Cheetos and Marathon Butt

I've gone and dipped my toes into the water's edge of insanity again.  Yesterday, as I was walking to the drug store to buy my usual lunch of preservative-laden, artificial cheese-flavored snack things, I had a very disturbing thought.  

Though also disturbing, this is not that thought:

You know that cool, chemically breeze that whooshes out from a freshly opened bag of Cheetos?  Am I the only one who experiences that?  I'm sure that it's some some sort of weird gaseous mixture that they seal inside the bag to preserve the freshness of the toxic neon-orange garbage I'm about to eat, but for some reason I love it.  I think it must be something akin to liking the smell of gasoline.  

That was the thought that came after the initial disturbing thought, which was:

I should run another marathon.

First of all, no...no I should not.  It was painful and agonizing for about eight solid miles and I didn't have a normal sleep pattern for months leading up to it and then my pants didn't fit right for months afterward because I had, literally, run my butt off and my clothing just sort of hung off of me and pooled into little bunches of fabric around my rear.  Marathons are not really fashion-friendly.     

So in the middle of the crosswalk, I stopped and took a step back.  What had I just said?  And why?  What demon inside had compelled me to say that?  And had anyone else heard that who could potentially hold me accountable?  I don't want to run another marathon.  To be honest, I just want my one and only marathon time to not suck soooo badly...and so publicly, at that.

But the truth is that I probably will run another one at some point even though it's a huge commitment.  That's the cycle though.  And I was warned that once I ran one...there would be others.  Like dirty little fitness cockroaches.  There are much worse cycles to get caught in though.  Drugs and cat-hoarding and mail-order catalogue shopping and whatnot.  

And anyway, seeing as how I love love love to eat things that are high in yumminess and extra super high in butter/fat/sugar/calories/bloat/regret, marathon training was quite kind to my metabolism.  My very last training run before the marathon was on the Polly Ann Trail in my lovely hometown of Oxford, Michigan.  I strategically parked my car at the exit next to the Little Ceasar's and promised myself a whole package of Crazy Bread in exchange for my efforts.  

Yes, I'm a dog.  I perform for food.  Got it.  I really love some Crazy Bread though.  

So we'll see...I'm a little late for this year's bandwagon...so maybe next year we will meet again.  

Almost 30 years later, she was finally cool.

Sometimes personal validation comes from the strangest of places.  For me…today…it came from Harper’s Bazaar.

Finally, after years of feeling pitifully geriatric in my 28-year-old fashion sense, the ensembley eccentric brains over at HB informed me that the fall of 2012 was officially going to be the high point of my year.  Possibly of my life.  After countless seasons of wading through the unwearable muck of boho chic, animal prints, and neon jeans, they have finally come up with something I can work with.  No, not just work with.  Something I can master.

Granny-wear, with a subtle hint of militarization.  All the rage for fall, kids.  And praise Jesus, too, because this has breathed some life back into all those Peter Pan collars I’ve got shoved in the closet.  And my sock drawer full of prescription compression leg stockings to control unwanted swelling and unsightly varicose veins?  Très hip.  I knew if I just held out long enough, fashion would repeat.  Welcome to 1865.  Again.

Tweed, lace, collars, turtleneck sweaters, chunky crochet knits – good Lord – I think I even saw some hunter’s plaid in there.  As if I didn’t love the fall enough.  Now I can pretty much collapse blindfolded and drunk into my closet, roll around for three minutes and emerge looking effortlessly fabulous.  I couldn’t be more excited than if you told me dry, frizzy hair and crow’s feet were in vogue. 

So start raiding grandma’s closet, local estate sales, nursing home bridge clubs…whatever.  Fall approaches, and if you haven’t snagged yourself a pair of Velcro orthopedic sneakers by then I will absolutely make fun of you.  It’s about the only time in my life I am fashion forward…I’ve earned this.

I Need a Reality Show to Help Me Pick a Roommate

So I will soon be welcoming a new roommate to my home, and I’m really quite excited because she seems terrific.  She’s my age, a triathlete, teacher, and most importantly she’s an eater.  This is very important for a baker.

I met her through one of those internet roommate websites, which is basically online dating for renters.  Very similar crowd actually, and it is interesting how you have to weed through people the same way.  The new roommate and I met for lunch a few weeks back and it – no crap – felt like a first date.  I told her this, she laughed, and two weeks later she’s moving in.  We move fast...what can I say?

The whole roommate selection process has really taught me a lot about my own judgment and perception, and I’ve come up with a short list of phrases that now make me run screaming for the hills when I hear them come out of a potential renter’s mouth.  In no particular order (they all send up equally large red flags of panic and alarm):

1.     “I’m very mature for my age.”

Translation: I date older men because they make more money.

What it means for you: Drama, in spades.  Prepare yourself with an anti-drama bomb shelter, if possible.  Canned goods, toilet paper, bottled water, US Weekly, etc.

2.     “I pretty much live on Match.com.”

Translation: I pretty much live on Match.com (this is scary enough as is and requires no translation).

What it means for you: Go ahead and up your bandwidth now.  She will prowl the Internet at all hours in search of her prey.  Once she nabs one, she will disappear for days on end.  And just as you are on the phone with the police filing a missing persons report, she will stumble in the door, bloated and hangover-puffy, looking like Frankenstein’s Bride doing the walk of shame right into your living room.  She will then proceed to cry for eight days straight because she’s lost the love of her life.  Repeat cycle.

3.     “My last roommate and I were, like, total besties.”

Translation: My last roommate threw me pity parties all the time and took my trash out for me.

