Heather Toshiko

he older I get, the more I get to know myself. Remember when you were a teenager and you started drinking? Remember how sick you were until you figured out which alcohols didn’t agree with you, how much you had to eat beforehand, and how much was too much? It was all a part of getting to know yourself and your body. As a female, there’s a second rite du passage that we must endure. After learning to manage our alcohol, we have to learn to manage our hormones.

About eight years ago, I had an ovarian cyst. They are fairly common, and caused by ovulation. The “cure” for these cysts is to temporarily halt ovulation thus shrinking the cysts. So, to halt ovulation, I was placed on birth control pills for a period of three months. I had never been on the pill before, and I had never chemically altered my hormones before. Wow! What a rollercoaster. I was a bitchy, edgy, crying, paranoid nut. I broke up with my boyfriend about 5 times a day, and at some point he said one of the funniest things he’s ever uttered “Heather, you’re lucky I know this is chemically induced because I don’t date crazy.” That was one of the first times I started to learn what hormones can do to me.

Fast forward to today. About twice a year I have a particularly bad bout of PMS. I usually figure it out when I catch myself snapping at a total stranger or picking a fight with the biggest, ugliest person in a bar. Sometimes, I don’t realize that I’m hormonal until it’s too late and I’m surrounded by other humans. Today was one of those days.

Days off are a sporadic treat for me, and today I decided to spend a peaceful, leisurely Sunday afternoon having lunch and shopping at the Irvine Spectrum. After my favorite bruschetta salad, I headed to some chick store that KEEPER had told me about. I picked out seven blouses and headed to the fitting room. When I got there, a five foot ninety-eight pound bag of Asian twat told me that I could only take six items into the fitting room. Ok, I have a big problem when people try to enforce rules that have absolutely no logical basis. The number of items taken into a fitting room does not have any effect on whether or not the items can or cannot be shoplifted. In a properly run fitting room, the attendant will note the number of items that went in, and then count them when they come out. If the number matches, then no items have been stolen. Why the fuck does it matter how many items are taken in so long as they’re accounted for? It infuriates me to have to “choose” which ones to leave out, and then have to try on the first items, re-dress myself, leave the fitting room, swap out the items I’ve tried on, then go back it and undress again. Fuck that! I told HELLO KITTY that I wasn’t about to do all that and that she needed to leave the one extra top hanging on the door so I didn’t have to go and get it. She advised me that she had to hold it up by her little rolling rack of power and that I couldn’t have it. That’s pretty much when I lost my shit. I started telling her that she was in the rear of the store and thus made it pretty difficult for me to make a mad shoplifting dash for the front door. Further, I explained that having seven versus six items in the room didn’t make it more likely that I’d steal one. Finally, I explained that if she was worth the $5 an hour she was being paid, that she should just pay attention to how many items I brought out so that she could be sure that item number seven wasn’t stuffed in my purse. I also asked if she’d ever made an independent decision in her life that wasn’t governed by her father, who bound her feet and touched her inappropriately, or her store manager. The worst part? I really wanted to see her cry and when she didn’t I got even more pissed.

As I left the store feeling pissed and irritable I had an epiphany. It was one of those “oh shit” moments like when you realize you’ve been talking trash about someone and they’re standing right behind you. I realized at that moment that I was knee deep in a bad case of PMS and there were literally hundreds of people between me and my car. Fuck.

Since the point of my visit was to go to Anthropologie, I decided to hit that store and then go home. I walked there quickly, head down, avoiding eye contact, and potential irritation. I entered the store, and started looking at the overpriced clothes and random candles and shit. Towards the back, there was a small room with sale items in it. I decided to check it out, and as I stepped inside, I head a piercing yap. I looked down, and saw a cute little pocket dog on a leash. The owner was a middle aged bitch who was greedily elbowing her way around the sale rack in an effort to discourage anyone else from shopping the same rack. I usually find a way to intentionally crowd these types of shoppers because they are fucking obnoxious, but I was trying really hard to be nice so I went to another rack. That’s when the stupid little dog started yapping. It wasn’t that cute little puppy yap, it was an earsplitting, high pitched, continuous yap that made me want to climb the walls. I assumed that she’d control the little fucker or take it outside, but she kept on elbowing her way through the racks and ignoring the dog. That’s pretty much when I lost my shit. Again. I told her that the dog was too damn loud and that she should have left him in her trunk where he belonged. Then, I told her that she shouldn’t be carrying a $1500 handbag and bogarting the sale rack at the same time. Finally, I told her that it smelled like her dog shit himself, then I went to look at scented candles and pajamas.

Right around the jewelry section I realized that I’d had another PMS meltdown. I shamefully hung my head and rushed for the door. I was now on the opposite side of the mall from my car, it was hot, I was sweating, and I needed to get away from all the potential targets surrounding me.

I started hustling through the crowds, staying close to the wall in an effort to avoid human contact. I made it all the way to the Cheesecake Factory when some fatass and his ugly wife rounded the corner with their stroller and practically knocked me down. Had they politely apologized, I would have made it out of the Spectrum without another incident, but when George Lopez and Camryn Mannehim didn’t even acknowledge that they had almost plowed me down, well…that’s pretty much when I lost my shit. I’m ashamed to say that I called him a fatass douchebag in front of his kid.

Ah, fuck ‘em.

I made it back to my car without incident, and I’ve been hibernating in my house in an effort to avoid human contact until I can behave like a normal human being. I’m not answering the phone, and I’m not instant messaging. Can’t be too careful. If you need to talk to me, send an email or use the bat signal until my PMS has passed.