It’s called “New Boyfriend”.
A hurricane was headed for the Caribbean last night, which is the market I cover for my job, so I was up until 1am, trying to contact hotels and making sure clients are covered in the event the hurricane hits.
I woke up a raging bitch this morning. And of course, the hurricane hit. So I may not leave this computer today.
I’ve been dieting and exercising for a month and haven’t lost a pound. I decided to rent GI Jane and start Atkins Induction today. Then I thought I’d tie myself to the back of a city bus and run around town for a while. And now I can’t get to the gym. Fine. I’m wearing ankle weights. I wore them to bed just in case I flail my legs a little in my sleep. You never know.
The electric bill is due, and I can’t remember my user name and password to go pay it. One of my neighbors is noisy and I may have to kill him. My daughter was put in a class at daycare that I did not request. It’s hot out. God, I hate the world.
But the new boyfriend called this morning on his way to work. He was singing me a song about how it was windy out. He wakes up happy every single day of his life. Last night, he was flying a toy helicopter around his living room and singing the theme song from Magnum PI.
“How are you?” he asked. Bastard.
“Good”, I answered. Because he’s a New Boyfriend. Therefore, ”Homicidal, suicidal, and fat” is not an appropriate answer.
”How’s your day going?” My day is shitty. But I can’t say that, because then I morph from the coy, sweet, marrying kind to the sadistic nutjob type that will break into your house and boil your kid’s bunny.
“Mmmm… okay” I answer.
“Oh, come on sweetie, what’s the matter?” Fucker. Now you’re going to drag it out of me and see just how crazy I am, aren’t you? But I can’t let you do that. So I’m going to edit.
“Well, I was just up late last night, trying to coordinate a plan for guests in St. Lucia… then I had an early conference call that lasted a lot longer than I thought… now I’m trying to catch up, and my task list is getting bigger, and bigger, and I can’t get to the gym. I’m cranky.”
“Baby, don’t be cranky. Why don’t you go put on your cute pink sneakers, strap on those stupid ankle weights that you probably wore to bed last night because you’ve lost your mind, go for a quick walk, and then go back to work?”
I would answer him, but I’m too stunned. He’s the mother I’ve always wanted. And he’s so fucking hot.
“By the way, I mailed you those DVD’s you wanted” (it’s a Danish tv show that he knows I like. As a matter of fact, he bought the cute pink sneakers as well).
I put on my sneakers, stuck my earbuds in my earbudholes, and walked out the door into 97-degree south Florida, with “Rompe” blasting in my ears. So I wouldn’t be late for my next conference call, I discreetly tucked my cellphone into a corner of my sports bra. And by “discreetly”, I mean I pulled down the front of my shirt and shoved it in there, while the lawn guys next door stopped cutting grass for a moment and wondered if they should either whistle, or run. I couldn’t hear them either way. I had the music turned all the way up to match my PMS-induced rage. Although, it was nice outside. And the tropical flowers in my neighborhood are gorgeous. And somewhere, the world’s hottest, sweetest, kindest, most maternal boyfriend I’ve ever had, loves me.
I returned home calmer, and ready to work. I genteelly pulled my Nokia out of my Nikea.
1 missed call.
Which means, while I was pounding the pavement to Daddy Yankee, my right boobie was loudly tweeting out “Flight of the Valkyries”, and I was none the wiser.
Bring me some chocolate.
And somebody’s head.