What it means for you: If you were hoping this person would actually be good company, adjust fire and reconsider your assumptions.  You may occasionally go to IHOP for some pancakes, but only so you can listen to her gush about how her Boyfriend of the Week is so perfect “it’s just, like, scary,” or watch her sob uncontrollably into her Viva la French Toast because she can’t understand why he just didn’t call her back or why he had his ‘sister’ call to say he was dead.  (By the way, no lie.  That really happened.  More later…).

4.     “I was SO born to live the upper class life.”

Translation: I am a gold digger with no intention of working and my degree is only for make-believe and pretend.

What it means for you: Thankfully, not much.  But it’s a pity to watch.  She will, however, scoff regularly at your middle-class upbringing and frequently comment on how normal things like cotton sheets and oatmeal for breakfast just aren’t her “thing.”

5.     “I was SO born to be a mommy.”

Translation: I have only one standard for my baby-daddy: six figure salary.

What it means for you: Be wary of this one.  It would be smart to add a clause in your rental contract that if she breaks her lease early due to unplanned pregnancy, she owes the remainder of the rent or at least has to sit there and listen to you say “I totally predicted this!” for like an hour straight.  Watch the trash (since you’ll likely be taking it out anyway) for used pregnancy tests, and if you happen to meet any of the Match.com Men, you may want to casually slip him a note reminding him to “double up.”  Also, consider posting her picture in the local hospital’s maternity ward to ward off any potential baby snatching.

6.     “Gosh, I wish I had someone to help me move my stuff.”

Translation: Gosh, I’m way too lazy to do manual labor.

What it means for you: If you’re smart, nothing.  Or almost nothing.  You have no obligation to help, so my suggestion would be not to.  This does, however, force her into a position where she either has to get up off her ass and move things herself or hop onto Match.com and drudge up some semi-muscly dope willing to move her crap for her.  Hide your valuables; you don’t know what kind of miscreant she’ll force into slave labor.

7.     “I have chronic migraines, and IBS, and PMS, and I’m predisposed to cancer and Crohn’s and…”

Translation: I will harness all available pity so that I never have to work.  But I can totally go watch the rerelease of ‘Titanic’ in 3D because it’s my faaaaaavorite movie, like, ever.

What it means for you: Use a portion of her rent to invest in a good pair of noise cancelling headphones that can drown out the bitching and be prepared to never have help emptying the dishwasher.   Hide your prescription medications, and occasionally inspect her living space for indications it’s being used as a meth lab.

There are, of course, so many more.  But these are the ones I’m most familiar with, having come from my previous roommate, Tracie.  More on her to come, because frankly she’s the stuff Lifetime Movie Network dramas are made of. 

Here’s hoping (and praying!) my new roommate is as great as she seems!

Do They Have a Patch to Help Me Quit Spending?

Day One:

*Desperate times, my friends.  I spend way too much on things I don’t need.  I mean, I haven’t actually sat down and done the math (I loathe recreational math), but I’m pretty sure I’m not a very effective saver.  There’s no real rhyme or reason to my budget.  There’s no real budget, actually.  Most of the time I pretend my savings account doesn’t exist, and if I just don’t look at it…the numbers won’t be true. 

Come on.  It’s internet money.  It’s not even real to begin with.

Anyway, please believe I’m well intentioned.  I have a hundred thousand scraps of paper with budget ideas and budget notions and budget plans, but they mostly get tucked in drawers and pockets and end up in the lint trap of my dryer long after the figures I wrote down are outdated.  So…nice try, but this style just is not cutting the mustard anymore (even if it is successfully paying the mortgage). 

So I, along with my similarly well-intentioned-but-shabbily-followed-through friend Betty, will be implementing No-Spend Days into our weekly lives.  We start with one day a week (which, in shameful admission, is likely to be a struggle) and work our way up to 20 days per month were we spend nothing. 

I had to actually wait for a day when I didn’t stop at Dunkin’ Donuts or CVS or 7-11 or wherever on the way to work so I could have a truthfully clean slated day to begin with.  Today was that day.  Not because of will power, but because I woke up late and tried on fourteen different outfits (now sprawled across my closet like wardrobe Armageddon) and simply didn’t have time to stop for morning coffee and pastries and cheddar cheese Combos. 

It pleases me to report that I am now 10 hours into my first No-Spend day, and have found myself to be amazingly resourceful.  Since this was sort of an impromptu decision, I was without some of the basics that I normally would run right up to the store to snag extras of.  I do this habitually, knowing full well I have a brand new tube of mascara or pair of running shoes or Fossil handbag sitting at home.  But if I don’t have it with me…I’m doomed to buy it again. 

Not today, universe. 

I dug through my desk and found a bag of 50 calorie sandwich flats.  Stuck my hand under the seat of my car and pulled out a (non-expired!) cup of mandarin oranges.  Rifled through the pockets of all the coats I have lying around at work and found a pressed powder compact.  I was totally set.

Additionally, I found an open bag of Combos in my trunk.  I would lie and say that I don’t normally take chances on stale or expired food, but (*see note above).  I popped a few into my mouth and, after gagging a little, decided these were well beyond even MY ability to eat them.  They tasted like my trunk smells…which is kind of like burned plastic and potting soil.  But whatever, I had a whole cupful of mandarin oranges waiting for me.

So begins my journey.  Still not sure how Betty and I will dole out or enforce reprimands for No-Spend infractions, but we’re pretty honest with each other and I think we’ll come up with something suitably horrific to keep us in check.

Wish us luck!