The Most Important Word In My Vocabulary

It’s been a couple of weeks and by now you’re probably getting the idea why I call myself an odd duck. If not, go back, read a bit, then get your ass back here because I need to apologize to you. Maybe you know what I go through and what is created around me by my duckness, maybe you don’t but it can get pretty fucking tricky being me and I find myself apologizing almost constantly.

I need to set the scene for you. (No photos yet because my pretty highlighted hair has gone from well, pretty, to a weird, greeny-blondy shit mess. I look frighteningly like a cross between Liza Minnelli and Melanie Griffith, you know, if  they were both drunk and did each others hair. Which I would like to see.)

I’m 5’10”  barefoot and I have been *blessed* (ahem) with really long arms and legs. Like, oddly long. I’m slim, some would say coltish (me), others would say rangy and clumsy. My feet have always been too small for my height and I move like some one has lit my ass on fire, so yeah, I know how to enter a room. If something hasn’t been broken or knocked over I obviously have not arrived at your party yet. And I fall down, stub my toes, whack my elbows on things. Cross a stoned Muppet and a hormonal stallion and you’ll get an idea of the grace with which I carry myself.

I like being here, alive, I mean, and I really like people. I’m happy to meet just about everyone. Too happy. Crotch-sniffing-dog happy. (I’ve tried ad nauseum to teach my dog to do that because I thought it would be effective for keeping people I don’t want at my door away, but she never picked it up. Stupid bitch.) I’ll talk to anyone. Loudly. I don’t have good volume control. Believe me when I say that there is no way you will not notice me. Even when I am feeling shy and do my best to hide in a crowd, say nothing, and keep my flailing limbs tightly under control, I inevitably find strangers staring my way. Some look frightened, others are watching me because psychically, they know I’m about to do a uninentional cart-wheel.


Last week, I was in the throes of pms. I get pms like no ones business. I go from hurt tears to full on throw myself on the ground and break my nose tantrums over nothing. I also misinterpret everything.

Hubby:”Good morning.”


Hubby:”Umm, you okay?”

Me: through gritted teeth,”If. By. Okay. You. Are. Asking. Me. If. I. Feel. As. If. Someone. Punched. Me. In. Both. Kidneys. And. Slammed. My. Tits. In. The. Car. Door.,why, yes, I’m pretty fucking okay.”

Hubby:(leaving quietly)”I need a beer.”

In this mood, I took my dog to the vet. It’s not a pleasant experience for either of us. She had an ear infection, which hurts terribly, and I hate paying the bill.

They put us in a little room and there we waited for 15 minutes. The vet took her to the back to clean her ears out, and as she is a big dog, with very ouchy ears, it was a 3 person job. So I waited. And waited. And waited.

I could hear her crying and I didn’t like that. Plus I got bored, so I got the fuck out of that little room. Wandered around, talked to the office girls, browsed at dog food. Talked to a nice lady with a big dog. I got even more bored.

After staring out the window for another 10 minutes, I decided to sit down and be bored. Plus, I was getting pms-y, which I refer to as messy, for short, so I was getting bitchy as well.

I went to the room and the door was closed. No biggy. I opened it to find the nice lady and her dog sitting in my waiting room.

In my normal frame of mind, I wouldn’t have given a shit. But messy as I was my brain wasn’t working.

“I think they’ve put you in the wrong room. And trust me, your dog doesn’t want to run into my dog after the shit she’s just been through.”

She apologized, got up, kinda backed out of the room, apologized again, with me following her, saying “No,no! Shit happens. No problem.”

Well, we were at the reception area when we both realized that I was the one who’d gone to the wrong room.

I can only imagine what went through her mind while I was busy apologizing. Well, I did imagine it and that gave me the giggles, so her opinion of me probably turned from something like, ‘Honest mistake’ to ‘Fucking crazy bitch.’

I giggled through paying the bill and giggled all the way home.( Because if you’re me, ALL you can really do is laugh and apologize.)

Yes, I’ve already been teaching the boy. Sorry is one of  the most important words you can ever say.

The big dog with a cat on her back.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Little wallflower.

Tricky. But fun.

4 thoughts on “The Most Important Word In My Vocabulary

  1. I used to get terrible PMS. Two weeks of pure hell. Two solid weeks. So, 50% of my life I was a raging, depressed I HATE EVERYONE kind of bitch. Awful, dark, black hole PMS. I’ve got a few posts on my quest to kill the PMS monster. I’m not a product plugger, but I take this over the counter supplement now, and 2 weeks of hateness has turned into 4 days. Oh geez…what the hell is it called….hang on………….”ESTROSMART” by Lorna Vanderhaeghe. Has an aftertaste like ass mixed with radishes, but it has humanized me.

    • Karen, I officially love you! I will try.Because my pms is so bad, I want to take a cab away from myself! I can only imagine how hubby feels. And, I’m sorry. Just want to get that out of the way, in case.

  2. Love you. Your description of PMS and kidneys & boobs is a trillion percent accurate. #1 Hubby once said he sympathised re: birth and PMS. So I told him he was only qualified to sympathise after having an enema up his boy bits, not his back end.

    • I think I said something to my hubby along the same lines. He was very scared to be near me for a few days.

Go on. Talk to Mama Duck.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s