Feed Me!

There are some days when you’re just hungry for no reason.  Today is one of those days for me.  I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk with nary a grimace, and ask for seconds.  A doctor might call this a drop in blood sugar.  I call it “the frantic search for sustenance or I might just kill somebody.”

I will SO hurt you.

Lunchtime could not have come soon enough.  Yes, I actually had the willpower to wait until lunchtime, chugging a bottle of tepid water, staring at my clock like a crazy person.  Finally the numbers flashed and I was out of my chair like there was a fire, racing for the cafeteria, cackling, shoving people out of the way…I gleefully grabbed a huge, tantalizing bowl of hot chili, a bag of barbecue chips, a cup of Greek yogurt, and a Coke, threw money at the cashier, and high-tailed it into the lobby…

…only to remember that today is Wednesday, and it’s Weight Watchers Day, and my ex-leader is in the lobby, looking right at me, smiling like a predator.  

“Hi!” she says brightly, beady eyes flashing over my stash.  You have to pay for bags in Monkey County so I put that extra nickel toward that extra large chili bowl, and everything was stacked up like a foodie Jenga game.  I could almost hear her totaling the calorie count in her head.

“Hi,” I replied, throwing her a grimace that passed for a smile.  Lady, do not judge me right now, I will take you out.

“Looks like quite a haul there,” she giggled.  I hope she didn’t hear the growl.  That could have been my stomach, or it could have been a warning, I don’t know…but I said something idiotic and ran for the elevator.  Bitch was eyeballing my Saltines.

I ran for my office, gleefully locked the door, and dove in to lunchtime heaven, the destruction of which took about 10 minutes tops.  I sat back with a sigh, stomach distended, lips and fingertips orange with chili and barbecue seasoning.  As I’m cleaning my hands with my little wet wipe, my brain made a warning sound. 

SIGNAL HAS NOT BEEN RECEIVED.

Shit. 

If there’s one thing I learned from that Weight Watcher’s class, it's that you need to wait for your brain to receive the signal from your stomach that it’s full.  Apparently I have faulty wiring.  Sometimes I get this signal loud and clear; other times, I’m not aware that the storage facility is rapidly approaching maximum capacity.  Only one time have I reversed gears from eating too much – and that was terrific spaghetti, too, dammit, which is probably why I ignored the mayday klaxon.  Today, however, appears to be one of those days in which my gastric process has blown a gasket and all I can think is that giant plant from “Little Shop of Horrors” screaming “FEED ME SEYMOUR, FEED ME!”

So okay, lunch was done.  I decided to ignore the clamoring and see if I could go the allotted 30 minutes – the time it’s supposed to take that signal to get from stomach to brain.  Naturally, that didn’t happen; within 10 minutes my hands were shaking, my eyes were bulging, and I was on the prowl for sugar.  Any sugar.  Packets.  Sugar cane.  The cardboard box that says "Sugar" on the side.

I can’t keep an emergency stash of candy on hand because I’ll eat the entire thing in seconds.  My co-workers have bags of candy in their offices that they take to meetings to share with others, and out of embarrassment, I stay away from those bags, because at this point I’d clear them out and they’d be left in meetings trying to explain to the chocolate-bribed executives what happened.  I can’t leave them in that predicament.  After all, chocolate-bribed executives are dangerous.

But I work in an office building, which has secretaries, who always have candy.  Always.  I know this for a fact, having been a secretary once myself.  I am surprised it’s not a job requirement.  “Must type 120 words per minute, know the intricacies of Microsoft Office, and keep candy dish filled with miniature Snickers at all times.”

So out the door I went, trying to look professional, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead as I headed for the division secretary's desk around the corner.  My stomach felt like I'd swallowed a bowling ball.  God, I was full of food, and I was still maniacally hungry!  This sucked!  Stupid non-working brain signal! 

I made it to Catherine’s desk, ostentatiously checking my mail slot for non-existent mail.  She smiled cheerily.  “Is it too hot in here?” she asked, noticing the sweat beads.

“Nope!” I replied back, eyes searching for the candy.  There it was, in a little basket near her computer.  Oh God, Reese’s cups.  Full size ones.  Probably melted, because yes, it was too hot in here.  Didn’t care at this point.

“Ooo,” I said, trying not to slobber, “Reese’s!  Mind if I grab one?”

“Of course not!  Help yourself!”  So I did.  To three.  I didn’t even make it back to my desk and they were gone in one chomp.  I don’t even know what I did with the wrapping.  Did I even unwrap them?

Would you believe three full-size Reese’s cups still didn’t send the hunger signal?  Nope! Off I went with wallet in hand, grumbling to myself by now; I’m a bottomless pit, this is all going to my ever-burgeoning waistline, how the hell do I stop this, etc.  Our office building does not maintain vending machines on each floor, so I had to go find one tucked in the confines of another floor. Stair climbing.  Exercise.  Don't judge me.

