|September 19, 2000
*I Hate Everybody* Day
Today is my High Energy Day.
This is the one special day of the month when Mother Nature gifts me with abundant energy, tireless productivity, super-incredible powers of focus, concentration and endurance and virtually no appetite whatsoever. Plus I can type about a bazillion wpm.
That's the good news.
The BAD news is that this is also my Fudk You (AND Your Horse), Give-Me-Advice-And-Die, Leave Me Alone/Where The Hell Do You Think You're Going?, *I Hate Everybody* Day of PMS Hell.
It is an absurd hormonal combination.
On the one hand, I look forward to coming into the office on my High Energy Day and systematically knocking all 43,897,621 new items off my *To Do* List in one glorious nine-hour marathon of efficiency. Transcribing voicemail messages! Scheduling dermatologist appointments! Interviewing the latest crop of new Totem Pole employees for the newsletter! Rescheduling dermatologist appointments! Researching helicopter rental options! Ordering supplies! Drafting People Development Committee Mission Statements!
Re-re-scheduling dermatologist appointments!
On the other hand, most of this stuff will involve me actually having to interact with/talk to/share *oxygen molecules* with other human beings.
Which may be a problem, since I hate everybody today.
David and I were still picking pieces of broken window glass out of our bed last night.
We were laying on top of the comforter watching a PBS special on aborigine culture, when -- ironically -- something suddenly speared me in the foot. When we turned on the lamp, we discovered that a glass shard, the approximate weight and thickness of a fetal fingernail (but about a bazillion times sharper) had impaled itself into the bottom of my foot. We inspected the rest of our bedding carefully: to our dismay we saw glass slivers, like a sea of baby fingernail clippings, spread all the way across the top of our sheets and pillows.
"I'll go clear off the couch," I sighed.
While David finished vacuuming the bed last night, I wandered out into the kitchen for a fistful of St. John's Wort and a final check of e-mail (just in case one of my children had, you know, written to announce that they were entering a convent or running for Congress or moving to FRANCE or something). When I came back into the bedroom he had flipped the comforter around and moved all of our pillows to the foot of the bed. The broken window was now at our feet, rather than hanging dangerously above our heads.
"We're going to sleep upside-down tonight!" he announced proudly.
Genius. Sheer genius. Why the heck didn't *I* think of that?
This morning before work, David and I emptied the contents of our headboard, piled everything in the living room, dismantled the bed, leaned the mattress against the far bedroom wall and cleared off the windowsill. Our apartment looked like it had been stirred with a stick.
"This is going to be horribly depressing to come home to," I said glumly, surveying the chaos.
"Yes, but our window will be fixed, won't it?" David reminded me cheerfully. "And when we get home tonight you can sit and work on your website while I put the bed back together, and then I'll move all of our stuff back into the bedroom and put it back exactly the way it was, and I'll vacuum all around the bed, and everything will look great, and the problem will be solved." And he beamed proudly.
Is there anything more annoying, on an *I Hate Everybody* Day, than an accommodating, tolerant, thoughtful boyfriend? Especially one who vacuums?