Wanna Be Starting Something

I am egg-intolerant, which is kind of like lactose intolerance, and is just as annoying. Yet time after time, I become lulled into complacency by a one-off experience where I did effectively digest eggs, because the moon was full and it was an alternate Tuesday. And of course, I get cocky, and I think it would be a good idea to go ahead and order two eggs over-hard, as runny yolks make me ill on sight, and the next thing you know, I’m spending the entire day laid-up with abdominal cramps and a runny nose while trying to watch Pan’s Labyrinth, which will heretofore be known as the Egg Movie from Hell. Oh, eggs. How you hurt me so. Oh frittatas. I miss you.

I mean, I can eat food that has eggs in it, provided the eggs are completely broken down and chemically altered, as in a cake or brownies or even clafoutis. Quiche, however, is not okay, and this is heartbreaking, because oh, how I love me a good quiche, and, as I learned this weekend, two eggs over-hard are most definitely not something my body is down with, and Pan’s Labyrinth may be a delightful movie, but I can’t say I enjoyed it, as I was in the throes of an Egg Crisis, and my husband couldn’t get past the fact that I duped him into watching a fantasy, and a foreign one at that.

Do you want me to go on about food intolerance? Because wow, this is riveting. I can talk about how I can’t digest zucchini, either, if you want. Or summer squash. Jesus, last week it was about how I’m becoming a morning person, and today it’s about food digestion. I have become my grandfather. Welcome.

Anyway, I barely survived last week, I was so freaking busy, and if it wasn’t for a tearful breakdown on Wednesday evening, I’m not sure I would have survived, as I desperately needed the release. The tears, by the way, were brought on by the kindness of a colleague, of all things, and why is it that we don’t lose it until someone is NICE to us? Does that make any sense? I truly think I would have held it together if people were angry or mean, but no no, he said something nice, and then he hugged me, and I crumpled like a wet Kleenex. This, I think, is unfair.

The only saving grace was that it was after 6 o’clock, and the only people who were in my immediate vicinity were two of my favorite work friends, one of whom was the hugger. These work friends also happen to be male, and cute single men at that, and I give them a hell of a lot of credit for dealing with a sniveling, overtired, unavailable female who will never have sex with them, because the return on investment for their attention, hugs and kind words was absolutely zero, really. They were just doing it because they’re nice people and they like me, when they should have been using those comforting skills to some sort of selfish advantage. Big ups to them, man, and I hope the next time they have to endure such hideous snarfling, they get laid.

Truthfully, I’m pretty pissed at myself for losing it, when I should have been able to hold it together. I hate that about myself. Hate. I hate that I usually have to lose it once in any truly stressful situation to be able to pick it up again and go on as normal — I’m always better after I lose it. For a little while – a day, an hour, a minute – I just need to come completely undone and let myself be overwhelmed in order to bring myself together again. It’s one of my biggest professional failures, frankly, and I’m not proud of it, although usually I do it in private or at least hide it relatively well, which, ah, not so much this time, given that my desk is basically in a busy hallway.

What really grates my cheese about this is that I cry when I’m overwhelmed or really angry, and I hate that it’s construed that I’m a sad little pansy, when most of the time, I’m just pissed and frustrated and overwhelmed and my body is all, ENOUGH ALREADY. Men get sick, yell, talk sternly, do whatever, and me? I cry, and set back feminism forty thousand years. However, the good news is that The Overwhelmed Cry is done, and we’re back in business, but the bad news is that the damage, it may be done, as I’m not sure how well I hid it this time since my frustration had reached unprecedented levels.

Anyway, enough whining! Because really, I’m alive, and life is good, and did you know that I’ve booked a long weekend at Disney World with my sister and nephews for November, and that we’re all sharing a room? I mean, it’s just the four of us, no husbands, but still. It’s because I am a masochist, that’s why, but secretly, I think it will be cute to see Disney through a kid’s eyes. Because I am a delusional masochist, fine.

And perhaps more importantly, I hope you all know about Bug Me Not. You do, don’t you? God, it saves so much time and spam, and I’ve used it at least 11 times on the NY Times alone this weekend.

Happy whatever day it is when you read this!

*Michael Jackson. I use it because, for the longest time — as in, until five minutes ago — I thought he was saying, “You’re a vegetable … you’re an omelette …” Really, he’s saying, “You’re a vegetable … you’re just a buffet … they eat off you” which isn’t any better or logical. A vegetable? Seriously? And where did I get omelette?

19 comments August 18th, 2007