And while we're on the topic of entertainment . . . note to reporters:
Please stop asking Brad Pitt when he's promoting his latest movie if he is planning to marry Angelina Jolie. The public officially stopped caring years ago. At least I did.
yeah you are
Build a man a fire and he's warm for a day. Set a man on fire and he's warm for the rest of his life.
Oh, Serena5233, words fail to express the felicity of my spirit upon receiving your message, but darling, quiet yourself. And hide in here under the towels in my laundry basket, because the wrathful warlock who rampages through MDA removing messages is keen to your trail. I told you not to track breadcrumbs, and yet when I look at the forums, I see them everywhere. From Primal Papa to Siobhan to jenn26point2 to Sabine to Paleobird to winencandy . . . dear Valhalla, you do get around, don't you? But that is all right. Tramp is just another word for panhandler, and that means you're a cook. Good. I am hungry.
No, no, stay in the basket for now. I sense a finger hovering over the Death Triangle, and I cannot bear to lose you on this dark, lonely night. We'll sneak you out later when the danger has passed. And then you can cook while I regale you with some delightful tale, and after that we will settle in to watch Liz and Dick because justyouraveragecavemen is waiting anxiously for every detail.
I've never wanted to be Serena5233 so bad in all my life.
I also need a young GP story, complete with lots of these *. Save me adult GP, make my day brighter than Serena5233 ever could.
RE: Hashtag. I liked the comment about how in 20 years she'll have to explain what a hashtag is, except to me of course, because I still call it a number sign or pound sign.
If I just said LOL, I lied. Do or do not. There is no try.
Yesterday, Gay Panda was not nice. At least it was just on the inside.
The refrigerator was down to an odd collection of items: soy sauce and expired lemon juice, a container of olives and the shredded cheese I throw to* the Death Eater Chickens to shut them up in the mornings when they want the world to know that once again, they have farted out an egg.** An egg! Wow! It should be front-page news. Move over, economy. CHICKEN LAYS EGG is the new headline.
After I sunk to eating the Death Eaters' cheese in order to avoid shopping***, I knew it was time to pretend to be a responsible grown-up and get to Whole Foods. I put on some pants and foolishly picked up the ringing phone before dressing the rest of myself, and so was stranded that way while Lady Friend babbled into my ear about bugs that bore holes in fruit. This is one of those things that interest her and I have to be polite because she was polite when I babbled into her ear about my research into old Pennsylvania collieries the other day.
Lady Friend has the magical power of talking without needing to pause for breath, and the best way to infiltrate her chatter is simply to roar LADY FRIEND LADY FRIEND LADY FRIEND SHUT UP FOR FIVE SECONDS SO I CAN PUT MY SHIRT ON!!! This was not how I was not nice yesterday. It is just a coping skill****. I dropped the phone and finished arranging my apparel while she sang elevator music to fill up the air space. Then I grabbed up my snazzy Jack Spade bag and headed for Whole Foods, searching for a radio station playing Katy Perry or Ke$ha to distract from bugs that bore holes in fruit.
When I arrived at the store, I was unable to get a cart. This was because a woman was standing in front of them carefully wiping down her own with an anti-bacterial towelette. I waited and waited as she scoured every inch of the handle of germs, and I had horrific and completely uncharitable thoughts about her OCD. This was, of course, ridiculous since part of my own OCD revolves around the same damn thing. It was a time to show compassion and be patient with other people’s challenges, but instead I was irritated that her fear of germs was so out-of-control that she would not even roll the cart a foot away for its ablutions so that other people could get carts for themselves. What the hell is wrong with you? Control yourself! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE.
At long last she threw out the towelette (careful not to touch the flapping lid of the trash) and moved aside. And I braced myself to touch the handle of the next cart, giving the towelette dispenser a considering look. But I don’t want to do this, humor the malfunctions of my brain so much so that I lose sight of the world around me, so I wrapped my fingers around the (swine-flu ridden) bar and pressed into the store for a 90% primal success.*****
Maybe it just hits close to home, because she is doing what I want to do, clean and clean until I am safe. Until I feel in control of my environment, even the parts you can only see through a microscope. And this is why I don't allow myself to do it, get lost in this particular never-ending loop of OCD, in the false relief kicked up by eradicating an enemy that wasn't truly threatening me. I lose enough battles to my brain already but I won't lose this one, dammit. Because where does it stop? With OCD, it doesn't. It just builds on itself, like feeding a monster who only ever gets hungrier with each meal. If I check the stove knobs once, maybe I should do it again. If I check the doorknob three times, maybe four is better. And then I will turn into Mother Panda, who would turn the car around blocks away from the house to make sure the front door was locked. A door that we didn't even use that much, and meanwhile the car we are in is a year past its tune-up date and makes a disturbing rattle on hot days. The front door was always locked, but she was caught in the loop and controlled by the anxiety it kicks up.
So, to that woman, I apologize for the angry thought-storm. I know what it's like. But next time, please just wrap your hands in the towelettes and get the f*ck out of the way.
UPDATE: (in explanation of *, **, ***, ****, and *****)
* Did I write throw to there? I should be honest and write throw at or hurl upon while yelling STFU.
** Yes, Avada. It is very exciting. Please tell us more. The world is waiting with bated breath.
*** And discovered there is no recipe online made up of soy sauce, expired lemon juice, a container of olives and shredded cheese.
**** She has plenty of coping skills for Gay Panda as well. One of the most frequent is her roar of GAY PANDA, STOP BEING NEUROTIC.
***** And then I got home and washed my hands immediately. Lady Friend called again as I was changing back into my pajamas, once more leaving me stranded and bellowing at her to cork it so I could get a sweatshirt on.
Last edited by Gay Panda; 11-28-2012 at 11:58 AM.
“If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.” --Audre Lorde