Today's blog is two random stories that have nothing to do with one another except that they happened around me.
#1) Bike Delivery Guy
The other night I was walking home from the laundromat with my bundle hoisted up on my shoulder. I teetered on the narrow sidewalk, trying not to slip on the frozen chunks of snow-ice. When I looked up, the light was about to change, so I hurried across the street to beat the traffic.
The problem with trying to beat the light in the winter time is that when you do get across the street, there may or may not be a place for you to leap from the street to the sidewalk. Thanks to all this frozen white crap, walking space is severely limited. So when you cross against traffic, and cars come speeding at you, there is a possibility that you may actually have to hurdle a snow mound to get to safety.
So I got lucky, and my bundle of clothes and I scurried to safety as a man behind me leapt over the snow. However, simultaneously, a bike delivery guy entered the scene on his ricket old bike with the big metal basket on front, holding food. The bike delivery guy was also trying to beat traffic. So he sped across the street, realizing at the last minute he was about to collide with another bike delivery guy. He veered sharply, and went right into a giant wintry bike-swallowing pothole. After spasmatically sticking his legs out to his sides, he pedaled again, this time aiming for the "opening" to the sidewalk, only to discover that there were people in it, including me. So without any control whatsoever, and assuming his velocity would be enough to overpower the depth of the snow, the delivery guy approached the sidewalk at a very unnatural angle. And he did, in fact, have enough velocity to overpower the snow, but...
He did not anticipate the giant steel border to the sidewalk. His front tire hit, catapulting his back tire nearly straight up into the air. Somehow, against all laws of gravity, the food stayed in the basket while the deliver guy bounced around and lost a testicle. He never let go of the bike, never fell off it, and it never hit the ground. But he had this ridiculous grin on his face, aware that he'd made a series of idiot blunders in front of a crowd--including another bike delivery guy that couldn't restrain his laughter.
#2) Really Pretty Gross.
Many mornings, depending on how on-time or late I am, I run into a dogwalker around the corner from my apartment. He usually has 8-12 big dogs, all huskies and german shepards. I often wonder how he controls such a strong pack of dogs.
This morning when I rounded the corner, the dog walker was there with his full load of 12 mighty pooches. But he wasn't walking, he was halting, pulling back on the tangled mess of leashes. I followed the taut lines to the dogs, who were all standing at attention, focusing on the same object. So I followed their gaze...to a pigeon.
The dirty disgusting pigeon was pecking along the side of a building for crumbs. I snuck by, between the dogs and the bird, fearing for my life. Over my shoulder I heard a scuffle, and the dogwalker yelling. When I turned around, it was just in time to see one of the dogs snatch up the pigeon. "Put it down! Drop it!" the dogwalker yelled.
I forced away my urge to puke, trying instead to look at the bright side: at least there's one less dirty disgusting pigeon in the world.
1.27.2005
1.25.2005
how do you drive this thing?
This morning I had a very difficult time getting dressed. And for once, I don't mean that in the very girlie sense of being rendered incapable of picking out which shirt to wear or which shoes work to make my ass look better. I mean it literally. Physically. In the way that a 2-year-old has a difficult time getting dressed.
Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.
After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.
I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.
Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.
Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.
And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.
After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.
By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.
Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.
Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.
After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.
I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.
Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.
Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.
And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.
After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.
By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.
Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.
1.21.2005
if my lips weren't frozen, i'd bitch about the cold.
What, dare I ask, have we done to deserve this? Is it because the Red Sox finally won the world series? Or because "W" was re-inaugurated? Why, WHY has hell--and the rest of the Northeast--frozen over??
This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.
I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.
I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.
The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.
The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.
The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.
When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"
I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"
That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)
This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.
I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.
I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.
The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.
The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.
The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.
When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"
I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"
That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)
1.17.2005
mistaken identity.
Lunchtime in New York is a busy time of day. People are bustling about on their 5, 20, 40, or 80 minute lunch breaks trying to cram in errands, food, and a breath of fresh air. But there's also the delivery world, a near-silent network of delivery guys on foot and bike, whisking by you in such a blur that you barely take notice of the little white bags of food they work so frantically to deliver.
The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.
The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.
Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.
So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.
On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.
In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.
And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.
The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.
The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.
Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.
So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.
On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.
In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.
And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.
1.12.2005
NO FISH IN THE WORKPLACE!!!!
I propose a new policy in all places of employment that require employees to sit side-by-side separated by walls that only go a portion of the distance between the floor and the ceiling. The policy should state:
"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."
Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.
So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.
I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.
So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.
"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."
Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.
So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.
I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.
So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.
1.03.2005
the real truth about PMS.
Okay fellas. Let me unlock a little portion of the PMS mystery for ya. I’m not saying it’s gonna make you feel any better but, well, whatever. Shut up and listen.
The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.
Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.
Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.
This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.
The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.
Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.
Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.
This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.
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