Octopus' Garden

Friday, December 23, 2005


P: I’m having the worst day. I have PMS and I’m not done with my grading yet and I can’t concentrate on anything and I lost my wallet! I think I set it on top of my car with some milk, and then I remember getting the milk down, but I’m pretty sure I drove off with my wallet still on top of the car and now it’s gone!

Me: Oh no. That’s awful! Last week when I had PMS I purchased a sack of groceries, paid for everything, and then walked out of the store without the groceries. The cashier actually had to come chasing after me in the parking lot.

P: It’s horrible. It’s like I can’t even think clearly right now. I can’t think of, I don’t know . . . words? You know? For things? It would just be best if we didn’t ever have to leave the house when we had PMS. Better for everyone concerned, right?

Me: Exactly. But that means we’d have to know we had PMS. Sometimes I break things. So there’s clumsiness and crashing and spilling, and that kind of slaps me upside the head with it, right? But sometimes that doesn’t happen and I just go around for a week or so as if I’ve completely lost my mind.

P: Yes. It’s as if you’re dimly aware of it intellectually, but it sneaks up on you and bites you in the ass nonetheless.

Me: That’s the worst. And then you’re just out there wandering around completely unchecked . . . totally raw. And vulnerable. Like a peeled grape. And then the paranoia starts in. Well . . . you remember what talking to me last week was like!

P (laughing): Oh, you mean being worried that your cell phone was tapped? And how you thought you needed to be more like Tony Soprano who is scrupulously meticulous about his cell phone use? Although the sad thing is, now you’ve got me worried about whether or not people can listen in on my cell phone conversations.

Me: I don’t even know who I was last week. It’s humiliating. Seriously. I don’t know who that person was. I mean, what with the out-of-control hormones, and the fatigue, and the overstimulation, and the holiday weirdness, and the end-of-the-semester stress all going on at once? And then what did I do? Went out way too much and liberally doused the whole shebang down with copious amounts of alcohol? I mean, what was I thinking? I might as well have lit a match at that point. I ask you . . . is that not a Cocktail Recipe for Disaster?

P: Pretty much. That’s what I’m saying about special dispensation to not have to leave the house. I’m thinking I should see my doctor to see if there’s something I could take just during PMS.

Me: What. You mean like Valium? Thorazine? Haldol? Morphine? All of the above?

P (laughing): Yeah. (Pausing). So . . . do you think that people really can listen in on our cell phone conversations?

Me: Well, last week you swore to me up and down that we could de-jinx that particular anxiety by talking unabashedly and at length about masturbation. So would you like me to return the favor?
posted by Artichoke Heart at 6:04 AM


Ha! Now we KNOW that people are listening to our cell phone conversations. So give 'em something to really listen to. And one of my favorite things to do is not to leave the house at all, and to see how many days in a row I can actually do it. This is the perfect time of year. Make food and let people come to you, I say!
Blogger Sfrajett, at 12:40 PM  
Okay, so the part about not knowing when what is wrong is that you're pms-ing? For a while, L* would try hinting to me "maybe you're PMS-ing" which I would take as the worst insult and totally dismissing all my very important concerns. Usually punctuated by bursting into tears.
Blogger Ktrion, at 1:05 AM  
This is a real quote from my anatomy textbook: "First and foremost, our skin is a barrier. Like the skin of a grape, it keeps its contents juicy and whole." I just thought that you needed to have that quote.

And I kow how you feel. My late-to-the-airport and leaky-ceiling freakout last week was made unbearable by the PMS. I would have been able to handle that situation so much better if I hadn't been PMSing, but as it was, I had to call my mother and cry and have her tell me to call the landlord - I wouldn't have thought to call the landlord by myself.

M. Luminous
Anonymous Anonymous, at 2:44 AM  
I'm glad no one mentioned running amok with a loaded weapon in your favorite grocery store and gunning down all those bitchy ultra-thin women with their perfectly died blond bobs who are determinded to not only ram you with their carts every chance they get but also take the last fresh ball of mozzerella out of the brine even though they already have 15 crammed into one of those smallish plastic containers.

It just wouldn't be Christmassy
Blogger Radish King, at 11:41 AM  
Rebecca, I have to honestly say that running amok with a loaded weapon amongst bitchy ultra-thin women with dyed blonde bog jobs who insist on freakishly hoarding mozzerella in their too-small containers actually sounds downright festive to me!
Blogger Artichoke Heart, at 2:37 PM  
Ugh. I meant to say bob jobs up there.

And Luminous, thank you for your anatomy textbook quote. I love it when a simile turns out to have a patina of biological precision to it!
Blogger Artichoke Heart, at 2:39 PM  

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