A Girl...

Not for a Million Bucks

[A million dollars]

For the last three days or so, Simon and I have been prone to extraordinary, uncontrollable giggle fits of the kind that make eyes tear and lungs spasm for oxygen. Last night, between gasps, he said, "This isn't even funny! It's just stupid! I feel like I'm high or something!" Which, actually, is funny considering that if one were to spend a day walking up and down Haight Street just breathing the air one would have more exposure to pot than the two of us combined.

Last night we were in bed spazzing like hyenas because, after my stomach produced an impressive gurgle, Simon said it sounded like my dinner was taking fast corners through my small intestine and that any minute now something would "come around." (Um, gross.) Then he started into a rousing rendition of "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountian," which, oh lucky day, didn't end after the first verse but went on to "She will smell like spoiled cabbage when she comes. P.U.!" etc. It wasn't really funny (especially since it was at my expense and I'm a real sensitive flower of a girl), but the dear boy cracked himself up so completely that I couldn't help laughing. At him. Not at the song, no, because that's not funny (read: no reprises, please), but at him. Because he was breathless at his own genius. And his eyes go all sparkly when he laughs.

Earlier that morning he also had me laughing at something that wasn't the least bit funny, no siree. After we'd gotten up and showered, Simon snuck back into bed while I was drying my hair. When I saw him there, all snuggly and warm under the electric blanket (because it is winter here again!), I hopped back in and nuzzled against him. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, it really was time to get up, but neither of us wanted to be first.

"I've already been up longer than you. You go first."

"But I've been up more times than you." [He's in charge of snoozing the alarm clock on the opposite side of the room.] "You go first."

"No."

"Stubborn."

"Selfish."

"Brat."

At which point he got out of bed (I win!), put on his clothes, and then ripped all the covers off the bed, leaving me huddled there, trying to keep my robe around me so I didn't get frostbite. (It was 50 degrees yesterday morning. I lose!) And then? THEN? He pulled my robe away, pursed his lips (wickedly), and blew on my bare skin, making me go goosepimply all over. Can you believe such cruelty? Cruel yes, but also ridiculous, if you can picture it in your mind: me, fetal and shivering on the bare bed, while he stands there puffing his cheeks out as before a birthday cake. Again, NOT funny. But boy did we laugh about it.

What's the deal? Why the sudden shenanigans? Why, when dumbness and cruelty ensue, do I/we mistake it for hilarity? My guess: I think we caught something in Vegas. Let me explain.

There's a Coca-Cola museum/store thing on the Strip, and many years ago, when I first went there with my family, there was a free tasting area where guests could sample Coca-Cola products from around the world. Most weren't colas but Fanta-like carbonated fruit beverages, and most were disgusting. Of course, that means I had to take Simon there.

Once we were inside, I realized that everything had changed (in Vegas? can you imagine?) and that the tastings were no longer free but selling for seven dollars per sixteen-sample set. We would throw ten dollars into a slot machine without a thought, but spend seven dollars and receive an actual product in return? Crazytalk. We settled on a regular Coke and a Coca-Cola Black instead, and then stood around and watched a table of three do the sampler thing and make yucky faces after each sip. They noticed us watching and offered up to us the grossest drink of all, the sample from Italy, to which we pre-emptively wrinkled our noses because (1) Why would we want to try the grossest one? and (2) Why would we want to drink out of cups already passed among three strangers? The answer to both questions is Because we're INSANE. "Do you have any open mouth sores?" Simon asked half-jokingly, and when they answered in the negative, we actually sat down and actually sampled sixteen gross beverages from actually used cups. Oy.

Does anyone know if the symptoms of hepatitis include exaggerated enjoyment of only mildly amusing situations?

[Extra special bonus: Porn Dog!]

Posted by Leah at May 16, 2007 12:10 PM