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.
See?
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.
Anyhoo.
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.
I needed a drink. A Xanax. Electroshock therapy. Weaponry. LOL!
Okay, total GRAVY BOAT: This is a standing rule in our house — not one made by me, by Tef. (I could personally give a rat’s.) But I am not (NOT!) allowed to read any magazines or even catalogues until he’s thumbed through them. Except for US Weekly and Star. Those are first-come-first-served. But I’m still not allowed to tell him anything juicy that I’ve found out. (Just for the record, those subscriptions were taken out by him.)
It helps his case that he’s a speed reader and I’m a… slug? reader? By comparison at any rate. He can finish five (350+ page) books a week. I’m not kidding. I’m lucky if I finish a book every six months. I’m just not as voracious a reader, I guess.
Rambling again, sorry. Anyway, YEAH. Give him a warning first and then next time — shock and awe, baby, shock and awe.
My mom had the same rule when I lived with my parents. Why I was so eager to break into her “Good Housekeeping,” I don’t know.
I kind of get it, though. My mom is the oldest of 7 and I’m a middle child. I have a trail of broken Slinkies (is that the plural of Slinky?) in my childhood that makes my feathers get ruffled by people touching my things without asking first anyway! And you’re right–there is a luxurious feel about a mag that seems untouched; at the store I usually pick the one behind the front copy that’s not all crumpled up already.
WG–the inclusion of catalogs would KILL me. . .
Kate, you have no idea. But it could be worse.
My ex used to spend inordinate amounts of time choosing the most pristine magazine off the rack and would only open it far enough to read it (NO CREASING!). He would then add it to the mags on his shelves and keep them in perpetuity. They were mostly bike, car, and muscle mags (he was a mechanic and weightlifter). But he’d read them all over and over and over. I’d go to his house and find him reading Popular Mechanics from 1985 over his Cheerios. What a freak. (But we dated for five years? … Hmm, WG.)
WordGirl, if I didn’t know better, I’d think my husband was your ex. He has boxes upon boxes of cataloged car magazines. BOXES! And he knows them so well that if you ask him about something (not ME, because I have no idea about that mechanical stuff, but if someone asked), he could tell you “Oh, there was an article about that in the September 1998 Super Chevy magazine. Let me go get it for you.” Eeesh!
But I digress. My mother is like you, Tracey, with her newspaper. Do NOT go pull a section out, not even an ad (especially the Target ad…NO ONE can read this before her and live to tell the story) if you want to keep all of your limbs in tact.
And Tracey, I so love your insanity stories. It makes me feel like there are others out there like me.
“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.”
My husband, the crazy car mag guy, could so relate to this. Stay insane, and keep the stories coming!
What kind of a freak would go out of his way not to crease the spines of his precious magazines, but then proceed to slurp cereal around them?
Magazine preservation hypocrite.
I totally get you, Tracey.
I have been known to buy MY OWN COPIES of magazines, even though people around me get the same mag, and will say, “Oh, I’ll let you look at it when I’m done.”
No. No. I do not want that. I want a fresh magazine, one un-looked-at by the eyes of someone I know. I don’t even want the blow-in cards pre-shaken-out for me. I want a fresh magazine, darn it.
I also cringe when people touch my stuff. It’s my stuff, okay? If I WANT you touching it, I will INVITE you to touch it. Otherwise, keep your grubby paws OFF.
ricki — /I want a fresh magazine, one un-looked-at by the eyes of someone I know./
Hahahahaha!
But — YES!! That’s it. Do not defile my mag.
Tracey……WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING?!?!