Tainted Love

You know when you’re in a hotel room — say, on a vacation for the first night, or visiting family during a holiday — and you wake up in the middle of the night and you’re just not sure where the hell you are or how you got there? For a brief flash, it’s like you’ve been kidnapped and are waiting to discover that you are, in fact, handcuffed to the wall and some man named Stu is hovering over you in his rubber chaps and oh, by the way, he wants to have his way with you before he slits your throat, if you’re not busy. Now. And then slowly you come to and realize, no no, I’m in my parents’ spare bedroom/Marriott/Doubletree/whatever.

I’ve woken up like that almost every day, and you’d think by now I’d be accustomed to it, or at least would be able to place myself in some sort of vague geographical location. But no. Every morning at 4 a.m. like clockwork, I wake up completely disoriented with a desperate desire to pee like I’ve never peed before. I haven’t made it through the night without a minimum of two trips to the bathroom since we moved here — it’s so DRY, with the heat on and all (and lack of humidity, thank you Florida), that I’ve been drinking like a camel in the desert. My lips, too, are none too pleased, and resemble the neck of a turtle and are about as appealing to kiss, I’m sure. Mmmm… turtle neck.

(Turtle neck, by the way, gives me the worst visual ever, and reminds me of that utterly hilarious Blog Share post on R’s blog about the turkey wattle. It’s funny how things like that just stick with you — when I was single, I was dating this guy who was perfectly lovely, until one day I noticed he had piggy hands. I don’t know why, it’s just that suddenly, I looked at his hands and they were like miniature pork products resting on his palm. And it ALSO reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend today wherein I admitted it would be hard for me to date someone in his 70s unless I had married them when they were younger and/or was in my 60s or 70s myself. For many reasons, but aesthetically speaking, it’s because of Old Man Flabby Butt. I’m not against Old Man Flabby Butt, it’s that for some reason, I need that Old Man Flabby Butt to come about organically, or at least be logical, because at that age, I will be sporting Old Lady Flabby Butt myself, you know? Of course by that time, all the old men and their flabby butts will want YOUNG TAUT butts, so I’ll be alone in my elderly flab and this whole conversation is moot. Or mute, as too many of my colleagues have said in the past. MUTE. Anyway, good thing I’m happily married, is what I’m saying, because I’m sounding like a bit of an asshole here, I know. No pun intended. With luck and good health on our side, by the time I end up with an OMFB, it will be one I’ve seen grow INTO its current form, rather than being surprised by it.)

(End, uh, OMFB and piggy fingers tangent.)

Aaand, we’re back to 4 a.m. and I don’t know where I am! So, when I finally figure out where I am, I am jostled awake by the fact that hello, I am in Vermont. Which is very close to Canada. Which is VERY FAR away from where I was two weeks ago, and I know that’s obvious, but have you ever played the game where you try to picture yourself on a map, like a little mobile push pin? For some reason, that always gets me, like HELLO, I LIVE IN VERMONT. When did that happen? And then my mind does that whole camera pan thing like Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, only I’m a little blue push pin amid a sea of moose and pine trees, waving wildly for the cameramen to come get me, or at least let me know that they’re THERE.

I’m sorry. I know this is boring as sin (though sin is much more exciting), because by now, you’ve all figured out that I’ve moved, while it is still dawning on me day by day. I will get over this, really I will, it’s just that it’s only been a week, and I’m still so surprised by it all, I don’t know why. Do you know that sometimes I think hey, I should stop by and see my old hairdresser, without realizing that DUH, that would be a FLIGHT?

And hey, thanks for the dishwashing tips. I am both comforted and alarmed that there are so many of us with a constant fear of germs, and while I realize on some level, it’s irrational, one of my good friends got salmonella from an EGG. A REGULAR EGG, COOKED IN HIS HOUSE. And dude, he didn’t even EAT the rotten egg, it just happened to be near an egg that he did eat, and he ate the okay egg sunny side up, which meant that while yes, it was fine, it was raw and had been tainted! By the bad egg, bitchy little Veruca Salt that it was. And while I realize maybe he should have tossed the entire dozen, he ate the egg that was on the OTHER SIDE! TAINTED EGGS, man. They’re EVERYWHERE, lurking like evil little gnomes waiting to wreak havoc on our intestines at a moment’s notice. This is why we must be vigilant.

And I really enjoy italics, don’t I? HI, WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ITALICS WITH YOUR EGGS?

I’m sure I had something else — in fact, I know I did. I sat down to write today with a PURPOSE, though very likely an absurd one. So here we are again. Nowhere, but with more blue push pins and flabby butts!

Happy Tuesday!

*Soft Cell. Or at least, their version is the most famous, I think.

24 comments March 10th, 2008