I'm Teflon, You're Glue

Having recently been referred to as a “pot” by Mr. Words, I feel my only recourse is to post. It’s Friday, and I have a few free hours. Old wives say that watched pots don’t boil, but I hope to prove that refreshed blogs do, eventually, produce updated material. See how un-potlike I am? Also, I am not round or black (er, Culinary-American), and when I get all steamed up, I rarely shout, “Tip me over and pour me out.”

In fact, when I get all steamed up, I usually don’t know what to do with myself (see a much earlier post). Fortunately, I don’t get steamed up often.

Wednesday, though, was one of those days. No toe stubbing, coffee spilling, or minor traffic violations. The source of my angst was somewhat more consequential but not very interesting. So, I won’t describe it. I’ll just say, in modern lingo: I was pissed.

If I had been a character on “Friends” (where it sometimes isn’t “your day, your month, your year,” etc.), I would have stormed through my rent-controlled apartment, flung myself into a designer armchair, and launched a clever diatribe punctuated by Phoebe’s kooky one-liners and a laugh track.

Scientists call this a “counterfactual.” If I had wings, I’d fly back to Boston and inform Murky I’m neither pot nor kettle. Salad shooter, maybe.

I did fling myself onto the couch, but without Monica around to straighten the throw pillows, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Can a tantrum exist without an audience? Is it like the proverbial lone tree falling in the woods? I sat up, adjusted the cushions, and, as an afterthought, applied an apologetic coating of Febreeze. It’s not the couch’s fault, after all.

At my desk, I found support from Mr. Rogers. Coincidentally (or not), his office-calendar wisdom for June 28 was: “We all have angry and even violent feelings within us, but most of us learn, as we grow, how to express those feelings in ways that don’t hurt either others or ourselves.” Do we translate drinking half a bottle of Southern Comfort as “hurting ourselves”? We do, don’t we. Drat.

Okay, Fred. I’m not going to assault my brain cells or my mild-mannered landlord, but what’s your suggestion? What’s the neighborly way? I flipped to August 18: “Find the simplest truthful answers.” Fine. I emailed Murky (who shall henceforth be known as Eric, because that is his name). What Eric lacks in knowledge of kitchen equipment, he counterbalances with a mental Rolodex of mood music. “When you get time, could you recommend a few ‘angry mood’ downloads?” I wrote. Eric’s simplest truthful answer: “Are you kidding? Where to begin?”

I think it’s no use creating a rubric for “anger music,” though one could certainly brainstorm applicable criteria: Angsty Scream (yes/no, duration); Screechy Guitar Riff (yes/no, duration); Tempo (fast, super fast, roadrunner). Already, there are problems --for me, Fiona Apple is top-quality anger music (“Get Gone,” #1 on my Top 25 Most Played), but her angst is of the slowly seething variety. No kicking in the bass. If Tolstoy had been a DJ, maybe he would’ve claimed “happy” compilations are all alike, but every “anger mix” is unique.

Another counterfactual. Just call me a temperamental Cuisinart.

At Eric’s recommendation, I downloaded a bit of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Stone Temple Pilots. I searched for a song called “Push It” by Garbage, but Ms. Manson apparently isn’t permitting the Yahooligans to rock for free. Instead, I acquired Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s “Push It,” which I subsequently played at least five times. Around the tenth repetition of “Oooh, baby baby,” I felt my mood improve.

Still, for good measure, I punched a pillow until my hand turned red. Simplest answers, quoth Fred. And why construct an elaborate receptacle to trap anger when you can use...a pot?