Tag Archives: Batshit Crazy

I’ll be the first to admit that women can be … batshit crazy.

I’m a woman, so I can readily admit to such lunacy. But you have to understand, we are hard-wired to include many more freak-out pressure points than men. Little things that roll of a man’s back like water off a duck’s back are likely to completely cloud a woman’s thinking to the point of ax murder.

I’ve taken the liberty of revealing some of these little elixirs in the crazy cocktail. So next time you see a woman with a downright troubled, fearful look in her eye, don’t judge her by her seemingly perfect wardrobe, perfectly coiffed hair or French-manicured toenails. The problems lie much deeper. You’ll thank me, men, for letting you know. Women, I’m sorry to tell a few of our secrets. But don’t worry, it’s for the betterment of humanity. And I would never give all of them away.

Condition 1: Tuckaphobia Skirtis

Every woman who’s ever worn a skirt or dress in her life (and if you haven’t, bravo) has experienced an acute case of TS at least once. I like wearing skirts and dresses, so I experience a bout every time. Especially if the skirt/dress is lightweight or flowing.

Here’s how it goes: You run to the restroom, and unlike men, have to completely disrobe your bottom half to Take Care O’ Business. Let’s assume you’re on deadline, or trying not to be away from your desk too long because your co-workers are A) on a really long lunch and you have to man the phones; or B) time how long your gone and assume you’re pooping, or C) run to tell your boss that you’ve disappeared and they would like to go ahead and have your new job title.

These are the things that run through a peeing woman’s mind. And if she’s pooping, you’d better believe it’s the fastest poop in town. We are convinced that every person in our office is sitting there with a stopwatch, measuring the length of time we’re in there. We don’t want to be known as Work Poopers. We don’t want the other girls thinking, “Well I’m not going in there for a while.”

You guys have it so easy. You relish your poops. I imagine you show each other if a small group has formed in the bathroom. I know you don’t have doors. How uncivilized is that, really?

But back to women, yeah, we gotta hurry. And when you hurry, especially in a dress, you run the risk of pulling your panties up and tucking part of the skirt/dress into your panties, thereby walking through the newsroom/office baring your extremely pale, dimpled asscheek for everyone to see. Oh, and your neon orange ratty panties. No, it’s never happened to me. Because I run The Check. The Check is basically where you run your hand down your ass from the time you pull your panties up until you get back to your desk. You can even look in the mirror to make sure, but you still run The Check to make sure the mirrors aren’t rigged. Tuckaphobia Skirtis might be a form of OCD. If not, it should be.

Condition 2: Taganoia.

This is the fear that your tag is hanging out of your shirt. It doesn’t sound too awful, but believe me, it is. Tags, random pieces of cloth sewn to your garment, love to just roll on out of the collar, practically screaming to the world, “She’s wearing an  XL! And It’s an off-brand! AND IT’S FAKE LINEN!” Tags hanging out of clothes make you look slovenly.

Usually, some Good Samaritan, always another Taganoic female, comes along to tuck in the tag for you, patting you on the back afterward and giving you that look of, “Don’t worry, I took care of it. I’m so sorry this happened.”

Taganoia is thankfully on the decline, thanks to the genius who decided to put stamps on the inside of shirts rather than sewn-in tags. Why didn’t we think of this sooner? It seems a lot of sweatshops would’ve been thankful that they don’t have to sew in those tiny tacky tags anymore. Somehow, this is Michael Jordan’s doing. I saw those Hanes commercials. He’s the guy who invented tagless shirts. And I wasn’t sure I could love him more… sigh.

It’s odd, though, that men’s shirts were the first, because as far as I know, men could care less about their tags hanging out, and have never suffered a moment of taganoia.

Condition 3: The KMZ.

KMZ is short for “Kill Myself Zit.” It’s basically one of those bad boys that populates your entire face. It walks in the room before you do. It makes you want to just lay down and die, or form a firing squad to take aim at it, possibly lobotomizing you, but you don’t care as long as that horrible thing is off your face. A KMZ attack makes women act really, really strange.

We’re convinced that the entire world can see it, that is shows up on Google Maps, that government agencies are planning what to do should it try to overthrow the government. It’s the kind of zit that doesn’t usually have anything in it. It’s just hostile and mean, full of pus (how DO you spell the adjective form of ‘pus’ anyway?) and refusing to go away. They’re prevalent in the summer for me, when I hate wearing scads of makeup.

But when I’m undergoing a KMZ attack, I throw on the makeup, which never matches, and it ends up melting away about 15 minutes after you apply it (Thanks, Oklahoma Summers!) So we have to pack a duffel bag full of possible fixes for the beast, and run to the restroom every 15 minutes to reapply our masks. And pee. For the love of God, if you have a KMZ, don’t wear a skirt. The stress alone could force an accidental tucking. And then the world would blow up. Note: KMZs are most common if a big day is coming up, such as your wedding, or a camera is within 15 feet of your face. And I’m of the firm belief that men don’t get zits after they turn 17.

And that’s all I’m going to reveal at this point. I can’t just throw all women’s secrets out there, because it might mean men would never touch them again, women would never get laid and that’s a bad thing. The craziness would multiply ten — no, hundredfold — it would be like having longhaired vampiric wildebeests roaming the city streets. We don’t need that. Not again.

I’ll reveal more, but I have to eke it out so the fragile male brain can absorb some, make peace, then move on. Or poop it out, in a room full of other guys.