...And Then Everything Went Horribly, Horribly Wrong

This is just to cleanse the palate after "The Kougar."

So I've had one of the world's best recordings playing in my car for three days straight: Built to
Spill's "Ancient Melodies of the Future." Genius, genius.

What a day - oof. Do you ever wake up and just somehow know that your day will be shit on a stick? That was mine today. I could feel it as soon as I got up. And it did not disappoint. Among the highlights:

1. Seeing photos of myself from last Friday night. Do you ever just gross out on yourself? And not in a hypercritical supermodel way, but in that 14-year-old girl way where you're seeing yourself for the first time and you're like, "Um, ohmigod. That cannot be me"??? That was me today. I was like, when did I become the ugly fat chick? I haven't had a blow that resounding to my self-image since I got home from college freshman year - after going from 118 to 135 - and having my Grandpa tell me, "You're fat." Ouch!

2. The EH has to do a "quit claim" so I can refi the house in my own name, and it includes a basic division of property list. I felt like that scene from "When Harry Met Sally" where Billy Crystal talks about couples fighting over putting their names in books and going back and forth with their lawyers - from the firm "That's Mine, This is Yours." I felt like saying to the EH, "I will never - never - want that wagon-wheel coffee table."

Fo shiz.

3. Went to LA Fitness after work. Blessedly, my ghetto gym closed its doors and sent all of its memberships to LAF. It was my second time inside an LAF - and this one is brand new - and it struck me as completely Orwellian. You are always on display - never anonymous. All the machines are lined up just so - and centimeters apart - so it's less of a workout than a spin on the wheel in a hamster cage. And the people - woof - it made me semi-pine for the view from my old hangout, drunken barflies and all. All the LAF people are 'roided dorks. So many short men, so little time...

4. Then it was off to the market, because in my self-hating state I felt the need for comfort food. Chicken soup. So I buy like $10 worth of chicken parts and whatnot, drive 20 minutes in heavy traffic to get it home, open the package and notice - wha? - an unusual and unwelcome odor. And being the nutcase that I am, I rip all the chicken out of the package to find the offending bits, and stink up my kitchen while I'm at it, as it dawns on me that I'm going to have to return rotten chicken to the grocery store. That's not my idea of a good time - not so much. No - not at all. As much as I love to return things - pants, especially, and I once returned a leather sofa - going back to say "You sold me rotten chicken" isn't going to give me the Return High - much like a runner's high - that I so crave. NOT SO MUCH.

5. Then it was off to dinner with my dad, my brother and his soon-to-be-daughter. She's 2 years old and obscenely adorable, but also in that "Why?" stage. Again, say it with me: not...so...much. I had some udon soup and a glass of wine.

Came home to find three messages on my voice mail, even though I had my phone with me the whole time. One from L, saying "I Love You!" and blessing me for not crapping out on her over her demonic doings with the Puppy, one from my brother saying "come to dinner," and one from the Puppy, who - despite our agreement to just be drinking buddies - emailed me thrice today (yes, I said "thrice") and called just to check in. I have to love it. The kid makes me laugh, and God knows that is what I need to be doing right now - laughing.

We both watched some VH1 crapfest called "Least Metal Moments," and of course, our mutual favorite part was where Scott Ian from Anthrax said he thought it was "the end of days" in reference to Celine Dion's mutilation of "You Shook Me All Night Long."

Good times, campers! Good times!

// posted by Alisa @ 5:43 PM