Monthly Archives: August 2016

Grocerying is a word now.

Grocery shopping is very much a hit-or-miss kind of deal with me. My body must be just the right level of hungry; if I’ve just eaten or feel full then my purchases will include almost all non-food items. If I’m ravenously hungry my cart will be filled with Cheez-its of every variety and more chicken than my freezer can physically accommodate.

It’s a mental game, too: If I’m tired I rush through the aisles and forget important things, such as Everything On My List. If I’m cranky, minor setbacks send me spiraling off into an angry oblivion and I’m liable to storm out of the store with nothing while mumbling to myself. WHO THE FUCK PUTS POPCORN IN THE CEREAL AISLE? LIKE HELL I’M GOING BACK THERE TO GET IT NOW!

Ooh, ooh! Or! If I’ve just spent an inordinate amount of time on, say, Pinterest, then I end up with very specific ingredients to a half-dozen intricate meals and/or desserts that I have no time to prepare or bake and I’m asking myself six months later why the hell I bought lemon extract.

All this, and you’d think that I have some sort of elaborate mental ritual in order to prepare myself for a visit my local supermarket. Nah, fuck that. I just go and leave the rest to chance. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be a good day: I’ll remember my list and my coupons and remember to actually give  my coupons to the cashier and I’ll come home and have food – real food! Not just Pop-Tarts and strawberry jelly!

Well maybe Pop-Tarts. Let’s not get crazy here.

Okay. Off to get my grocerying done! Suck it, Noah Webster!

 

 

 

Damnit, Phyllis.

I spoke to a Very Angry Person on the phone at work a few nights ago. And while she was not irrationally, wtf lady angry, she also was not accepting my information, apologies and suggestions. I was at a loss – one of those times when I was genuinely stuck as to resolving her problem and was fumbling and inarticulate on the phone. It was a terrible, diarrheal shit fuck of a situation and at the end of our conversation came a dreadful, soul-crushing pause.

“I see. And you said your name was Phyllis?”

I at once wanted to laugh (Phyllis? How did she hear Phyllis?), sigh (complaint naming me specifically a’comin!), and rage (I was nice to you, lady. I didn’t have to be. But I fucking was). Instead, I ended the conversation, scraped this little encounter off the top of my conscious mind, and slathered it onto the shit cake I’ve been baking in that hot, angry place deep inside of me.

And instead of detaching myself from it, I retracted into that particular hole and threw myself in, funeral-pyre style, so that I could self-immolate in my misery and gorge myself on my perceived failures and shortcomings as a human person. I let it blind me to everyone else: me! me! me! I am miserable! I am the worst! Nobody likes me! Guess I’ll go eat worms!

One three-minute conversation is not to blame for this, of course. I am not myself these days.* In the past days, weeks, months (?), to those whom I’ve seemingly ignored, blown off or acted anything less than warmly toward, I am sorry. I have recently been reminded that I am never, not ever, alone in this world and am taking itty-bitty-baby steps to straighten out my sometimes neuro-chemically-confused head. In short: It’s not you, it’s me.

But I still blame Phyllis.

 

 

*With apologies to Josh Kilmer-Purcell, from whose memoir I stole this line. You should read it. I’ll lend you my copy. It’s very, very good.