Margo: You’ve all been put on notice
So they started me on my fertility medicine, which does the exact opposite of what medicine is supposed to do: Instead of curing your ailments or dulling your pain, it turns you into a fat, crazy bitch.
“Those hormones are like psychiatric poison,” said my dad, the psychiatrist.
So far, so good: I’ve only had one argument with my mother, and that was merely over the fact that she clearly loves my brother more than she loves me.
After surviving my adolescence, my mom has mastered the art of deflection. What would have been a full-blown catfight in 1985 is now a skipped beat, a small hiccup, a short detour from the original route that was our conversation.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I have to go,” I said in a huff.
“So what are you and Ryan doing tonight?” she asked in a brilliant subject shift, her tone sort of forced optimistic.
“I don’t know — nothing,” I said, struggling to hold on to my anger. “It’s Monday night. There’s never really anything going on Monday night.”
“Oh, is it Monday? Jeez — I’m so screwed up,” she said in the breezy way of a retired person who is just too damned relaxed to let her 43-year-old daughter get her riled up. “I keep thinking it’s Tuesday.”
Nope, I am not going to let this medication get to me. I am going to keep it under control. I am going to be nice to friends and loving to my husband and gentle with my dog, who saunters up to my side with concern every time I start swearing at my computer.
“It’s OK, bub,” I’ll say, petting his broad head. “It’s just that Facebook won’t load this photo I’m trying to post, and it’s driving me nuts.”
I’ve even been buying some looser clothes so I don’t freak out when the bloating and water weight pop the buttons on my size-27 jeans. I even bought a large pair of yoga shorts at Heirlooms the other day, and it was so liberating! I was like, “What the hell have I been doing in a size small all this time, the seams pulling apart, the elastic cutting into my thighs, the waistband rolling over beneath my belly fat?” A size large is so much more comfy, so comfy I’ve been wearing them 24-7, doing just about everything in them but yoga. I mean, who knew yoga shorts were the new granny panties?
I have to admit it’s the little things that get on my nerves. That’s when I know the Crazy Bitch medicine is probably kicking in.
Like the other day, I was hiking Arbaney-Kittle with George, and some guy with a boarder collie said, “Is your dog friendly?”
I pulled one of my ear buds out and rolled my eyes and said, “No. That’s why I let him off the leash — so he can just run around and attack people.”
“I was just checking,” the guy said with a forced smile like he was all above getting into it with some crazy bitch.
Then I went to Whole Foods to get stuff for dinner. I don’t know why, when it comes to having mastered the art of domesticity, the one area where I have failed miserably is food shopping. It’s left over from my Aspen days, this idea that it makes perfect sense to go to the grocery store at least once a day to buy whatever food you are planning to prepare in the next 24 hours.
That’s all fine and good until you live 10 miles from the grocery store, 20 miles round trip, which means you burn like a quarter of a tank in your German all-wheel-drive twin-turbo, and who the hell buys a gas guzzler like that in this day and age? If only Whole Foods knew the monster-size carbon footprint I was making just to buy those raw-shrimp spring rolls that I like with the peanut sauce, they’d probably handcuff me on the spot and throw me in Whole Foods prison right there.
So I was walking around, cruising the free-sample stations, and decided to try some tomato sauce. I’ve probably tried this very sauce on at least three other occasions and never bought any, casually tossing my little recycled cardboard sample cup into the trash with an awkward smile on my face and a quick “Thanks” to the person who served it to me, feeling some sense of obligation to buy this grossly overpriced food item.
What caught my eye was that it said “gluten free” and “vegetarian” on the side. I decided that these words mean “healthy” and “OK to eat even if you are on hormones and are trying not to get fat.”
I got home and made pasta with my designer sauce, and neither one of us could finish it because it was so rich. I looked at the label more carefully and found that some of the main ingredients were heavy cream, butter and sugar. And that was when I realized you can believe whatever you want, but what they’re putting in your so called “gluten free” foods is 10 times worse than wheat ever could be, sucka.
My final gripe is that I hate texting now more than ever. I hate it because the keys are too damn small and I can’t thumb-type to save my life and the autocorrect thing drives me batty and everyone wants to have these, like, deep conversations over text. Then by the time I get frustrated enough to just call the person, they don’t answer even though they sent me a text, like, 10 seconds ago.
So if you’re thinking of texting me or feeding me gluten-free foods or asking me to go grocery shopping, just remember: If I turn into a crazy bitch, it’s all your fault.
The Princess is hung over today, but it’s the meds that are making her cranky. Email your love to email@example.com.
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