28 Days Later.
My handbag is a mess. The Canary papers are a mess. Let's not even talk about my apartment. "Where's my paring knife!?? Where did I put the salt? I just had the effing salt? Where's my checkbook? Where's my computer cord? Where's my phone? Where? Where? Where?!" is frequently heard at The Canary up to 647 times a day.
It's embarrassing really.
Let's put it this way: I can't even keep my internal calendar straight. Even though I am on the pill and know exactly when I will get my period, I still can never ever remember to have a tampon handy. So invariably whenever it happens, I am (ha ha) caught with my pants down! Which means I must trot on over to the CVS and buy a brand new box of tampons every month. Sometimes twice a month because I'll leave the box I just bought somewhere and be screwed four hours later. Sigh.
When I moved I discovered that I had accumulated quite a stash of tampons. I counted, and I am not exaggerating because I never exaggerate, 162 slender regulars throughout the various boxes, dresser drawers, satchels, shoe boxes, and kitchen cabinets in my apartment. I am set until perimenopause. As long as I never walk out the door.