On my 35th birthday (which was Friday) I met Jenny Lawson. (I also received a beautiful necklace and various forms of most excellent sappiness from my husband, but those are mine and I’m not sharing).
I stood in line for the book signing after hearing her read a chapter of her book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. If you haven’t picked it up yet GO BUY IT NOW. You’ll laugh your ass off. She was funny and charming and I (according to my husband) was awkward and looked fairly constipated when I met her. Of course I did…the bruised tailbone I received a few months ago when I fell down my stairs felt like someone was stabbing me in the butt after two hours in a metal folding chair AND I had just enough people in front of me in line to give myself major anxiety about just saying hello to the woman. I’m sure my face was pinched and whatever I said was ridiculous. Sigh.
(Ok I’ll be honest: I remember every word exchanged and exactly what I was thinking at the time, because I couldn’t get a fucking NORMAL sentence out of my mouth or sound like a friendly person and the internal me just kept screaming “JUST BE NICE YOU DUMBASS!!”)
I DID manage to give her a bottle of wine (Mad Housewife, because it always makes me laugh) and get a picture without falling down. Hopefully I didn’t terrify her, because it was decidedly a high point to my birthday.
Of course, if meeting Jenny was one of the high points, there must be a counterpoint. Indeed…let me tell you how I almost shit my pants last night. Because I can’t just get drunk on my birthday weekend and get hungover like everyone else…OH NO. I get my body’s overactive rebel-forces going all Swat Team instead. Because that’s how I roll, apparently.
Yesterday evening my sister, her partner (significant other and baby daddy sound stupid when I write them out), my aunt and her family all went to dinner at Cheesecake Factory. We chatted and ate tasty food and cheesecake without any major mishaps.
Only when everyone left my guts were…complainey. Yes, that’s the best term for it. So I went back in, but the women’s bathroom was full of teenage stripper wannabees in platform six inch spike heels. Watching them dance back and forth on those silly shoes waiting impatiently to pee would’ve been hilarious, except there were six of them and only three stalls. And at this point my guts were SIGNIFICANTLY MORE COMPLAINEY. Did you know there’s NO WAY to cross your legs as a last resort in that situation? There isn’t. I tried. Also, I imagined the chorus of “EWW” if I actually got a chance to get into a stall, and I gave up.
Hoping I could at least get into my car and sit (which might help) I hobbled all the way across the large parking lot, cursing my IDIOCY for just parking and not valet-ing the entire way. I’m sure I looked like I had a broken leg. I sat in the mustang, because of COURSE this only happens when I’m in the nice car, and begged God to let me NOT poop my pants in the middle of the Southdale parking lot. Sigh.
Once I could move again (a good five minutes passed of a sweat-and-curse inducing battle for bowel control) I started the car and left the parking lot. As fast as that sports car can go…and she can indeed go FAST. Until I’m stuck behind a blue-haired old lady who insists on creeping through the intersection (there were NO GODDAMN CARS COMING you idiot…MOVE YOUR ASS!!), screaming at her. My windows were up, thank you, and it was dark, so I’m fairly certain she didnt’ see me wishing for her immediate smiting.
I made it two blocks to a CVS, chanting “just another minute, be an adult and control yourself!” under my breath the whole way. Then I tried desperately to hobble nonchalantly into the pharmacy (BLESSEDLY EMPTY).
Those fucking pharmacies are HUGE and the restrooms are not labeled anywhere. I think when I finally found the women’s room I would’ve just given up if it’d been occupied. It wasn’t. Thank the gods for small miracles.
Of course, as I washed my hands I realized there are cameras everywhere in these stores, and undoubtedly I’m on tape frantically searching for the bathroom and duck-walking in there. Determined to look like I Meant to stop at CVS, I thought “well I’ll just pick up some water like I was thirsty.”
Yeah right. Like that’ll fool ANYONE.
So I grabbed some feminine hygiene products also, because why else would a woman my age stop at a pharmacy at 10pm on a Saturday night?
Of COURSE the cashier was a boy. Sigh. And of COURSE he started a discussion with me about how funny it is when women send their husbands in for tampons. We laughed at the oddities of pharmacy cashiering (my first actual job was doing just that) and how weird it is when someone buys a box of condoms and a box of enemas. Because if I’m going to be embarrassed about something, I like to take it ALL the way. He totally knew I was only there to poop.
All plans today have been cancelled in favor of staying home and taking Imodium. And cheesecake. Oddly enough, the chapter Jenny read on Friday was the one about…ahem…foolishly taking too many laxatives. It’s hilariously gross and even better when she read it out loud (now I have to re-read the book so I have her voice narrating in my head…because I’m like that). Today I’m pretty fucking sure that particular choice in readings was some sort of warning from the universe of my own impending doom.