Impermanent Stains

I'm still on a high from my uncharacteristic hissy fit, the one that seemed to knock all the lawyers' heads together. Things are going to start happening, The best way to get your attorneys to stop "working the file" is to make them think you're not going to pay them anymore because you're going to be shackled to a bed in the loony bin.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't mean to suggest I've never had a hissy fit before. I've tossed a few glasses of cheap red wine on laps, I've hurled unzipped suitcases down the stairs (long story), launched a few other improbable flying objects. And, yes, I've thrown incisive and incredibly angry words around with abandon, the kind that can do more lasting damage than any sticks and stones. Provoked or unprovoked? Well, that's usually in the eye of the beholder. But as long as the target is unsuspecting and not the usual recipient of my wrath, a hissy fit is worth more than a thousand mature, reasonable conversations.

Last night, when we literally blew in to my cousin's rehearsal dinner in Westport, Connecticut, unshowered and exhausted after a long day of travel, I was feeling a bit on the verge. First, there were the repeated flight delays -- always in twenty minute increments, although the final one was, oddly, only eighteen. Then there was the  interminable conversation at the rental car counter during which I had to reject thousands of upgrade options that I had already rejected in my online reservation and finally explain that I didn't give a flying fuck what kind of car I'd be driving to my cousin's wedding and, no, I was not willing to pay an extra million dollars for a BMW. The ride from New York City to Connecticut at the height of Friday rush hour was, as you can imagine, a treat, particularly since the effects of the tiny fraction of an anxiety pill I had taken so I could sleep on the plane had not quite passed through my system and I kept fighting the urge to doze.

No rest for the wicked, as usual, and after we went through our obligatory (and, seriously, heartfelt) screaming hugs with all the cousins at the hotel, my cousin (the mother of the bride) gave me the once over, told me we needed to be downstairs in ten minutes, and said "you're gonna change, aren't you?" I hope she was just referring to the fact I was wearing jeans and not to the big brown smudge marks on my upper left thigh, which may have led her to believe that, in the months since I last saw her, I had become incontinent. It was chocolate. Really. Remember the anxiety pill? Well, on take-off, I apparently fell asleep while eating a Baby Ruth. My daughter is still laughing at the image -- the candy bar in my left hand, raised on its way to my mouth, my head dropped back, my mouth open. She had thought I was offering her a bite, which she took. Apparently, gravity eventually took my arm down, candy bar and all, and I somehow rubbed what was left of it all over my jeans. Nice.

It's morning, and I'm back in my happy place. Sitting in a Starbucks, wearing baggy workout clothes -- I have twelve hours to lose enough weight so that my dress will zip -- and drug free. At least until my mom arrives in a few hours. I have no plans for any hissy fits today, but if the need arises, I will don my jeans with the suspicious brown stains and make sure that anyone who dares to mess with me knows I mean business. Craziness is like anything else. It's all about the outfit.