced that I am a butter-fed lardball unable to extricate myself from the crevaces of my couch without the assistance of coolie labor will be surprised to hear that, over the weekend, I completed a half-marathon.  Without hospitalization, or any attention from medical professionals.  (Aside from the kissing, but that is an *entirely* different story.)  Since that last chronology was so much fun, let's try another one:

Mile 1: People are passing me!  I'm passing people!  People are passing me!  Too many people, too many feet!  Ohhhh, I'm going to fall down.  No, wait, I guess I'll just trip that girl instead.  Oops.

Mile 3: Three miles already?  Running is much more fun when it is not taking place on the nonexistent shoulder of a road with an unobeyed speed limit of 50.  There are many, many wonderful things to contemplate when death is not imminent.

Mile 6: I feel wonderful.  I am happy!  Happy, happy, happy!  Running is great!  And the world is beautiful!  Life is a joy, a joy!  I do not need beer, not when there is running in the world!  Oh, given the opportunity, I would hug myself and twirl around in gleeful circles.  Instead, I will prance for awhile.

Mile 7: Someone is playing one of those big alpine horns that I associate with the Matterhorn ride at Disney World.  And yodelers.  And Ricola.  What are those things called?  I contemplate this for three quarters of a mile, do not arrive at an answer, and proceed to forget the question.  Running does not make me smarter.

Mile 8: One member of a posse of Asian men drops back to inquire how many miles remain.  I tell him, "five miles."  He scowls and repeats the question.  I repeat the answer.  He runs forward to confer with his cadre.  They shake their heads, gesticulate frantically, and send him back to me.  He this time asks how long the race is.  I tell him, "Thirteen miles.  Eight plus five equals thirteen."  He looks dismayed.  He runs forward.  Upon hearing the news, the brotherhood looks equally confused and dismayed.  I speculate wildly as to the circumstances leading up to a state of affairs wherein this particular moment is the first point at which they have made this inquiry.  Not while signing up for the race.  Not while getting on the bus.  Not at the starting line.  At the eight-mile marker.

Mile 10.5: Oh sweet angelic mother of all that is holy and sacred, I have never before fully understood the capacity of the human body to experience pain.  One might say, the wheels have fallen off.

Mile 12: A child hands me a grape popsicle.  In all of creation, there is no more perfect food.  I sob in gratitude and profusely express my undying love, gratitude, and affection.  My picture now appears on seventeen pedophile watch list websites.  Downhill I run, slurping away.  Coordination!  My previously white shirt is now stained green (Gatorade), purple (popsicle), and a sickly yellow (Goo.)  I am one classy lady.

Mile 13: Due to the machinations of the sadistic race director, we finish by running uphill.  On his behalf, I abhor all of humanity.

Mile 13.1: I do not pass out, vomit, feel my heart explode, or die.  All goals have been reached and exceeded.

Drinking: A Morning-After Chronology

3:13 AM, Monday, May 29: Home.  Bed.  Contacts are still in.  I should do something about....zzzzzz. 

5:31 AM: Good morning, sunsh...wait.  A second.  It is not morning.  THIS is not morning.  Why am I awake?  My body spends the following hour and forty-five minutes debating nausea.

7:16 AM: After three and a half consecutive viewings of SportsCenter, I drift into blissful sleep.

7: 30 AM: My alarm goes off.  On the up-side, the body-parts convention apparently voted down the nausea motion.  On the down-side, who allowed the double semi to cruise through my bedroom and over my vital organs?

7:36 AM: I'm ok.  I'm ok!  I'll be ok!  I can still do this!  I'm still cool!  Yay, cool!

7: 37 AM: Shower.

7: 52 AM: Shower.

8:03 AM: Snozznnnzzzzz.  Choke!  Sputter!  Gasp!  I might maybe have fallen asleep in the shower.  Just for a minute.  But, no worries!  I'm good!  I'm cool!

8:48 AM:  Heyyyyyy, coffee.  How you doin', baby?

9:02 AM:  This is great!  I feel great!  I have energy, energy to spare!  I will move those books!  And these books as well!  Let's start a project!  Do you have a project?!  Want to work on a project?!  I should stay up all night!  All the time!  And drink!  Even more!

11:43 AM: My stomach is eating my other organs.  Can I take my lunch early?  I still feel great, I swear!  Just a little, um, foggy.

1:18 PM: There are no words in the English language that are capable, alone or in tandem, to describe the breadth and intensity of my exhaustion.

