Cherry-Coloured Funk
Three times today, people complimented me on my perfume, telling me each time how lovely I smelled, and my goodness, what beguiling fragrance was I wearing? Dude, an elderly lady said “beguiling” in reference to something about me. Which is perhaps the most awesomely hilarious thing ever, given that the wondrous elixir I was wearing was, indeed, vanilla lavender Downy fabric softener. (The very same kind that Sundry famously used to wash her clothes with, thinking it was detergent, which is just one of a frillion reasons why I love her). And I have to say, I agree with them. I’ve been a Clean Breeze gal for years now, but this lavender vanilla shit is causing a bit of a fracas, what with the unsolicited compliments, and it’s making me want to do more laundry, as it fills my entire house with delightful fragrance, and how wonderful is that? Wonderful! It’s wonderful! Let’s all go wash our clothes!
(Also, I would like to add that I strongly disagree with commenter Erin on that entry, because I use fabric softener on all of my towels, and while they might lose absorbency, I haven’t noticed. They are fluffy and soft and fresh-smelling and still work just fine, and it’s not like I’m using them as a maxipad or anything, where absorbency is critical. But to each their own!)
In exciting pet-related news, I went into Sunny’s spare crate this afternoon and discovered, lovingly placed and barely chewed, a single shoe of at least six pairs of my shoes and nine pairs of underwear from the laundry, all thongs, all chewed to bits in the uh, crotch. (Jenifer warned me of this phenomenon back at the juicy condom incident, and I did not heed her warning. Fool.) I didn’t even realize I had nine pairs of thongs, to be honest, and yet, there they were, chewed-crotch thongs, resting like some sort of secret pirate stash of excitement while she sat staring at me with a pink nylon number dangling from her lips. Pervy little pug. There were some dirty socks in there, too. And the UTI-excitement continues in the cat department, for we’ve had to change the cat’s antibiotics twice now, because – and this is so fun – in addition to peeing blood everywhere, the antibiotics didn’t agree with him, so we were waking up every morning to bloody pee and vomit everywhere. Yay! All of this means that I am down a few pairs of shoes, some thongs and I’ve gone through three cans of Resolve. And at this moment, the little pugleted darling is farting up a cloud of dogfart that could be used as a weapon. Pets are awesome.
Look, it’s time for me to be honest: I have a touch of the PMS, a fact I just realized late this afternoon when I started getting worked up (and sending dramatic emails, you know who you are) and reaching into my desk drawer for my emergency stash of chocolate, which officially makes me a miserable walking cliche, not to mention a bit of a drama queen. Today at work, a man came in to update our fire extinguishers and…well, he was just so earnestly concerned about it, so worried about our well being, so HORRIFIED that those fire extinguishers were four months past their deadline. And he was so nice about it. So nice! Calling us ‘kind people,’ and ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ and saying things like, “No! You cannot work under these conditions! What if there’s a FIRE? I cannot believe your employers failed to notice this!” And then I got choked up, because he cared about us! He CARED whether we perished in a fire as we hunkered down over our work projects! HE CARED WHEN NO ONE ELSE DID.
The PMS also manifests itself in a bit of, uh, an eating binge, and while there is avid gym-going happening, there is also avid cupcake-eating. Shoveling, actually. There is cupcake shoveling. They’re totally still good, right? I made them Saturday night, and it’s Wednesday and I have them in an airtight container and PLEASE tell me they are still good, because I just licked the frosting off of a plate just now. Strawberry frosting. With yellow cake. God.
There are also mood swings. For example, I was listening to the radio today on my way to work and Jewel’s “Foolish Games” came on, which inexplicably set me off. Off like a rocket, I tell you, because all I could think of – and in fact, all I could say and/or scream to the radio – was how obnoxious the whole song is and how, God, that guy she’s singing about? The one who talks about baroque moving him and loving Mozart? He sounds like a pretentious asshonker. If you love Mozart and baroque moves you, and you speak of your loved ones in hushed tones while wearing hemp? I’m not a fan, even if you are fictitious, and in fact, if I have PMS, you could annoy me so much I can’t concentrate for an entire morning, because honestly, all morning I was preoccupied with the stupidity of Jewel for writing about a dude who talks about his love for baroque, like he’s SPECIAL or something. Maybe a man whose interests lean more towards math and science would be a better choice? And maybe I should calm down over this.
While we’re on the subject of songs, the Pussycat Dolls’ ‘Buttons’ also upsets me, because my God, they’re talking about LOOSENING BUTTONS and backing up the talk of dirty things on the radio and what if I have a daughter who decides it’s her goal in life to get her buttons loosened because some slutty little whorebag in a garter belt sang in a convincing way that it was a good idea? And I can’t even talk about Fergie or Nelly Furtado and their promiscuous talk without wanting to hang my head in my hands and cry. Because while I’m all for sexual freedom, WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?
Jimmy totally has asthma, only this time, it’s Janie who has asthma and also, the sluttskies. The PMS-induced sluttskies and suddenly my daughter is asking to be a “hooker” for Halloween, as I did my mother at age 11, after watching a particularly risque Golden Girls episode (please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers the time they got arrested for prostitution? Anyone? And can I just say I DID NOT GET IT, particularly because a) I had no idea what a hooker was, and b) Would anyone honestly pay to have sex with Bea Arthur? Seriously? I mean, she rocks, don’t get me wrong, but…well, she’s always struck me as more Arthur than Bea, no matter how many fancypants pantsuits they tried to pour her into. ) And if you missed it the first time, when I was 11, I actually asked my mother if I could be a prostitute for Halloween and cried for an hour because she said no, because I was excited about shopping for fishnets, for crying out loud. Fishnets! And maybe a bustier. I was 11. Dear God, and thank sweet Jesus for rational parenting, and if that’s not proof that my mother was always right, I’m not sure what is.
Steam. I’m out of it, and I think that’s enough excitement for one day, because after all there was drama! Disease! Dessert! Sluts! Hookers!
*Cocteau Twins
28 comments December 13th, 2006