big winner

I am so tired right now I could cry. Instead of bawling, which is my usual release for all things stressful, including the purchase of my first car which as you might imagine was very embarrassing for me given the presence of all of those clapping Nissan salesmen, I have become a hefty combination of dry drunkenness and what an ex used to term “inconsolable.” Stacy and I have had a competition going as to which of us can go batshit more quickly this month, and after my serious failure in the Bang Off of 2005, all systems are go for me to leave her in the dust on this one.

My latest ex used to tell me that I at times reached a point at which absolutely nada would make my world right while nothing anyone else did was technically acceptable, either. This is one of the things he may very well have been spot on about, along with the fact that I am much better blonde than even remotely redheaded. In the past few days I have felt like a walking contradiction, a Type A sloth calling people on their neuroses while very deftly maintaining my own, bringing Bug up to my chest and then finding myself irritated by his heat, genuinely wanting space from another and then questioning it when it’s given. I’m like a cranky baby. I wail with the tone reserved for the binky, and when I get the binky, I hurl the damn thing across the room, barely missing the three-legged cat. If you were here you’d check my diaper, because you’d be sure that discomfort must be the root of this evil, this whiny malaise that is a product of little sleep and too much wine and not attending to the things that I know keep me anchored. But you’d find the diaper dry as a bone, and as you’d scratch your head thinking of your next move, I’d clock you in the face for having bothered me. I’m irritating myself just writing this.

Humor is my way to pull through these episodes, the ridiculous ones that occur something like once every season (hey, the ex isn’t here to tell you otherwise). It’s not only the way in which I handle most situations, including Christmas Eve service every five years and my annual pap smear, but it’s a survival mechanism that protects me from the realization, and the distinct possibility, that I am just a paper-width away from two dark shades of crazy.

On the way home from work tonight, a ride during which I was apparently just gutted given the fact that I couldn’t stay in my lane and hear Stacy and listen to Peter Cetera AND smoke a cigarette at the same time, all the while maneuvering around those GD Metrobuses with their asshat, likely-unlicensed drivers (straightens skirt), she and I actually got into a tirade about CourtTV being pillaged by Turner Networks, a move that will involve the introduction of lowest common denominator programming into our pseudo-intellectual weeknight crime obsession. We actually raged.

“I can’t believe they’re changing the network over to a stupid extreme tv channel. Ugh.”

“I know. We’ll be losing all of the meat of it, Stace. The smart stuff like City Confidential.”

“And Noreen!”

“Yes.”

“And Bill Curtis!”

“And Bill Curtis.” I took another drag of my cigarette and tossed an expletive at a slow old woman crossing in front of my car.

“@#$%ers.”

“You said it.”

We took a moment to seethe in our collective silence. I took another drag.

“And by the way, if I have to see one more episode of Most Shocking, my head will motherf#%!ing explode.”

“Not to mention if I have to see another c^$&sucking episode of Cops in some lame ass city like f#@$ing Cincinnati.” I exhaled. “I’ll probably smother you in your G*ddamn sleep at BlogHer.”



Destination: Batshit. I win.