1: 47 PM: Standing up?  Hurts.

2:09 PM: Huh?

3:34 PM: Giggle, giggle, giggle, giggle, sob, sob, giggle.  Sob.

4:50 PM:  I...the...and...across...what?

6:01 PM:  Someone has requested a ride home, meaning they are voluntarily entering my automobile.  With me at the helm.  Do they not realize that my sleep deprivation has reached such a pinnacle that it is probably the functional equivalent of a blood alcohol content of about .5%?  Except worse, since were I that intoxicated, I would not be able to find my car, let alone start it.

6:36 PM:  I add nuance and definition to the phrase, "out like a light."

Nuggets of Maternal Wisdom

"You!  You!  You're....getting my brand-new mud room all DIRTY!"

She was so upset about it that she middle-named me.  I am on The List today, to be sure.  And, for the uninitiated, it is not the Christmas List of which I am speaking.

Crap, Sweet Crap

For the second time in less than nine months, my parents are moving.  Averse to hiring others to carry out any service that might conceivably be accomplished by their own hands, they've again refused to employ professionals, despite having accumulated a truly monumental quantity of junk over the course of their thirty-five year marriage.  This, my friends, is an ovation-worthy achievement in the field of crap.  It's now Day Eight of the move, and we've reached the point in the process where we're all so exhausted that we communicate solely in three formats: the snipe, the snark, and the screech. 

I am frustrated, of course, because I see no point in doing anything oneself when there exists the potential for throwing money at someone else to do it.  My mother is frustrated because everyone else involved in Project: Move is intractably lazy and continues to insist on taking breaks to partake in needless activities such as eating or, on occasion, breathing.  My father is mercilessly trapped in the vortex created when the epitome of postmodern sloth collides with the 21st century embodiment of the Puritan Work Ethic.  He is a brave and stoic man.

The following is an archetypal list of ten things we have now transported, by the power of our persons, from the Indiana McMansion to the Ann Arbor rental house to the brand new McMansion v. 2.0:

A scythe

My Cabbage Patch Kids-themed childhood bigwheel

Three boxes of American Heritage magazines dating from the mid-1950's to the late 1960's

A broken manual typewriter

A  diorama based on "Misty of Chincoteague" created during my fifth grade Blue Period. 

One hammock, with stand

A miniature pool table, last used circa 1989.  The cues remain MIA.

The pump we used to blow up inflatable boats and rafts when we lived on a lake.  We don't anymore.

Two fishing rods, three racquetball racquets, two pairs of cross-country skis, a basketball, sixteen whiffle balls, an orange plastic sled, a yellow banana-shaped skateboard, and a pogo stick.  No family member has participated in a recreational activity necessitating these accessories in the post-Y2K era.

One box labeled "bum statue" and one box labeled "drunk statue."  No one is entirely sure what these boxes contain, and we managed to convince each other that opening them mid-move would only slow us down.  They will go directly to the basement, and I will have to deal with them when my parents die.

A cassette tape of Jimmy Swaggart's sermons, originally the property of my great aunt

Baby, One More Time

Q: I'm a guy.  Tonight, I'm going on a date.  I've been flirting somewhat ineffectively with this woman for approximately a month, and it's finally time for me to make my move!  Let's say that things go well beyond the scope of my wildest dreams, and I manage to lure her back to my apartment.  Probably with chocolate.  What could I say or do to transform the evening's climate from "pleasant" to "awkward, blunder-filled morass" in less than ten seconds?

A: After the second or third kiss, but prior to the removal of any clothing, pull back and say, without an iota of levity, "You know, I'm not going to have sex with you."  Wait for stares of jaw-dropping horror.

Trust me.

Half Marathon Training

Last night at Chez Laris:

Me: Here's what we're going to do.  I need to run ten miles tomorrow.  And having to turn around sucks.  So, I'm going to run from our house into town, and I'm going to call you when I'm almost there, and you're going to come pick me up.  'Kay?

My dad: Why couldn't you just have gotten into drugs like all the other kids?

More to come, post-rehydration.

Dinner of Champions

Fact: Chester Cheetah is the Cheetos mascot.

Fact: Cheetahs are fast.

Inference: Chester is fueled primarily by Cheetos, perhaps explaining his fluorescent orange hue.

Inference: Chester, being a cheetah, is fast.

Conclusion: Cheeto consumption leads to fast running.  It would be A Good Idea for me to eat copious amounts of Cheetos before my run.

Logicians advise: where could my careful reasoning have gone so drastically awry?