Water, Water Everywhere… Not a Drop to Drink
On Friday, I went to the gym after work with the intention of logging a few miles on the treadmill, but quickly re-evaluated my plan when I realized I hadn’t had nearly enough to eat to be running. I petered out after about 10 minutes and took up on the stationary bike with an US Weekly.
Flipping through the magazine, I came across a photo of Criss Angel, the magician, who has recently been romantically linked with Cameron Diaz. When the ex- and I were together, I began watching a lot of seemingly bizarre cable programming due to our inability to agree on anything. I sure as hell wasn’t going to watch Starship Whatever-The-Fuck and he wasn’t having Grey’s Anatomy. To compensate, and minimize television-related knock-down drag-outs (why let anything get in the way of arguments about my drinking?), we agreed upon new shows, which included Miami Ink, Intervention, and Criss Angel Mind Freak. I was way more into the Freak than the ex was 'cause I, with my ever-questionable taste in men, thought he was sexy in a long hair, intense eyes, dramatic poses kind of way.
As soon as the ex- and I parted ways, I broke myself of the mild infatuation/desire to get busy with Criss Angel and watched Sex and the City non-stop as a form of peaceful dissent against men everywhere.
Still, seeing him in the magazine turned me on slightly, so I biked faster and told myself to sweat it out. When in doubt, use physical exertion as a substitute for sex... or ice cream... or sex.
Been Spending Most Our Lives Living in a Hipster Paradise
I was probably wearing on @’s nerves yesterday when I asked her for the tenth time whether or not I looked “hipster” enough to go to the Hideout, a bar that is literally hidden in some industrial area of the city nestled among a row of nondescript buildings. It’s decorated with Christmas lights and they don’t take credit. They don’t have too. That’s how cool they are.
Lou (while sitting at @’s kitchen table drinking glass of wine #2): Do I have to drink Old Style or PBR at the Hideout? How harshly will ordering a Miller Lite be judged? What if I order an Amstel Light?
Lou (upon pulling up to the bar and noticing a young man in a weathered leather jacket sitting out front): OH… maybe I should have worn leather…
Lou (now inside the bar to @): I feel like I’m in a different state.
Lou (inside the bar to M&A): I feel like I’m on a different planet.
I felt like upping the ante there. Little exaggeration never hurt anyone. And, I got a button (which I swear, for whatever reason, I have received more buttons in the last three weeks than I have in the last several years; it must be the latest and greatest trend in swag) and I won (OK… I sort of “won,” someone was nice enough to provide me with an answer that led to my winning) a t-shirt. Productive evening. New t-shirt, new button. Perhaps I will wear them together.
She Must Be Delusional
Regarding the lead singer of the band that opened the show on Friday:
@ (Gesturing toward the lead singer who had taken to convulsing on stage while persuading us to yell “Yeah” or something): I think you two could have a conversation.
Lou: I agree with you; and I believe that conversation would be about delusions of grandeur.
He went BIG. I respect that.
Cure What Ails Ye
I made a point of drinking enough last night to ensure that any decisions I made could be believably blamed on my intoxication. Unfortunately (no… wait… that’s not right… rather… fortunately), I was still a little too self-aware three glasses of wine and four beers later to fool myself.
I decided not to go BIG. So, I went home and passed out watching Best Week Ever instead.
I tend to wake-up after a night of drinking in a state of panic, as though I’ve been cryogenically frozen for several years and have no idea where I am, how I got there, what year it is, or who this crazy guy in the lab coat is. I think I’m just nervous about finding out whether or not I’m going to have a hangover.
After much research, I have identified two types of hangovers:
- The functional hangover, which means I have a mild headache and am generally lazy. This type of hangover is best cured with getting my ass out of bed, chugging Smart water, and running. You can literally sweat out a functional hangover.
- The nonfunctional hangover, means that I am alternating between laying in my bed and laying on the bathroom floor, due to my inability to actually sit up for any length of time. This hangover is best cured by bartering with God (“If you make the pain go away, I will never, ever, ever, ever, never drink again… and I will volunteer to teach the children about the evils of alcohol and its painful affects on one’s head.”) and/or knocking yourself out with sleeping pills until and dealing with the pain in a comatose state.
Luckily, I already plans to run with Meg on the lakefront path. CES wasn’t meeting due to the holiday weekend. We made it approximately two and a half miles before we decided that leisurely walking while chitchatting would be far more pleasant. Thank God. I thought I was going to die.
I was starving when I came home from our run/walk, and against all conventional wisdom ate the following: Trader Joe’s brand Cheerios and milk, goat cheese, Oriental rice crackers, pita bread, and spray butter.
I’m relieved it’s not bright, sunny, and beautiful outside. I just want to lay in my bed.