Pickles & Dimes

My new purse is trying to kill me. While I was dropping off some paper at a vendor’s, its evil, extra-long strap managed to tear my tied shoe from my foot, trip me - causing me to knock my head against the car door - and simultaneously pop open my trunk.

Even better, there were three employees sitting outside watching me.

Jason was sick today, but instead of staying in bed where I would have seen him and realized he wasn’t at work, he crashed on the living room couch instead. So when my alarm went off for the 3rd 16th time, and I was about to get out of bed to do my patented “I’m running late - AS USUAL” routine, I saw a half-naked man in the hallway. And my first half-awake thought was NOT, “Hmmm…I bet that’s Jason and he’s sick today. La dee doo,” but rather, “OMIGOD!!! There is a RAPIST in the apartment and he’s already removed most of his clothes!!!” So yeah, good times. Nice way to wake up, having to, you know, sit down until my heartbeat no longer resembles a hummingbird on speed and Red Bull.

Totally unrelated, one of our fantail goldfish developed fish bladder syndrome, also known as Astronaut Floating, also known as “Pay no attention to that fish swimming upside down. Seriously. Stop staring at him.” He was totally normal, even eating and everything, except that he couldn’t flip himself right-side up. He lasted this way for a full week, until our other cannibalistic, GIANT, bully goldfish started eating him. So last night, after careful deliberation, and seeing that he was hardly moving and/or breathing anymore, we flushed him. Then we flushed the toilet another 2398473847 times, because that’s the last thing I need, to have my chewed-up, upside-down goldfish coming back UP the plumbing. I like to think that he’s recuperating somewhere down in the sewers, next to an 31-foot-long alligator, pumping iron and waiting for his revenge.

The weight room’s big-screen TV conked out last night. That was not cool, because then instead of losing myself in a Twins game, the only thing I had to occupy myself was the mirror, in which I could view my poor running form and the ever-changing shades of red in my face. Because it’s hotter and muggier than Hell up there, it felt like I was running through baked, slimy Saran Wrap. It got to the point where I was actually getting very, very cross with my treadmill: “Are you mocking me? Screw you! Piece of Crap!” I felt it was disrespecting me and my quest to run for longer than 3 minutes without passing out.

Oh, and also, Jason fiddled with the fan, so he didn’t start running until my timer said 1:08, but yet we FINISHED AT THE SAME TIME. My machine said 30:00, his machine said 30:00. Not possible, unless my machine is EVIL and HATES me and possibly WANTS TO KILL ME by giving me a HEART ATTACK.