I’m Crabby

I’ve been crabby the past few days and today, my crabbiness reached critical mass. It started out okay as I was trying to tidy up the kitchen – finally – for the umpteenth time. I was putting away my nifty Tupperware spaghetti holder and the plastic top flew off like a Frisbee at the beach. It lodged behind the refrigerator, hiding amongst the detritus and cat hair, which, by the way, is omnipresent in my existence. So, I had to move aside the garbage chair (my great invention) and try to retrieve the now dirty, hair laden disc. This precipitated moving the refrigerator (luckily it’s on wheels) and then the bringing out of the vacuum and what ensued was a half hour deep-cleaning exercise that included every damned inch of the back and the front of the goddamned refrigerator. Then the rewashing of the lid and the realignment of the garbage chair and then wiping everything down once again and I forgot what I was going to do earlier. By then, I was off and running off at the mouth with expletives and a generally bad attitude. Oh, I was going to make coffee. That was it. I looked over towards the love seat in the living room and noticed that my two male cats were sleeping soundly on top of some material I had just (before the lid incident) taken out of the dryer and folded, anticipating its use to make a slipcover for a chair in the living room. The two were busy shedding in their sleep all over the light-coloured material that had been pristine and clean mere moments before. Why had they not stayed in the bed that they had already defiled with their hair. The sheets were just washed the day before and they had quickly established their beachheads amongst the white fleece and flannel.
Note: all these activities are interrupted by frequent trips to the washroom due to the blood pressure medication I’m currently taking. It now takes a lifetime to pee these days. Whole books have been read in one day as a result of these frequent forays to the washroom. E-mails sent from my Blackberry; eyebrows plucked; crossword puzzles completed; all done while waiting for my bladder to finally empty. I have dozed off occasionally. Of course the mind wanders. What ever happened to that guy I was so crazy about in my sophomore year at UB? How many inches is 12 cm? Where did my life go so terribly wrong?
I recall a phone call from the previous evening when my drunken crazy-ass neighbour accused me of 1.) running up his gas bill and 2.) complaining to the SPCA about his dog and 3.) not finding him devilishly attractive. I mean, he’s got two functioning teeth, a grizzled beard, bad breath, filthy clothes and looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks; what’s not to love? The phone call devolved into a screaming match and I finally ended it with a triple-dog-fuck-you. What did I do to deserve this? I ask myself as rehashed the event while perched on the toilet. Then there was the e-mail from someone I hardly know, who somehow got himself involved in a situation that was none of his business, but felt that I needed to hear his opinion of me and a friend, which was not complimentary. Besides the WTF response, I was forced to remind myself of previous dealings with this douche and the relative peace I had experienced in the five or so years since our paths crossed until now. I knew there was a reason why I avoided this guy like the plague and here he was back again, being a douche. As the Chinese New Year of the Ox is being celebrated, I am beginning to wonder if my own personal New Year will be the Year of the Douche, or Assholes-I-Have-Known-Who-Moved-Away-and-Then-Came-Back. Not to worry. When one asshole closes a door, another one opens it.
I sometimes open my e-mail with dread. Not the Strand Blog e-mail; that’s a hoot. My personal e-mail. Daily findings might include an e-mail from my delusional friend in Tennesee who takes stalking to a whole new level by tracking down old boyfriends, manufacturing fantasies about how they were fated to be together and actually convincing them to buy into the fantasy. Of course, they must be either alcoholics, convicted felons or both by the time she hooks up with them. Her last conquest, a boyfriend she hadn’t seen or heard from since high school recently died of alcoholism-related cirrhosis, but she has already embarked on her next conquest: a guy who is just out of jail for beating his wife. But he had such beautiful, curly hair before he shaved it off in stir. Previous boyfriends were an Am-Way salesman who was a closeted gay; a broken-down country and western singer – hence the Nashville trip; and a former secret service agent (at least that was what he told her when they had a fling in Spain thirty uears ago. ) She was unsuccessful in connecting with him as he did not answer her faxes and letters. She was convinced that his wife was destroying these messages before he could see them, because, if he got them, he would leave his wife and come to her, as they were “fated to be together.” Oh, and she’s changed her name three times since I met her in Crystal Beach, which she said she came to because, as a child, she visited the amusement park with her parents and her father remarked that “one day you will live here.” It was also the place where she tracked down the gay Am-Way salesman. (He has since moved on to Key West with his lover.) When he finally told her the awful truth, she was thrown into a deep depression that had me really worried – until she found her last love, the cirrhosis-laden alcoholic who was living in a flop house in North Carolina when she tracked him down through his estranged father. Since her husband’s (she actually married this one; she was wife number three,) death, she has once again been very depressed and long distance or e-mail help has been spurned while she cast around for her next victim/boyfriend. And we have a winner! The ex-con has moved ahead of the pack to take his place in her pantheon of star-crossed lovers. I’m still waiting for her to flesh out the fantasy as this one doesn’t fit the usual MO. He’s not a blast from the past; he’s a recent addition; someone she met through her husband. For some sick reason, I’m anxiously awaiting her latest fiction. I particularly loved another recent attempt that ended badly; (he just wanted to fuck her, not “be with” her as he was already married,) the has-been C&W singer. That was an inspired fantasy: she claims that she saw a picture of him in a bar in Toronto some thirty plus years ago where he supposedly had appeared and she “knew right then” that she would meet up with him later in life. Amazing, isn’t it? Maybe that’s what I need to do: find some old boyfriend from the battlefield of my life and resurrect him as the fantasy prince charming who was torn away from me by sinister forces and who I can now reclaim from the internet and live happily ever after.
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