Smile Politely

So much for a tight ass

This week I managed to come down with the consumption. Ok, maybe it’s more like the plague with a side of meningitis. Hell, the way I feel, I could be rocking some kind of nasty trifecta. Regardless, all that exercise I planned on doing is right out. In fact, I caught myself questioning whether or not my legs were even underneath me a few times, and doubted my ability to operate a motor vehicle more than once. I’m not suggesting my power-walking routine demands mass amounts of agility, but I am barely staying vertical these days. 

The only solid routine I landed involves knowing when to throw stuff down my neck: I take the blue pills when it’s dark and the red pills when it’s daylight. Oh, and I can drink hot water with lemon and honey no matter what time of day, but it has to be after 4:00 to add a nipper of Jameson’s. The only foods that sound appealing are those consumable via spoon or straw — the exception being a box of fucking ice cream sandwiches some devil who calls himself a friend left at my house. Thanks, asshole.

Basically, I’ve been living on hummus and ice cream for a week. Surprisingly, despite the lack of exercise, I’ve actually lost a few pounds. I’m thinking of marketing a case of tuberculosis as the newest weight loss fad with the catch phrase, “When your temperature matches your weight, you win!” Geeze … I need to lay off these drugs. Or maybe I’ll embrace the Quils — both Day and Ny — and cuddle up with Go Ask Alice.

Every time I hit the couch I fall into incredibly lucid dreams. One of my naps involved me taking a nap (drug-induced meta-fiction at its best) on a window salesman who was explaining how much it would be to install state-of-the-art replacements in my house. It was a really nice dream, for a minute. After he finished his pitch, I slowly stood up and forced open my eyes. The gentleman on whom I had been resting my weary head had the most unique feature I had ever seen. For lack of a better term, I’ll refer to it as an accordion goiter. As he spoke, a disgusting bubble of skin expanded on the side of his neck. The longer he spoke without taking a breath, the bigger the goiter got. I remember thinking, please take a breath and make that thing go away. Somehow, eventually, it did, but my anxiety over goiters never will.

While heffed up on ice cream sandwiches and cough medicine, I did some online shopping — for a man. Yes, I’m still on the search for that perfect fireman/doctor/construction worker to provide next weekend’s entertainment to a fabulous group of ladies. The whole thing is a bit weird and embarrassing. I found one guy who looked slightly less ridiculous than all the others, and clicked on his picture to see more. Pictures two and three weren’t too bad. Then I got to number four. Nothing but pooka beads. Really?? Pooka beads?? I’ve already had to come to terms with certain quirks and flaws when it comes to these funny looking meatwads, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Sorry “Rob,” but shell necklaces are automatic deal breakers.

Hopefully I’ll make it to the bachelorette party. Not only is the plague an issue, but this family trip to Hilton Head has to happen first, too. Luckily, my craigslist-addicted husband found a travel bar for $40. My grandparents used to travel with one and I think it’s only right to keep such an important family tradition alive. My mother has fond memories of ending the day’s drive early enough for her parents to have a few martinis and a steak dinner while she and my uncle swam off their excess energy. It sounds magical … we’ll see. Cold meds and cocktails should help me forget about the fact that my ass could be a little tighter.

Related Articles