The [Gal] Show

My face this week.

I am a ridiculous person.

Well, let me clarify: I am a person to whom ridiculous things happen. And fairly often. Generally it’s nothing major or life-shattering or even that important, but in nearly twenty-six years of living, I’ve yet to make it a week (in my own memory) without experiencing some small yet noteworthy event.

But occasionally, my week is less “wayward skirt in the wind” and more “I’m living in The Truman Show. Aren’t I?”

This has been one of those.

It all started Monday morning. Monday morning at 3:44am, to be exact. To backtrack, I have always loved living in old buildings. I feel out of place in a modern high-rise, and the few months I lived in one made me feel itchy somehow; consequently, I live in an old building. The sort of old building that sports a fire alarm that will not only rouse you from sleep, but do so with all the volume and urgency of an air-raid siren. The sort that not only invites you to leave your bed, but tosses you to the floor and kicks you out the door without letting you stop for your shoes.

But these things happen. Does anyone enjoy meeting their neighbors at the crack of dawn in 30 degree weather? No, but the fire department arrived quickly, determined it was a false alarm, and we were back to bed within half an hour. I recounted the tale for my coworkers, and laughed it off.

Until it happened again at 4:12am on Tuesday. And let me tell you, if you think a fire department is mildly annoyed by having to turn off an alarm in the middle of the night because someone was brilliantly smoking in the hallway (our working theory at the time), guess how excited they – along with residents – are to discover the culprit is actually a dying old warhorse of a smoke detector?

You can tell me this is an isolated incident; I would agree with you if it weren’t for Wednesday’s paper cup explosion and today’s incidence of a stranger grabbing a fistful of my hair on the train and telling me how good it smelled. Or the fact that what should have been a package of ladies’ athletic socks arrived today in the mail as a pair of toddler overalls (thanks, Big Box Retailer!)

Can you really blame me for being wary of falling can lights?

Your Gal

Quote of the Century: “I love purses, and that doesn’t mean I’m not a feminist, either. I’m a damn feminist who loves purses. Where else am I supposed to keep my feminist writings? In a purse, that’s where.” – New Girl


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