and i when i left work, i had a parking ticket.

I stepped in dog poop on my way to work this morning.

PMS stands for Punk-ass Mall Security

Good evening and the Christmas tree, which I refused to let my parents take down today- January seven -because oh shit my ramen is burning and the cat is on my lap and we all know that it is a sin of great consequences to disturb a sleeping cat on your lap.

Crisis averted. As I was saying:

Good evening and the Christmas tree, which my parents tried to undecorate and remove today a mere week into the new year. Completely unacceptable. After years of basking in its twinkling glow safely into February, I advocated against disturbing the tree, even despite the fact that this year's specimen is exceedingly pointy and sappy. Arguing that my wishes should be honored at least until Jan. 16, my 23rd birthday, I defended my "birthday tree" with as much vehemence as one can without actually getting off the couch. I prevailed. Thus I write, comforted by the fact that as long as the holiday season endures, I can justify being 23 and still living in my parents' basement.

And speaking of my age and sensitivities thereabout, I have for you tonight a very special tale of drama and passion, of power and revolution, of angry words and embittered tears, all set in that crucible of human emotion: the Holyoke Mall.

Our story takes place on Saturday, December 30, a cold and bleak day in the life of our heroine, myself. On this particular occasion, we find me leaving Victoria's Secret empty-handed, after an unsuccessful foray into my former place of employment to secure new black stockings. Although this alone would be enough to invoke disappointment and frustration in any lingerie disciple, the entire day up to this point had been one of rather unsatisfactory feelings. Firstly, the post-holiday departure of my brother the day before had left a void in the Griffin household, plunging me back into my pre-holiday solitude as the only resident of my house under fifty and without a tail. Further, even before the ill-fated visit to Victoria's, my shopping trip had yielded little returns, my quest for a suitable crossword puzzle book and black work shoes both ending in failure and frustration. Add on to all these crummy factors a healthy dose of PMS, and here we have a dark and gloomy stormcloud, quivering with bad energy and looking for some poor fuck doing a rain dance.

Enter mall security. As I strode indignantly out of VS, eyes firmly locked on the entrance to Macy's, outside of which I had parked, a kid in a white shirt and black tie stepped away from the escalator towards me. Having done nothing wrong and in no mood to take a survey, I breezed past him and continued on towards my target; I did not break stride as he called out "Are you aware of the mall's policy?" As I passed, I issued him a curt reply, which sounded like "No-o" but in no unclear terms said "No, and I don't give a rat's ass so get out of my way, half-pint." However, persistent in his line of duty, he chased after me, catching up just before I crossed into the haven of the department store. He repeated his question.

"No. WHAT policy?" I replied, turning to face him with eyes that I am frankly surprised and disappointed did not shoot lasers.

"You have to be 18 to walk around the mall alone." He stated, handing me a flyer.

"That's great. I'm 23." I snapped, and turned back without accepting the outstretched policy. Now, up until this point, I had been merely annoyed. Not particularly at him, for it was not his fault that none of the items I had driven all the way to Holyoke to purchase were available that day. Nonetheless, he was unfortunate enough to get in my way and I had absolutely no problem being extremely rude and unfriendly to deter him from taking up any more of my time. While he may have thought I was treading on his crisp button-down mall authority, I was really letting him off easy by reigning in the full force of my bitchery. Stepping foward into the store, I blew out a frustrated breath at a conflict I assumed was over.

"Do you have I.D.?"

Oh no he di-int. I spun around.

Suddenly and without warning, my eye lasers went off. Converging between his quivering brows, his head exploded into a million pieces, like a watermelon filled with dynamite.

Sorry. That didnt really happen. The real story is way better anyway:

"What?!" I barked, daring him to ask again.

"Can I see some I.D.?" he repeated, attempting the steady tone of the law. Unfortunately for him, he was clearly fresh out of high school- if even out at all-, a few inches shorter than me, and a MALL SECURITY OFFICER- a detail that seemed to be lost on him. He sounded tentative and juvenile, like an underage kid outside a liquor store asking for a favor. As it happened that day, I was all out of favors.

"Do YOU have I.D.?" I countered, stepping forward into the confrontation.

That's right. I carded the mall police. Don't ask me why I would particularly want to see his ID, as it would merely prolong the argument. But it seemed like a snappy comeback at the time, a natural and clever turn of phrase along the lines of "YOUR MOM has ID!!!"

"What?"

"Do. You. Have. Eye. Dee."

"Um...why?" he fumbled incredulously. In the flash of an eye laser, roles had reversed; gone was the valiant upholder of sacred mall doctrine, replaced by some punk kid from Holyoke with a laminated badge. I guess they dont teach much psych in the mall police academy.

"I want to see it," I replied tightly, liberally applying the people's eyebrow. "You show me your ID and I'll show you mine."

What followed this simple schoolyard proposition was the most awkward of exchanges: each of us fumbling for our green and blue state-issued Mass ID's, fingers unsteady with anger and indecision and the fact that we were eye-lasering the shit out of each other instead of looking at what we were doing. Eventually, having left my license in another pair of jeans when I went to a BAR the night before, I produced my college campus event card, which he hastily glanced at and handed back to me, eager to extricate himself from this young-looking crazy woman. I did not ask to examine his license, satisfied that he had produced it from his wallet and that although his head was fashionably shaved, he appeared to have some sort of Rico Suave haircut on his ID. I also noted that his ID was veritcal, denoting someone under the age of 21.

"How old are you?" I ventured, somewhat sated now that he had complied with my ludicrous demands.

"18."

Since he first requested to see my ID, I had been unreasonabley, unseasonabley, ridiculously pissed. Now, having just started to defuse the complex bomb of pre-menstrual emotions, I felt a new surge come over me- as if the wrong wire had been clipped. Here I am, two weeks shy of my 23rd birthday, being singled out and harassed by an 18 year old boy working at the mall- the mall which I have been going to alone or unsupervised since well before he entered high school. As so often happens that time of the month, the smoldering flames of frustration were unexpectedly overtaken by a salty tidal wave of embarassment and injustice. My eyes started to sting. In retrospect, I think it was the lasers shorting out.

Perhaps sensing the change in temperament, mr. mall security asked me why I was so particularly reluctant to be carded. "Don't you think its a little embarassing...?" I hissed lamely, biting back the rest of the sentence: "...to be detained by a mall cop?!" Before he could respond, I whipped back around, desperate to exit the mall before the levees crumbled and unleashed the full force of the now-unstoppable emotional onslaught. While I stormed through Macy's, the inevitable tears began to fall- through men's wear, down the escalator, and out through the shoe department. That's how you know I was upset: I didn't even stop to look at shoes. And as hilarious as it is to picture this now in retrospect- stomping out of the mall crying because i got carded by the freaking mall police- I can only imagine that poor kid, standing motionless outside Macy's, shaking his head in disbelief and wondering what the fuck just happened to him.

So, in conclusion, I got carded by the mall fuzz for looking 18. Even better, I took this opporunity to exercise my monthly crazy pass and card the mall police back, then burst into hysterical tears and storm out of the mall, leaving some clueless kid spinning in my wake.

Perhaps, in time, he will understand the ways of the lady. You know...when he's older.