Because I Have Grocery Store Music Stuck In My Head

An old friend, when she was done with it all, would say something like, “I have ONE nerve left, and it is jumping up and down and holding the white flag of surrender.” Or maybe she would accuse you of tap dancing on it. Either way, it was obviously those sorts of statements which made us friends.

My nerve, my one last nerve, is holding up a white flag. It is also offering hookers and blow–or punch and cookies should you be affiliated–for everyone to back the hell off. I am over it. Over it all. I need a tropical beach, a four-hour foot massage, and lots of obnoxious drinks with umbrellas in them. I will, of course, stash the umbrellas on my person in case I need to do a little random eye-dotting. I know this will surprise you–siddown over there–but I really try not to complain on the blog about personal stuff. And I won’t do too much of it today except to say I need a few days with no phones, computers, schedules, grocery shopping, doctors’ appointments, and traffic. It’s not going to happen, mind you. Ever. But I keep praying for an Old Testament-style miracle.

Except that the Good Lord is gonna show up outside Standard Shed and be all, hey! How about a trip for you and your honey to Aruba??!! And I’m gonna be like, yeah, sure, just let me drive these seven people around town, go to the grocery store, empty the dishwasher, and fold the towels. And he’s gonna tell me I don’t get how this works, that we get to go NOW, he’s got in under control, and I’m gonna be all did you remember the dentist? And he’ll be all DAMMIT! And I still will not get to go to Aruba and drink obnoxious umbrella drinks.

One of the ways I know I’ve got to back off, readjust, and make an appointment with my therapist is when I start having dreams of wild-eyed murderers breaking into my bedroom window or an airplane crashing in the backyard. Generally, in my dreams as in life, I rely on Chuck to save me. I’ve had three dreams the past couple of weeks where I’ve woken up screaming either at or for him. Saturday night I woke up and was clawing at his back, something for which I am profoundly sorry because that’s probably going to leave a mark. Also, as a testament to how much the man loves me, one night he was, um, momentarily less than ecstatic about his choice in wives, but still rushed to rescue me from the really creepy dude he had no idea was breaking into the bedroom window. He’s that kind of guy. 

The other symptom that my anxiety is reaching the top of the DEFCON chart is that I get songs and phrases stuck in my head. So it’s not just that my brain thinks it would be a nifty joke to Rickroll me, (Well, itself. Wouldn’t it just be Rickrolling itself?) it’s that I might hear someone at the grocery say something in an odd tone of voice, and THAT will get stuck. At one point, a Carpenter’s song was stuck in my head along with the deli counter lady asking someone, “How you want that slami sliced, baby?” I did not misspell that word. That’s what she asked.

DO YOU KNOW what it’s like to have an unholy mashup of “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again” and slamibabyslamibabyslamibaby barreling through your head like a toddler with a hockey stick? I hope you do not. Unless we happen not to like each other. Then I hope it shows up in your brain like that one zit that pops up in the same place between your eyes before every important event you have. Also, if you are that person, why are you here?

This is all to tell you why I haven’t come around much lately. It’s really difficult to concentrate on anything right now, but I know the trick is that you’ve just got to do it.  Which is why I’ve spent most of the past two days making brackets rather than writing. Didn’t know I’m a basketball fan? I’m not, but I am totally obsessed with March Madness. I am THE most obnoxious kind of basketball fan: I only like college and only during playoffs.  And then I get all WHY CAN’T YOU SHOOT THE THREE??!  And all oh, they are so overrated. That one is 99.999% of the time about Notre Dame and is correct 99.999% of the time regardless of the sport about which I am speaking.

Forgive me if I continue the spotty posting for a while. I am also working on a piece I hope will be picked up for publication by an entity which is less than thrilled with writers who use “asshat” with impunity. I’m sure you see how that’s presenting a problem for me.


6 Comments Add yours

  1. twindaddy says:

    I’ll drink one (or two or three) for you Saturday when I go out.

    1. Susan says:

      Three, please! Kaithnx!

      1. twindaddy says:

        NP. I may not even stop there…

      2. Susan says:

        I applaud your commitment, sir.

  2. Gita says:

    Dear At-the-End-of-Your-Rope:
    I have two words for you (or maybe it’s one word; I’m not sure. It’s Korean) Je Ju (or JeJu).
    It will be your pilgramage to sanity.
    Lest I sound like a shill for this Korea spa (and I am not, nor do they give me discounts for saying this) it is a palace of relaxation.
    That four-hour foot massage? It really exists. In fact, I will be driving 3.5 hours from my hovel in Alabama to Je Ju (or JeJu) in Duluth/Norcross, Ga.,this coming weekend for a day of body scrubs, acupressure massage, foot rubbing, sauna, steam, cold pool swimming and karma-shedding. Google it. Throw off your daily cares and woes. Get you some.

    1. Susan says:

      Let me tell you how much I believe in the healing power of a good body scrub: THISMUCH. So much so that I keep giant bags of raw sugar to make my own scrub. There’s something about shedding a layer embedded with whatever grit, grime, negativity, and yuck has been picked up over the week. I soooo wish I could meet you there.

Just spit it out, already!

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