Ridin the Bitch Train

Valentine's Day doesn't do anything for me - far as I'm concerned it was just Wednesday. So Wonderful Husband took a good friend in Recent Breakup Mode out for dinner so she wouldn't sit at home crying over photo albums. Or the fact that someone had, just that morning, hit-and-run her parked car and destroyed the front quarter panel.

I think maybe he was grateful a reason to get out, 'cause Aunt Flo's roaring into town on the Bitch Train and she ain't in a good mood.

I decided to work out to see if that would exorcise the she-demon lurking inside me. (Get it? Exercise... exorcise... No? OK.) Asked Wonderful Husband to take my picture right before he escaped because I'd had an 'OMG This Shirt Fits' moment that cheered me up briefly. I bought this bike jersey back when I was a size 20 and it fit. But I promptly learned that they're serious when they say line dry and it's been hanging in the closet for two years as a teeny tiny little useless reminder that I need to read the laundry labels on my technical fabric gear. I was eager to see what I looked like now that I can comfortably wear the jersey that was formerly Dead To Me.

(The verdict - still not great, but much better than before. One of the first pics of me - in skin tight gear no less! - in many years that didn't make me cringe!)



Camera duties done, he beat a hasty exit. In no small part because he saw what I'd stuck in the DVD player.

Now I'm SURE you're wondering what someone in my frame of mind might pick to work off some aggression with. If you're a guy you're probably thinking Apocalypse Now or something equally explosiony. Or maybe I went for a killer Spinnerval 'cause I, um, recently "borrowed" a couple from a friend. Ya know, electronically borrowed. Indefinitely and all. Or watching Kona for the 4th time. Or the Wildflower video - haven't seen that one yet.

Nope. It was all about Buffy baby! The musical. Because, I ask you, what better way to judge RPE than a vampire sing along? What better way to cheer myself up than brilliant Whedony dialogue?? Seriously - where else can you hear people say things like I gave birth to a pterodactyl. (OMG, did it sing?)

But alas, the cheering up lasted only as long as the video and Flo stomped around the house for a while, pissed off at everything and nothing. I channel-surfed after dinner and stumbled across the last five minutes of Ice Princess, one of those movies that, unless you're an 8 year old girl, you should run screaming from. I not only stopped (thinking 'Why is Dawn wearing ice skates?)... I watched the last five pathetically staged schmaltzy Hollywood moments. And then I cried.

This was serious. I had to get out the big guns. My drugs of choice...



I wasn't fuckin around. Siren, she's a Cosmopolitan kind girl. But Flo - she likes a good ol' martini, pretty damn dry, only the very best vodka, and while you're at it... just keep them olives comin'.

Somewhere into my second martini I figured it was best that Poor Wonderful Husband had gotten the hell out. Because he's just too damn sweet and tries so hard to help. He doesn't understand that FLO HATES HIS GUTS.

So, if he brings her a new martini... she complains there aren't enough olives in it. Or that he didn't make it with Grey Goose.

If he brings her a heating pad, she bitches he didn't pre-warm it.

If he brings her ice cream, she'll scream about how he can't possibly love her because if he did he would not have failed to microwave it for precisely the 17.3 seconds necessary to make it scoopy-outy enough to eat without being too runny!!

'Cause THAT'S. HOW. I. ROLL. BITCHES.
(At least, that's how I roll, in a what-the-fuck-am-I-saying, out of body experienced kinda way, for about a day once a month or so.)

And if you're wondering what the Calorie Nazi had to say about all this... he didn't know. 'Cause Flo? She don't answer to NOBODY. Especially not some pansy-ass little piece of software that's just gonna give her a hard time about the extra sour cream with the roasted potatoes at dinner, let alone the martini. And half a jar of olives. And don't even start on the SECOND martini. And that dirty little romp with Ben & Jerry? OUR LITTLE SECRET. Flo told the Calorie Nazi to go fuck himself.

[But you know what? The next day? HE. KNEW. He fucking knew. Because if you skip a day, he guesses. AND HE GUESSED RIGHT. OMG YOU GUYS THERE'S NOWHERE TO HIDE FROM THE CALORIE NAZI AAAUUUUGGGHHH.....]