I brake for white russians

Monday, may. 12, 2008   |   0 comments

Oh what a weekend! Like all great weekends, things started way back on Thursday, when Maggie and I got totally souffléd in North Beach. It was a fluffy, bubbly, chatter-packed night, with many revelations and self-reflections and hour-long asides and explosive point-making and self-shhing and waiter-teasing and maybe some champagne? All of which I paid for dearly with many alcohol-rattled hours tossing and moaning on the couch deep into the night, followed by a dim, hung-overcast morning. I wasn’t really right again until around noon the next day, thanks to a bacon and cheddar cure-all eggwich miracle with side of Coke, holy shit. When I came text-moaning to Maggie with anti-champagne “never again“s that next day, she suggested that maybe the White Russian on an empty stomach, which I ordered at Tosca before our evening really even got started, was to blame? Oh, yes, well. I suppose there’s a personal domino theory in there somewhere.

I went on to sleep the sleep of the almost-dead for 12 whole hours on Friday night, so great, then we woke up and went straight to the gym, of all places. I trained elliptically for about 20 minutes, then I moved on to the weights where I seriously burnt my dark meat, working my wings and thighs beyond all sense. I even got myself onto the skanky inner-thigh machine, which is always just one lingering eye contact away from sexual intercourse, Perfect-style. The singe deepened to a universal, please don’t make me laugh soreness on Sunday, and now today it’s even worse—I feel bruised, like someone battered me with a pillowcase filled with oranges, Grifters-style, or even a pillowcase filled with soda, Bad Boys-style. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it kind of seems like the gym is trying teach me a lesson? A lesson about never going to the gym ever again?

Other weekend highlights include: BBQing for hours and hours in honor of Caroleen’s birthday along with so many long-lost pals (Amy P. and Julie P.! Marilyn in from Boson! Heidi out of Heiding!), visiting my dad (who is doing much better despite a general sense of unease over his still-undiagnosed inability to exercise without feeling like he’s going to have a heart failure, an issue that I personally would celebrate and use as an excuse for never gyming again (read above), but which makes him very sad since he actually loves exercising, crazy I know), Indian fooding with my mom, brainstorming over what we’d name our brake shop if Marco and I were to own our own brake shop (tie between Sir Francis Brake’s and Stop Your Squealing), emergency shoe-shopping for emergency happiness-yellow slingbacks, and even getting myself seriously banged up.

Now that the weekend’s all over, I feel very tired and droopy, like I need a weekend from my weekend. I guess someone’s got a case of the Mondays! Office Space-style! PS, something I’ve been disturbed to discover since going undercover in corporate USA is that office workers now actively quote Office Space, meaning that if they were to make Office Space today, the grim coworkers would be chirping Office Space quotes—all “TPS reports” this and “flare” that—in lieu of the “TGIF“s and “happy Humpdays” of simpler, gentler yors. And, as it turns out, nothing makes a person feel more like she’s at work than meta irony.