I’ve had a muscle spasm in my left eyelid for six months. Six months. It’s slowly driving me
more mad. The eye twitch isn’t discernible to anyone but me, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I would look truly deranged if my eye were constantly twitching and a curse because nobody believes me, which only makes me feel like perhaps I have, in fact, turned the corner from Normalville into Crazyland.
People have all kinds of helpful questions for me.
Are you tired?
Are you stressed?
Do you get enough potassium?
Are you taking a decongestant? (This from my mother, who believes that any ailment stems from post-nasal drip. Including Ebola).
Are you getting enough exercise? (This also from my mother, who believes that any ailment due to complications from post-nasal drip can be solved by exercise. Including Ebola.)
The answers to these questions? yes, yes, I have no idea, no, probably not.
Never mind all that. I’m indulging in some retail therapy today to help take the edge off my jangled nerves. Of course, my own brand of recession-proof, public school teacher-salary retail therapy involves going so far as placing all my coveted items in the virtual shopping cart, calculating the tax and shipping, then deciding that I don’t really need or want any of them. I do this more than I care to admit.
While I’m on the subject of manic eye twitches and irrational shopping behavior, I might as well go on ahead and further incriminate myself as a complete nutjob by telling you that I already own this. Why do I own this? Because this is the shower gel that my imaginary fictional Cuban American bounty hunter boyfriend from Trenton uses. I can justify this insane behavior because it is pretty amazing; it’s Bulgari’s Green Tea shower gel, and it’s absurdly expensive. Probably cheaper than shock treatment though, right?
I recently decided that I want to leave my career in education, 17 years in the making, mind you, and become an FBI agent. I could do a hell of a job busting up those teabagging protests. Which, frankly, doen’t make a whole lot of sense to me anyway. What does THIS have to do with taxes? Mom, don’t click through. Just don’t. Leave it. Seriously, though, I realize that my desire to become a special agent at age 41 is a pretty sure sign that I’m having a mid life crisis, but fortunately my husband has decided that it would be best not to point this fact out, and I’m just kind plugging my ears and singing “La La La La La La” loudly until the feeling passes. The kicker is that, as fate would have it, I’m too old to actually become an FBI superstar. Ageist Bastards. They’ll be sorry. Guess it’s another April full of Romeo and Juliet, Romeo and Juliet, yet more Romeo and Juliet, and Hey! Look! Have you met Romeo and Juliet?
Let’s head to sporting goods, shall we?
I need these so I can punch Jillian Michaels in the nose. For the love of god, woman, “a couple” means TWO, not eleven. Especially when you’re counting lunges and bicep curls.
I want these. For real. Boden. Size 8. Just in case you have some spare change in between the couch cushions.
Or these. J. Crew. Size 8. Used to be a 7, but then I had babies and everything got bigger and shifted around. Well, not everything. I had C sections.
Ah. The ubiquitous Tory Burch. Most everything the ridiculously gorgeous and Grace Kelly-esque Tory Burch churns out is lovely. EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT SHE CAN’T KEEP HER LOGO OFF IT. I love this bag, but the logo makes it kind of too too something.
I might need this. But not because I have any great affection for Fall Out Boy
or even know who the hell they are except I suspect that Ashlee Simpson’s husband with the bad hair is a Fall Out Person, but because I cannot stop singing the chorus to the song, “Sugar We’re Going Down.” Probably has to do with my FBI agent fantasy. Or because it sounds kind of dirty.
We’re going down, down in an earlier round.
And Sugar, we’re going down swinging.
I’ll be your number one with a bullet;
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it.
I will probably buy this dress from Garnet Hill before long. In black, of course, because…just because.
Or this. Or both.
I have already bought this. It will be released later in the month and I am really looking forward to reading it. This book has all the elements of a good life…boats, funny men, strong women, dogs, wine, and travel. Plus, Terry Darlington is my hero seeing as he was gracious enough to write me a nice note despite the fact that I may have accidentally, inadvertently, rudely referred to his earlier book as the Bataan Death March. But I retracted that. I did. Honest.
This is what I want most of all. Where would I go? Missoula, Montana; Staniel Cay, Bahamas; San Diego, California to see my grandma; Dubai, aramond size=3> Iceland. Sooner, rather than later.