Look, I'm not going to mince words here. If you've been following my blog, you know a few things about me. I like to cook, I love my family, I color my hair a lot, I have too many wardrobe malfunctions, and I am extremely hormonal right now. Emphasis on the last six words of that sentence.
If you are a woman on the younger side who hasn't yet gotten to this point in her life, read on. Because you get PMS, right? Well, magnify that 10,000 times and you'll know what you're in for. If you're a guy in a relationship, married or otherwise, with a woman, read on. Maybe this will help you when you get served with divorce papers and you're all, I THOUGHT EVERYTHING WAS OK. So did she. Until 5 minutes ago. And 5 minutes later, she'll be ok again. Until 5 minutes from then.
Today started out a good day. I arrived at work in a good mood. I even solved what appeared to be a huge problem for my boss who is apparently getting ready for the TRIAL OF THE CENTURY. As we sat together in the conference room, assembling trial notebooks, he sat back in his chair and let out a loud sigh. "I just don't know what to do about this one issue. Let me throw this at you. I'm not sure you're qualified, but I'm gonna ask anyway." "Okaaaaaay," I reply. "It's not that I don't think you're smart," he continued, "it's just that this is a question possibly for another trial attorney" (which I'm not).
As it turned out, after he posed his problem, it took all of 3 seconds for me to tell him what I thought he should do. He sat there, staring at the floor, looked at me and said, "I like it. That will work. Let's do it." And so we continued until everything was ready.
A few minutes before 5, I started packing it up. Arnie came into my office and said, "What'd you do with those Requests to Admit?" (on another case). "I put them on your chair before I left last night." "There was nothing on my chair," he insisted. "I gotta have that." We went into his office and tore everything apart which is not uncommon and does not ruffle my feathers one bit because this is who he is. He is defined by chaos. Clutter. Disorganization. And, no, I will never tell anyone who he is. I want to keep my job. For now. But even when I don't want it anymore, out of respect, I will never tell. Unlike Carly Simon who went and confessed who she sang about in "You're So Vain." Granted, it was only one person, and he had to sign a statement that he'd never tell another soul and then pay lots of money to some charity, but unless someone pays me at least a million dollars, I'm not doing that.
After searching through everything but the trash, Arnie looks at me and says, "You couldn't have put that on my chair. I would have seen it." I look him directly in the eye and say, "I put it on your chair."
"Maggie. Maggie. You didn't put it there." He sighs and continues flipping through papers.
Upon feeling something click/snap/vibrate in my neck, I said, "Excuse me. I have to visit the ladies' room." Once there, I place my hands on the counter and lean way in. I look at my eyes, bloodshot from insomnia, and try to decide whether to rehearse my acceptance speech for the Oscar I'm gonna win when I go back in there and put on my best performance as actress in a drama where she acts like everything is just fine and dandy, or the speech I'm going to give when I throw myself to the mercy of the Court during my torture and murder trial.
When I return to the office, Arnie is standing there with his trophy as he takes an Emmy for best supporting actor in a sitcom and is all smiles and says, "I found it!" Like nothing ever happened.
"Oh really? Where? In your . . . office???" (SHRIEK).
"Yep!"
I get my things, say a weak good night, walk to my car and drive home - where I chop the crap out of green onions, broccoli and garlic, and sob hysterically because, for some reason, I am angry with men this evening, and I am suddenly super pissed at Henry the Eighth. "Like who in the HELL did you think you were? Chopping off heads like that. It was your sperm that couldn't produce a son, moron!"
Moral of the story: Never challenge a woman in her 40s. Ever. Because for all you know, she's either a starving actress who just wants to get that Oscar she's always dreamed of, or she's a raving lunatic who thinks doing 30 years to life might not be so bad.
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma
