At the end of the recent and apparently unfortunate Umbrellas and Prozac post, I asked my loyal readers (both of you) to draw your own conclusions about the meaning of my incoherent ramblings. The consensus, according to my beloved family and friends, is that I am a nut job. It is hard for me to argue that particular point. It was even suggested that, perhaps, I owe everyone an apology for wasting his or her time and causing undue irritation. So fine, dammit, I am sorry. Just in case there is anyone who doubts that I am bat-shit crazy, please allow me to explain the offending entry:
Here is what happened regarding the fateful Umbrella post. On the morning in question, I found myself reading a perfectly charming and informational post by Lil Bee about the Morton Salt girl. A blatant violation of “Tobi’s attempt to make 100 posts in 100 days, even if they are crappy, rules”. Rule number one in the self-imposed guideline states: “You (Tobi) only have one hour to post something moderately interesting on this blog. Failure to produce said post in the one hour time frame will result in going to work un-showered, which is unacceptable, so do not read any other charming and informational blogs before work”. There are other rules, but they apply to things like ice cream and brownies before 9:00 AM, and are not germane to this lame explanation.
When I saw the Morton Salt girl, it immediately reminded me of Debbie Kerner. Debbie Kerner was a blonde headed, pain in the ass tattletale, who never had a wrinkle in her Blue Bird uniform or Cheetos sludge on her math homework. Debbie Kerner always had both of her mittens when it snowed, a hairbrush in her desk that was not caked with modeling clay or Elmer’s Glue, and most irritatingly, an umbrella when it rained.
I terrorized Debbie Kerner relentlessly from grades K-4. The only reason I stopped was because her mother (who is apparently a tattletale herself) called Big Judes (my Mom) and told her some far-fetched tale about a poisoned lemon drop. (For the record: glitter is not toxic, and the intent was to make her barf, not kill her). Big Judes, after hearing the exaggerated tale of attempted pre-meditated murder, threatened to give my new purple Schwinn “Lil’Chik” bicycle, with the silver banana seat, to Lithuanian orphans unless I agreed to lay off Debbie Kerner. I agreed and moved on to charging neighborhood children ten cents to ride in the clothes dryer in our garage. I covered said dryer with flowered sheets and billed the concussion-inducing ride as an “acid trip”. That is right, for the low low price of ten cents (fifteen if you wanted the door left open), you could take your first acid trip at the tender age of seven in my garage on Mission Avenue. Thankfully, Big Judes never found out about that little enterprise.
Debbie Kerner is not the only umbrella girl I have encountered in my life. There have been many. I have loathed them all equally. To be an umbrella girl you must be all the things I am not. One must be organized. I usually have trouble finding two matching shoes in the morning, let alone an umbrella. Umbrella girls must be coordinated. Maneuvering with a handbag, coffee cup, and umbrella is out of the question for me. I would put someone’s eye out. Umbrella girls are pro-active and thoughtful, having the umbrella in the right place at the right time and remembering where you put it last is impossible as far as I am concerned. Owning an umbrella would only remind me of my shortcomings, and Debbie Kerner.
As for the prozac part of the post? Thank you, for the loving reminder that there is no shame in seeking professional help. I hope this explanation helps clear up any misunderstandings about the state of my mental health but, seriously what do you want from me in twenty minutes? I really needed a shower.