Why is it, when you find a vending machine, that (1) the goddamned thing won’t take your money, and (2) someone always walks in to see you buying a second bag of M&Ms and looks at you like you’re the most disgusting person on the face of the earth?  I immediately grinned guiltily at the well-dressed young man who surprised me this time, while all the while I wanted to do this:

GET...OUUUUT!!!

But finally, FINALLY those M&Ms hit the switch.  I’m now sitting at my desk feeling bloated, and I’ll probably be reaching for my bottle of Tums later, but for now, the monster is sated.

Now…what’s for dinner?  Hmm.

--Rebecca

The Bag Lady

Any woman knows how it feels to cart around your life in a bag.  Some of you are smart enough to just use a wallet in your pocket, and I don’t know how you do it.  Millennials just put everything in their phone and I, a child of the 80’s, just freak out about that.  I have to carry around a pile of stuff – medications, a calculator, pens, a monster jangling pile of keys, note pads, coupons, a protractor (that’s a joke, although I really did carry a protractor for years, to my husband’s great amusement, just in case there was an obligatory angle that needed measurement), and of course I go nowhere without my trusty Kindle.  My hoard of goods always gave my where-is-it seizure-prone Type-A brain a wink and a buddy elbow of reassurance, knowing that if I needed that little container of hand sanitizer or a pair of tweezers, I was good to go. 

Not even close, bud.

I look at vacation pictures of myself from years past and I’m always the easy one to pick out in the crowd because I’m the one slouched over from the weight of the large canvas Disney tote with the camera, the direction book for the camera (in case I accidentally push a button that turns the camera into a little walking robot that laughs maniacally and runs away), the raincoats, the suntan lotion, the extra bottles of water, etc.  The weight of that vacation bag and the weight of my Brobdingnagian laptop bag that passes for a purse has given me a permanent groove in my right shoulder and has pumped up the muscles in my entire right arm – I can hardly pick up a cat with my left hand, but my right hand could probably hoist a hippo over my head and juggle it. 

But just how much stuff do I really need to carry around?  Other than my perambulating pharmacy, a wallet, and my Kindle, I can leave most of this stuff at home.  In fact, yesterday I decided to clear out the canvas tote I usually take to work with me.  I hadn’t looked in the bottom of this thing in years, and the results were quite comical.  Here’s what I found:

• My old heating pad, which I thought my husband had stolen years ago, and he swore he had his own.  Point to husband.
• A dish towel.  I guess I had this in case there was a random plate at work that needed to be dried.
• A bottle of Coke Zero.  God knows how old it was, it didn’t even fizz when I shook it.
• A shattered CD case containing an old self-recorded CD that I had never put back.
• A cracked CD case containing the pictures of our 2010 New England trip, pictures that my husband swore he gave me and I was pretty sure he hadn’t.  Another point to husband.
• A copy of my SF-171 (government employment application) from 1989.  Done on a typewriter!  I thought that typewriter was hot shit back then.
• A copy of my wedding certificate.
• A half-bent blue folder, frayed around the edges, containing…nothing.  This was ominous.
• A YMCA Activ-Trax workout form from 2011.  Probably the last time I went to the gym.
• A Christmas card from a co-worker. 
• A half-bag of mixed cough drops.  They appeared to be okay, and the wrapper came off of one easily, but I wasn’t going to take the chance.
• A plastic container of earplugs.  Again, they appeared new, but for some reason, they completely grossed me out. 
• Dust bunnies up the ASS.  Did something move in here and just shed? 
• Probably about 10 lanyards, in all sizes, shapes, and colors, mostly stamped with some odd government acronym (like iSOCCER – yes, that really stands for something, but I don’t give enough of a damn to look it up).
• A pair of white cotton underpants.  Seriously.  Was I planning a trip to the ER while at work – because, God knows, we always have to have clean underwear!
• My arthritis gloves.  Both pairs.  I bought the second pair when I couldn’t find the first pair.
• And finally, at the bottom, an entire package of the office supply saviors called “punch hole reinforcements.”  My husband calls them “paper assholes.”  (This is apparently a Naval term, but boy, did it apply yesterday.)  Anyway, the package had burst, and the adhesive backing over the years peeled off of nearly all of them, so they were stuck to everything…the underpants…the gloves…the lanyards…the dust bunnies.  I added a colorful adjective to the Navy term when I saw this mess (as in “fucking paper assholes”).  My dedication to this bag was evident as I was picking these things off of every square inch. 

These things suck.

So there you have it.  I’ve learned there’s a definite thin line between a woman carrying a purse and an honest-to-God hoarding bag lady.  I will continue taking that canvas bag to work, but it’s a lot lighter now.  As for the monster purse, well, I actually graduated to a smaller purse a couple of years ago, and while I went through the serious withdrawal of not having a sewing or makeup kit at all times, I gradually learned to move on.  I still have the protractor, though, but it’s on my iPhone now.  Yes, there’s an app for that.  Time marches on.

-- Rebecca