Just a quick note all …
We’re working closely with Barnes & Noble to make the book tour kick off at their flagship store in Schaumburg a huge rock n’ roll event! I’ll have details soon about how you can get your very on ALL ACCESS backstage pass to this can’t miss event. We are going to ROCK this place!
Until then, save the date!
Friday, November 6, 2009
6:00 – 8:00 p.m.
Barnes & Noble Schaumburg
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Plaza
590 East Golf Road
It’s safe to say, I think, that I have calmed down somewhat in the past hour. Although considering a recent debate with my guy about the versatility of our potato peeler, it might be a good idea to keep me away from sharp or otherwise bladed objects. You just never know. (Really though, could anyone take a chick serious when she blurts out “Don’t make me peel you, dude!” while brandishing a rather flimsy and dull peeler?)
Anger rarely makes an appearance on my mood spectrum, at least in a form that doesn’t require my guy to play twenty questions to determine that I am, in fact, annoyed, when the immobility of emotion in my face would otherwise suggest an over-Botoxed pageant contestant.
This is why he was likely shocked to receive a lengthy text from me today that was laced with a staggering amount of “fuckos” and “suck its”. My bile definitely wasn’t directed at my guy, though he, being an extremely tolerant man, was nice enough to let me rant like a deranged beaver until my chomping eventually sputtered to a halt.
He’s even graciously offered to make a few phone calls as my “representation” to resolve my issue, which is a relief, one, because I’m too aggravated to make much sense to anyone and two, his skills in problem solving are so acute he’ll likely have the offending company renamed in my honor by the end of the week. Reason #9,278,875,102 Why I Love My Guy.
Anger definitely does not suit me. When it rears, I do my best to shove it aside, but it sits on my face like a wet cat, wretched and stinking and unpredictable at best. And despite the potential issue resolution in my future, I still froth and revel in my misanthropy, letting the otherwise mundane and ridiculous take new and angry life in my head.
I admit, considering my current mood, I should have known better than to use the bathroom in my current location. It’s a horrid place, roughly the size of two upright coffins, and meant to accommodate the needs of approximately 30 women.
There’s barely enough room for my misogyny, but I make the appropriate adjustments. I’m considerate like that. The same consideration is hardly paid by anyone else, a shocking testament to the general cleanliness of the bathroom users in that particular vicinity.
But really, what should I care? It’s a bathroom only, not a lounge or a fainting room. It’s not even a place to do much else than can be done behind a closed stall door, though plenty seem to find it suitable for lunch container rinsing (I once witnessed a woman attempt to crush a half-eaten burrito down the drain), tooth brushing, zit popping, and the occasional session with a curling iron.
While it is mildly annoying to squeeze between makeup bags and salad bowls to use the one sink for hand washing, I do it quietly because I realize that where there is a mirror, sink, and door, there will also be women considering it some sort of private sanctuary impervious to the laws of common courtesy.
Things like changing the roll of toilet paper in the dispenser become far less important than removing an errant hair from one’s chin. And that’s fine, really, except when I’m in the stall next to your preening, and you are oblivious to my requests for help.
In the defense of whomever was in the stall before me, a roll of toilet paper had been placed in the dispenser. This in itself was something of a shocker; most often the single roll dispenser is left empty, and the roll of toilet paper is perched precariously on the back of the toilet to collect whatever splashes out during a flush.
My practice has been to carry my own tissue in with me; but my mood today left me forgetful, and I was forced to test the Bathroom Fates. I thought I lucked out upon seeing the roll in place, and eagerly pulled my single ply, stiff-enough-to-write-this-blog-on “tissue” from the roll.
Perhaps I pulled with too much force, or perhaps the nitwit who put the roll in place ahead of me didn’t actually put the holder in its slots, but instead rested the roll on the base of the dispenser. In either case, the result was my pulling the entire roll of toilet paper out of the dispenser, dropping it to the floor, and watching it roll right under and out of the stall to the sink area.
“Um, a little help here?” I meekly called out. I figured the woman at the sink would surely have heard the sound of the metal dispenser tube hitting the tile floor, or at least felt the roll of paper hitting her foot.
It’s possible, of course, that there was a def and blind mute with an artificial leg outside my stall, in which case, I do apologize for all the things rotten things I am thinking right now. Obviously, she’d have no way of knowing about my incident, and I actually would have put her at risk with my carelessness. Lord knows no one wants to trip over an errant roll of toilet paper.
But if that is not the case, and if this particular woman in question actually stepped OVER the roll of paper to exit the bathroom and deliberately leave me stranded and dripping, then you deserve every one of the fire ants that I wish would infest your closet.
Were my mood better, and had I not earlier been forced to deal with an unrelated company whose levels of incompetency make a box of hair look smart, then perhaps I’d be able to laugh the incident off.
As it is though, today is not the day to get in my way, and I remain volatile, angry, and oddly amazed things that can be purchased online. Just how many fire ants are in a pound, anyway?