cingular adventure

i feel horrid. i am a bloated puffy monster. in the past 48 hours i’ve accrued about 15 extra pounds and increased a dress size. my tits ache and i hate EVERYONE.

running yesterday afternoon only made things worse. i plodded along at a 9:30min/mile pace, my internal organs gurgling and slopping with every step. i honestly thought my uterus was going to jolt right out of me, dropping in the trail with a squishy red *glurp*.

i whacked my funny bone in the shower (not so funny) and was 15min down the road before i realised the parking brake was still on. entered the cingular store with a chip the size of texas on my shoulder. behind the counter is a pinch-faced man with harry potter glasses.

- can i help you.
- well, see my cellphone, which i got less than a year ago so it’s still under warranty, well the hinge broke and it flips open kinda jiggly so i was wondering if i could get a replacement.
i hand over the phone for his inspection. harrypotterman fiddles with the hinge, which is predictably jiggly.
- yep, she’s broken. let me see if we’ve got this model in stock.
harry vanishes and i gnaw my cuticles for several minutes. the door opens and in march two women. they’re both outfitted with walkie-talkies, nightsticks and handguns; both wear shirts saying “parole enforcement officer.” why do i suddenly feel as though i’ve committed a felony?? but harry’s back. and he’s smirking at me.
- sorry. we don’t have these in stock right now. AND there’s water damage, so we can’t accept this phone.
- excuse me?
- water damage. see?
he’s slid off the back of the phone to reveal some telltale dot that confesses my sin of getting caught in the rain once while riding with my cellphone.
- but… that has nothing to do with the hinge.
- sorry. it’s water-damaged.
- it is NOT water-damaged. i can call people on it. people can call me. i can play SOLITAIRE on it. the only thing wrong with it is the broken hinge, which has NOTHING to do with water WHATSOEVER.
- sorry. it’s damaged. we can’t accept it.
i’ve just sat in 30min of rush-hour traffic for nothing. i sigh deeply and turn to the woman behind me.
- can you shoot this guy please??
she straightens, thrusting her shoulders back, hand on holster.
- ma’am, that is a terroristic threat.
motherfucker. is this what the world’s come to? harry’s stiff as a fucking board and helga and her dominatrix sidekick look like they’re ready to handcuff me. they do not know that i am suffering from probably THE worst PMS of my life, and even if they did they would not give a rat’s ass. it’s off to one of those secret CIA holding cells and then straight to guantanamo for me. my dog will grieve for years, wondering why no one takes him for R-U-Ns or plays goalie with him anymore. i had better tread carefully.
- i’m sorry. that was a joke.
- it was a terroristic threat, ma’am.
technically, it was a question not an imperative, and terroristic is one of those words like irregardless, used by people who haven't enough to do with their time besides add extra syllables to words that don't need them. then again, our Commander-in-Chief persists in saying "nucular" so why should our law enforcement officers be any more eloquent? we get what we deserve.
- i am sorry. i didn’t mean it that way. i think i’ll just take this – i pluck my now-perfectly-fine who needs a non-jiggly-hinge-anyway phone from harry’s palm and sidle toward the door – and call later to see when you’ve got it in stock. thank you for your time. have a super evening.

all the way home i check my rearview mirror for flashing lights.

this shit better pass before i get myself in real trouble.