Sometimes I’m just sitting around when deep self-awareness smacks me rudely upside the ol’ noggin: “Oh, I see. I am now nutso insane.” This could seem like a bad thing, but it’s not, really. Mostly because insanity conveniently covers, oh, about a gazillion jillion sins. Slobbery ol’ love may cover a measly multitude of sins, but insanity? Fuggedaboudit. It’s useful for everything.
Why did you do that? I am insane.
Why did you say that? I am insane.
Why do you think that? I am insane.
What’s the DEAL with your hair? I am insane.
So today I was sitting around at Boheme, bossing MB around because apparently “my foot hurt” or something. The Talker was in da house, going on about interest rates and pollution and “what’s wrong with everything.” For a solid 45 minutes, there was just the sound of his rambling voice punctuated by droning “uh-huhs” from poor MB. As for me, my hobbling foot pain was now clutching at my throat, rendering me speechless. See? There really must be something to that whole reflexology dealio.
Just then, from my position behind the espresso machine I saw The Talker do IT. The thing. The deplorable, unforgivable thing.
He sat down at the table where my stuff was. Which isn’t actually the thing, but that’s what set it in motion.
It was obvious it was someone’s stuff. He even asked whose stuff it was. “Mine.” Still, he sat. Okay. I was okay with that. Sorta. Okay. I’m lying, but, I mean, I wasn’t nutso insane, not yet.
My stuff at the table where The Talker now sat, all cozy and chatty, consisted of three things: my coffee and my notebook and MY MAGAZINE.
My brand-new mixed-media design magazine.
My magazine that was a little escapist splurge at, ahem, 14.95.
My magazine that I had not even looked at yet.
My magazine that The Talker had taken and started casually thumbing through without asking. Commenting on it all the while. Like some utter buttmunch who gives away the ending of a book you really want to read. Or a movie you really want to see. He was totally violating the virginity of my magazine experience and you can’t get that back, can you, and from the depth of my secret bunker 5 feet away, I went suddenly, completely sonic-boom psycho. I threw a look at MB. THAT look. The “I am now insane and not responsible for what comes next” look. He haaates that look. Under my breath, but loud enough that MB heard me, I muttered, “Oh, no, he DIHn’t” Because I’m so hip-hoppy street cool, homey, blahdie blahdie poopants.
See? I still cannot think straight. Hours later. I am still not over The Magazine Incident.
Because I have this thing about my magazines. I know I’m insane. I am insane. But it’s really really simple: DO NOT TOUCH MY MAGAZINES BEFORE I’VE EVEN READ THEM. MB knows this. From many a bitter pouty lonely night where history has repeated itself with horrible childish consistency, he knows this. But the magazines — they’re a little luxury to me. A teeny thing for me. They’re always some kind of design something-or-other and I just want to sit and revel in it and have my pretty pretty moment, dammit! I don’t want diamonds. I don’t need wads of cash. I don’t care about cars. I just want the joy of discovering what’s inside my little paper splurges all by myself. And first. Because, well, I am three years old and insane.
I literally could not calm myself down while The Talker idly turned the pages of my magazine, mentioning this, exclaiming over that. I needed a drink. A Xanax. Electroshock therapy. Weaponry. I swear. I kinda paced back and forth on the espresso platform, watching him, watching him, like a big caged cat. Dude, put the magazine down. Now. Now. NowNowNow. And I was aware I was doing this. I was aware of my insanity. And so was MB, believe me. I’m sure he needed a drink. A Xanax. Electroshock therapy. Weaponry. For his own very personal reasons, God bless ‘im.
Ten minutes went by. Talker talking. Nutso pacing. Husband regretting. Oh, so many things, probably. Finally, finally, The Talker just tossed the magazine back on the table. A careless flick of the wrist and — swoosh! — my little paper escape was back where it was before The Talker came along and RUINED it.
Then, he was off again, gabbing: Real estate, border patrol, seminars, open houses. I took deep breaths and really tried to become less insane. Then I ambled towards him and took deep breaths and really tried to sound casual when I grabbed my magazine from the table saying, just a teensy bit shakily, “Oh, heeey, let me get that out of the way for you.”
And, I swear, I only paused my hand above his head and imagined raining blows down on it with my cool magazine bat for the tiniest split second.
I know. I am insane.