Fizzy Follies – No, YOU Have PMS!

Hello my darlings!

My laptop decided it was overworked and crapped out on me so I have been unable to blog for a bit! Which is a shame because I had a moment of sheer mortification happen this week and well, I’m a giver.

Let’s set this story up by saying I was so not in the mood for shenanigans on Monday. I really was not. I had cramps and was ready to set the world on fire.

It’s worth noting that I am not one of those women who can strut into a store and buy something like feminine hygiene products or condoms and feel all confident.

No, I’m one of those people who needs only that one item but I will buy several random items just to be stealth. Who doesn’t need seventeen packs of Tic-Tacs?

So there’s me, awkwardly standing in line at Walgreens with a giant box of tampons and mouthwash. Why mouthwash? Because I was too lazy to search for anything else and it had a picture of Shakira next to it. That was my actual logic.

I’m in line, headphones in, listening to Imagine Dragons wax poetic about hidden demons when I feel someone breathing on my neck. ON MY NECK.

I yank my headphones out to hear a man’s voice, mid-sentence say this:

“…those filthy rags, I can’t believe anyone buys them.”

I was horrified. I whirled around and shouted, “WHAT THE HELL!?” at this dude.

“I said I can’t believe anyone would buy enough of those filthy rags for them to sell out,” he repeated.

A fiery ball of PMS induced feminist rage boiled up in me and I swear, I actually had my hand pulled back to slap him. I was literally about to slap a man in the checkout line of Walgreens.

A few things popped into my head first.

1. Why would he say they were sold out? I didn’t see any sort of tampon shortage…

2. Holy shit, this guy looks like Santa Claus. Beard and all. I’m about to slap Santa Claus.

3. What is he pointing at?

I flicked my eyes to the side and saw the pointing spot.

If you reached the punchline here already, you are a lot quicker than I was.

Magazines. He was talking about motherfucking magazines.

Tabloids, specifically.

I stuttered, “Uh, like In Touch?”

Santa replied, “You know how people wonder if a tree falling alone in the woods makes a sound? It does, it says, ‘NOOOO, I DON’T WANT TO BE PEOPLE MAGAZINE!'”

I had a moment of cynicism where I wondered if perhaps I was being creeped on by a pervy old dude who didn’t expect me to turn around and shout at him and was quick on his feet.

I chose to believe the magazines. Because ew.

So we stood there chatting about tabloids and how the British versions are far superior. But nothing like the classics where Cher gives birth to a two-headed alien baby.

And I’m pretty sure the guy never realized he was seconds away from getting punched in the face by a crazy person.

I told my friend after that the entire ride home I was picturing the newspaper headlines: LOCAL PMSING WOMAN ASSAULTS SANTA

What have we learned here today?

1. I am not fit to be in public with human beings.

2. Never, ever whisper in a strange woman’s ear. Ever. For any reason.

3. Stop using the phrase “filthy rags” just on the off chance the person you are talking to is buying tampons.

And scene.

I hope you all are having wonderful weeks and are surviving the holidays well!

Until next time,

Peace, Love, and Tabloids

3 Comments

  1. Oh my freakin’ HECK. This exact thing happened to me once. Except the guy looked more like Walter Matthau than Santa and I was listening to The Tragically Hip.

    Forget the normal humans. Let’s just revel in the weirdness that is our lives. 😉

  2. *laughs butt off*

    I almost did something very close to this… My company has a pretty decent on-site cafeteria and it gets crowded. I was standing in line and suddenly felt a hand.

    ON MY ASS.

    At work.

    Oh my God in heaven, is this guy for real? I whip around, hand fisted and cocked back and there’s nobody there.

    At eye level at least.

    I look down and there’s a terrified toddler who I thought my butt was his mother’s butt and when he realized he’d mis-butted, let out a shriek of pure terror.

    I skipped lunch that day.

  3. Thanks for the LOL, Fizzy!

    And for the good advice — though shalt not use the words “filthy rags” ever again. At least not in public. 🙂

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