What Do Light Switches, Strike Plates, and Flip-Flops Have in Common?

Can you guess what I’m talking about before you get to the end?

Usually, it starts with the light switches. Sometimes I have to try like six times before I can get the stupid switch to flick, and by the time I finally master this seemingly straightforward maneuver, I’m spitting mad and there is a blood vessel twitching in my temple. Picture me, my beet-red face about three inches from the switch plate, concentrating like I’m defusing a bomb, using both hands to toggle a tiny switch into the upward position, because apparently using one index finger like a normal person is beyond my capabilities.

And plastic grocery bags (I recycle them to pick up my dog’s poo) – don’t you think that with the static cling, a plastic bag would be a hard thing to drop? Not for me! I lob them all over my kitchen airspace while trying to put groceries away, like crinkly beige parachutes, scaring the crap out of the dog and making him hide under the dining table. You would almost think I’m scaring him deliberately.

I somehow find a way to get my hair caught on weird things too, things that no other human in the history of mankind has ever gotten their hair caught on. (And I really couldn’t care less that I just ended the preceding sentence with a preposition, just so you know.) The other day, I caught my hair on the strike plate of the door. I didn’t even know what that was. I had to Google it. Seriously. Who gets their hair tangled up in a strike plate??? I do, that’s who.  

Who knew? It's called a strike plate.

Yesterday I flung my daughter’s plate of food into the air. I was trying to put it on the table along with a bottle of ketchup and I—very athletically, I must say—banged the top of the ketchup bottle into the bottom of the plate, sending her food flying into the air. At least the dog got a bunch of french fries and bite-size grilled pork chops to atone for the plastic bags I hurled at him the day before. I guess he still loves me.

Putting on flip-flops turns into an epic mystery novel. So suspenseful! I just never know what’s going to happen! Will they flip up into the air? Will they turn upside down and not flip back over when I try to use my toe to right them? Will my big toe get caught in the part where my little toes are supposed to go? Or vice-versa? Maybe the flip-flop will just slide all around the floor like a big freaking tease while I push it around with my foot, but my toes will never actually get past the straps. Really, this much difficulty with flip-flops? I know something is amiss when I begin to suspect my flip-flops are plotting my insanity.

Banging my knees, stubbing my toes, ramming my elbows. You name the body part, I’ve bruised it. I’m not picky; I will ram into anything – chairs, couch, wall, desk, refrigerator. This morning I took out half the magnets and all of the artwork on the refrigerator with one zealous, yet inadvertent body-slam.

And how ‘bout vacuuming in the midst of all this flailing nonsense? It’s like the people who designed the vacuum endeavored to make it as cumbersome to use as a machine could possibly be: How about let’s make the bumpers black so that people will scuff the shit out of their white baseboards? Great idea! Of course we’ll make it just wide enough so that it can’t fit in between the legs of a chair, and it must be almost impossible to turn. The hose should be only long enough to reach half-way under the bed and two-thirds of the way up the blinds, but certainly not all the way—because that would be far too accommodating. Vacuum bags were a real pain-in-the-ass, but hmmm… what can we come up with that would be EVEN MORE annoying? I know! CANISTERS!!!! That way, the only way to empty the vacuumed debris without causing a dust-storm of biblical proportions inside your house is to take the canister, along with a trash can, to the yard and empty it into the trash outside. Good luck doing this a) gracefully, and b) without flashing your boobs to your neighbor when your shirt falls down while you bend over to dump the dust storm into the trash can. Oh and PS? Now the trashcan’s dirty so you have to clean that, too.    

Just this afternoon I ran to Walgreens to buy tampons (I know: SHOCKER) and while I was trying to decide if the generic tampons really would be like Tampax Pearl or not, I threw my phone on the ground like I was mad at it. Just threw it on the ground for no damn reason at all. WTF.

So did you figure out what I was talking about? (If not—congratulations! You’re a dude.)

Did you guess PMS clumsiness?

DING DING DING DING!!!!!!

Sorry, you don’t get a prize. Because if you guessed what I was talking about, you probably suffer through the same crap that I do every month. And that is not a prize; it is an affliction. It is a period-stain on the underwear of humanity. A lethal weapon, wielded innocently by women the world over, once a month and with total randomness and complete disregard for circumstance, wealth, or convenience. 

PMS CLUMSINESS IS AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY ASSAILANT AND DOES NOT GIVE A RAT’S ASS THAT YOU HAVE OTHER SHIT TO ACCOMPLISH IN YOUR OTHERWISE KICK-ASS LIFE AND THAT NORMALLY YOU COULD SUCCESSFULLY PERFORM BRAIN SURGERY ON A DANCING KANGAROO WHILE WALKING ON STILTS AND RECITING “GOOD NIGHT MOON” FROM MEMORY.   

To the men who read this blog: I apologize if this is more information that you care to know about discomforting lady-body-part-voodoo, but I figure I’m doing you a favor by giving you a peak into the feminine psyche and all. So just… you know… back away. Slowly. You’re welcome.

Ladies? Any funny stories? I need to laugh in commiseration so I can forget about my bruised shoulder and stubbed toe.

----

If you like reading this blog, please take a quick moment to click on the Circle of Moms button below and go vote for Abandoning Pretense! Thanks for reading!