Hippie wisdom: “Just listen to your body, it’ll tell you what it needs.”
Me: “Mm’kay. Body, what do you need?”
Body: “I need to order a large pizza, eat one full slice, then eat just the cheese off the rest.”
Me: [blink] “Um… Hey, hippies? I don’t know if the fat broad can be trusted…”
Oh, right, now I remember why I’d unfollowed the Be Well Philly page — I don’t do food guilt. They allude to it frequently and…no.
Tonight I order my pizza with a side of NO FUCKS.
Also? I’m sorry, but who the balls says “pizza pie” in Phila-goddamn-delphia?
That said, I’ll totally eat that pizza. And then probably some pie.
P.S. It’s entirely possible — nay, probable — that they were just being cute and I’m a total asshole. I just have a lot of feelings about pizza.
A horrible ad has been popping up on my Pandora Radio lately, telling me, “This Valentine’s Day, give your man a not-so-subtle hint: Tell him to order flowers from Such-and-Such Place.”
Tell…TELL HIM?!
Wow, what a spontaneous and romantic gesture that’ll be for me. Should I go select the exact bouquet I want and just send him a link, or does he at least get THAT much credit? Because OMG, men are SO clueless, amirite, ladies?!
I once had an ex tell me I “hint with a hammer,” because I usually just say what I want, but I’ve never pulled THAT shit.
Jesus Christ, if Valentine’s Day is that important to you, your Person should know to get your fucking flowers.
I like Valentine’s Day. When in a relationship, I personally like to spend it at home with a movie, pizza, and nudity, because I’ve generally felt loved every day in my relationships and don’t feel the need to make it such a Thing. (I am also cheap and lazy.) But still, I like love and celebrations thereof. I like flowers and hearts and pink crap and on-sale candy the next day.
But I hate the implication that all women are whoreticulturists and all men are inept.
…It’s possible I have too many feelings about this.
Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that’s always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.
I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid — I never realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.
This is the greatest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. This woman is my new spirit animal.
But I need to go to Canada and show her what real pizza — and thus true love — is. That pizza doesn’t love you, Nicole. That pizza will betray you.
P.S. I didn’t even notice it said “shero,” because it was just too gloriously much at first, but really, that shit needs to stop. She’s a hero. That’s the word. Knock it off.
Male Coworker: “I could live on pizza and tacos.”
Me: “OMG, me too.”
Coworker: “See, that’s why you should have kids, because they’ll eat that stuff every day.”
Me: “Uh, that’s why I DON’T have kids, because I’d have giant-mutant-obese kids who only ate pizza and tacos.”
Also, that doesn’t even make sense — I don’t need to have children to eat tacos and pizza. I just…CAN. I am a grown-ass woman and I can eat tacos whenever the hell I want. AND, with the money I save not having to buy food for Smug Junior, I can also get nachos or extra guac. My barren womb for liquid cheese? This seems like a fair trade.
Joking aside, I must reiterate that this is not a thing you should be saying, especially at work, especially if you don’t know the person well. What if a medical condition has made it such that giving birth could actually kill her? What if she’s been trying to conceive and not able to? What if she HAS conceived and the pregnancy didn’t take? What if her husband has some sort of issue and it’s causing them marital problems?
Honestly, shut your fucking mouth. This is a gross and invasive thing to say.
Besides, I don’t even have room to birth a kid to share tacos with when I have YOU all up in my vagina. You’re really hurting your cause.
I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while. It involves feelings and mental health, and it’s not really funny-ha-ha. It’s long, and navel-gazey even for me. I promise to be back with snark in the morning, I just need this out of my brain.
I’m going to try to fix whatever this funk is I’ve been in. I’ll start with diet and exercise (and a vacation — thank you, lord baby Jesus), but I’m also going to see a doctor, because I’m not above knocking back some Prozac or whatever if need be. I think the fact that I recognize something is wrong and can fathom taking steps to fix it is a step up from this time last year, when I refused to see a therapist because it was just too much of a hassle to get dressed and pay to explain my “problems” to a stranger. I’m not hating on therapy, I just think my problems are stupid… which I understand is a problem.
You know how you can be over-tired and drive yourself home, and you GET home, but you can’t really remember doing it? That’s how I’ve spent much of the past 18 months — just sort of on auto-pilot and doing whatever NEEDS to be done, but zoning out on the couch or online at every available opportunity. I kept thinking that as long as I could put on the Person costume when I needed to, as long as I could get up, go to work, and see my friends and family, that I was fine. That’s actually what my sister said when I told her I thought something might be wrong — “You’re fine. You’re not CRAZY until you don’t shower, and every time I see you, you smell just fine.” So… that’s the “nurture” I’m coming from here.
I still think like that, to a degree. I know DEPRESSION can get to where you skip work. But, um… I’ve sort of done that. I’ve definitely taken sick days for PMS. In my defense, that’s WHY there are sick days — I really do think the way certain lines of work are set up, how are you NOT supposed to take the “I can’t even” day?
Also, I feel incredibly guilty being a middle-class white woman claiming to be depressed. “Oh, boo-hoo, you’re SAD? What’s next, an Eat Pray Love trip? Go fuck yourself, go to work.” (See?)
I’ve also been noticing a lot more my complete lack of focus. Example: I’m at work right now. I have work to do, but there’s email, and Facebook, and I have to write about my feeeeeeeeelings here, and there are baby goats prancing in pajamas on YouTube, and BAH! We joke about this in my family — we say “Squirrel!” like the dog from Up! — but it can get genuinely overpowering, like I can’t focus when I need to. I feel like this is related to the “I can’t even,” because I also can’t focus on, like, clocks and getting my ass out of bed on time. Who the hell wants to get out of bed and go on the “Squirrel!” tour? And then when I get home, Christ, who wants to think about anything ELSE? Give me takeout and TV, I’m exhausted!
The shift to spring/summer, the purging of stuff, and preparing to move to a new apartment are definitely helping, but it’s still been kind a semi-conscious existence, and sometimes the smallest things are just absurdly overwhelming, especially when my hormones kick in. Tonight I actually considered having the nice delivery man bring me new pizza so I wouldn’t have to get off the couch and re-heat the leftover pizza I had delivered when I couldn’t get off the couch last night. I didn’t, only because the idea of smiling and saying “thank you” to the delivery guy seemed like more of a hassle than re-heating pizza. (And, let’s be honest, by “re-heating pizza,” I mean, “eating it cold from the box on the living room floor while I watch Easy A for the 57th time.”)
There’ve been elements of all this my whole life. When I was younger, though, they didn’t have diagnoses, so I was just “lazy, antisocial, and flaky.” So I’m trying to decide how much of that is just ME as a person vs. something I might actually need help with. And obviously there’ve been a shit-ton of recent life changes that likely brought out the worst of things.
I’ve been blaming PMS, but I’m pretty sure when you’re moody and tired for most of EVERY month, that’s probably something that needs tending.
Or you’re just an asshole.
Here’s hoping I’m not an asshole.
P.S. Post title taken from “Break Me Open” by the glorious Anna Nalick:
I enjoy being a woman. Because I was just thinking, I’d be a little miffed if a guy texted me and said: “I know we were supposed to have a date tonight. But what do you say we just hang out at my place, you do naughty things to me, and then we can order pizza?”
Coming from a woman, though, I think that would make me a hero. Like Wonder Woman. But without that troublesome cockblocking panty.
Smug Singleton 