Some of us are more prone to these bastards, than others. I’m guessing by this point, most of you now realize that when I vaguely refer to a group of people in a specific context I’m merely hiding the fact that I’m actually referring to myself – just in a more peculiar and un-clever sort of way.
Emotions are an experience that poor souls like myself have to deal with on a level that’s a bit more elevated than most. It’s something that’s more consistent for someone like me – like breathing. I like to think of it as being passionate. My friends and family, however, tend to view my personal sentiments as menacing – dreadful, even. Having a bad day for most people in this world may consist of a pint sized serving of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream or a much needed run around the park to clear their mind or maybe a sudsy bubble bath to sooth their nerves. All of which, by the way, sound perfectly fine to me!
But why my mind is physically unable to think that way when shit hits the fan is far beyond my understanding. I’m more of the cancel my birthday party that’s been planned for 3 months type because of a slight increase in water retention that day. Or a shed some tears and march up to your old room at your parents house after being taunted by your big sister for losing a game of cards – at 25 years old. More recently it was crying over a 7th Heaven marathon and eating eleven Dove chocolates – which were all gobbled up before the first episode was even over, I might add. So, after reviewing the facts, I believe it’s safe to say that when friends begin to see the warning signs, I am now instructed to “get my shit together before making any sort of contact with the group” (which was a real quote, by the way). Several ideas have recently been requested by “the group” and if I understand correctly are now fully available at my disposal. Some of their offers include, but are not limited to:
- Drinking wine (may be a sip, a glass or a bottle – whatever gets the job done)
- Drinking tequila (this one was vetoed for obvious reasons)
- Drinking box wine – (the entire thing – eew)
- Xanax (starting to get more reasonable)
- Finding a “muchacho” (very funny, Allison)
As I continue to struggle with ways of handling these situations, my newfound experience post mastectomy has opened my eyes to a completely different kind of emotion. The crazy kind – where crying turns into idiotic blubbering and irritation starts to lean toward knifing someone to their most unfortunate death. Who knew that a TV show about vampires and violence would open the floodgates? Damn you, Vampire Diaries! Feeling a bit vexed and embarrassed with my most recent sob fest, I decided to head toward the kitchen to make some toast with a thin spread of Nutella. It was then, when the cat wouldn’t stop meowing around his treat dish, pleading for a second serving, when I dramatically turned around to him and yelled, “Oh my God, Jersey! Stop begging! Don’t you know there are starving cats in China?!?!?!” Glancing up at my flailing right hand I stopped, blinking rapidly as I came to the realization that the knife I was holding for the Nutella and toast was still firmly clutched in a death grip as I was hovering over my cat. Peering out my kitchen window, I did a quick scan of the neighboring house to see if anyone saw my cat’s near death experience. Feeling like an irrational fool and quickly grasping the fact that my toast had yet to pop up, I did the only rational thing I could think of – I went for the Nutella – with a spoon. After eating about half the jar, the toast finally popped up and I continued my love fest with the chocolate hazelnut spread by smearing it on the toast and eating it anyway. After finally coming to my senses and giving into the shame game, I pulled a Miranda Hobbs and filled the empty half of the Nutella jar with dish soap and tossed it in the garbage.
To make a long story even longer, here are a few takeaways from today’s lesson:
- Having a mastectomy tends to make a woman’s hormones go postal. And by postal I’m more closely referring to bipolar.
- DO NOT buy Nutella after a mastectomy as, for me, it closely mirrors what I can only describe as an edible type of poison.
- Never question your cat/dog/fish/ferret/hamster/donkey, etc. with the expectation that they will respond to you in any language other than their own.
- Continue to use a butter knife for spreading things (other than Nutella, of course) on your toast as the situation may come across much more frightening for your pet with the hovering and screaming and flailing should you use, say, a butcher knife.
- If you belong to the PETA organization, please refrain from contacting me with your crazy paint throwing “you tried to kill your cat” comments. I love Jersey. I wasn’t actually going to hurt him. YOU have a mastectomy and then we’ll talk.
- If a future dating prospect happens to stroll by this particular post one day, I’M SCREWED.
Breast wishes –