This post is closed until further notice. Subject matter is too bad-tempered.
I'm becoming that crabby woman.
You know that crabby woman. For me, she is the neat freak who went on the ten day backpacking trip to the Appalachian trail in 1977. This woman wanted us to sweep out our tents before packing them up every morning. KP duty was hell because the water was never hot enough, you weren't scrubbing properly, and God forbid a pine needle fall into the rinse water. Everybody avoided the bitchy lady. That's hard to do in a group of only 18 people. Bitchy lady had an awful time. Dirt was everywhere. The rest of us had a blast.
I'm not a neat freak, but I am bitchy. I hate that the grocery store parking lot is littered with tiny green strips from the contest they're running. Do people actually think the pieces are too small to actually be litter? Don't they know that somebody has to pick that shit up?
I hate when that car comes racing up my tailpipe as if to get me to move faster on the road. I don't want to get a fucking ticket asshole and I'm already going above the speed limit. That person has tried to pass me on the left when I'm turning left into my own driveway on a double yellow line. Can you say organ donor? Just don't bring me with you to that party.
I hate that when the guys are playing video games, I can't walk in front of the TV without getting glared at, that I have to pick up dirty socks and Tshirts from the floor, and that there are dirty dishes and empty bags of chips everywhere. Clean the hell up after yourselves, would you? I really would like to have a life, one in which I get to play all day and leave my crap lying around for someone else to pick up. I should drop these kids off in the grocery store parking lot so they can pick up all the little green strips.
Guys, I need to vacuum the damn floor. Any chance you could pick up the Lego pieces, the Nerf guns, and the camouflage gear that has been laying there for two weeks? I wish the dog would pick up his toys too. I came home from the grocery store the other day, game pieces stuck to the wet pavement, and the dog had actually pulled a dozen seriously old toys out of the bin he inherited when he came to live here. A couple of the things he chewed beyond recognition, leaving splinters and bristle brushes scattered about on my floor. Bastard.
I'm not allowed to talk like this to their faces, not even to the dog's. There are too many kids around. I guess it's the fact that these kids are only eleven. Well, shit. Aren't kids who are eleven trying to use a word or two like this? Maybe a few graceful phrases out of my mouth will bring out the absolute poetry in them. I hate that I have to edit when I'm bitchy.
And while I'm on the subject, why is it that everything out of their mouths has to either be about fighting or about farts? Can you not tell that I'm in the front seat driving and I can still hear you? I have turned Led Zeppelin up as high as my ears can stand it, mostly because I like this particular song, but also because I can still hear you pretending to fart.
And why the hell did my husband tell me that it was a joke that he wanted me to stay up so I could put his laundry into the dryer at midnight? That wasn't a joke. You meant it. You really did!
And why the hell does it have to be ten things I hate? Why can't it be eight?
Thank you for listening, jules
I'm becoming that crabby woman.
You know that crabby woman. For me, she is the neat freak who went on the ten day backpacking trip to the Appalachian trail in 1977. This woman wanted us to sweep out our tents before packing them up every morning. KP duty was hell because the water was never hot enough, you weren't scrubbing properly, and God forbid a pine needle fall into the rinse water. Everybody avoided the bitchy lady. That's hard to do in a group of only 18 people. Bitchy lady had an awful time. Dirt was everywhere. The rest of us had a blast.
I'm not a neat freak, but I am bitchy. I hate that the grocery store parking lot is littered with tiny green strips from the contest they're running. Do people actually think the pieces are too small to actually be litter? Don't they know that somebody has to pick that shit up?
I hate when that car comes racing up my tailpipe as if to get me to move faster on the road. I don't want to get a fucking ticket asshole and I'm already going above the speed limit. That person has tried to pass me on the left when I'm turning left into my own driveway on a double yellow line. Can you say organ donor? Just don't bring me with you to that party.
I hate that when the guys are playing video games, I can't walk in front of the TV without getting glared at, that I have to pick up dirty socks and Tshirts from the floor, and that there are dirty dishes and empty bags of chips everywhere. Clean the hell up after yourselves, would you? I really would like to have a life, one in which I get to play all day and leave my crap lying around for someone else to pick up. I should drop these kids off in the grocery store parking lot so they can pick up all the little green strips.
Guys, I need to vacuum the damn floor. Any chance you could pick up the Lego pieces, the Nerf guns, and the camouflage gear that has been laying there for two weeks? I wish the dog would pick up his toys too. I came home from the grocery store the other day, game pieces stuck to the wet pavement, and the dog had actually pulled a dozen seriously old toys out of the bin he inherited when he came to live here. A couple of the things he chewed beyond recognition, leaving splinters and bristle brushes scattered about on my floor. Bastard.
I'm not allowed to talk like this to their faces, not even to the dog's. There are too many kids around. I guess it's the fact that these kids are only eleven. Well, shit. Aren't kids who are eleven trying to use a word or two like this? Maybe a few graceful phrases out of my mouth will bring out the absolute poetry in them. I hate that I have to edit when I'm bitchy.
And while I'm on the subject, why is it that everything out of their mouths has to either be about fighting or about farts? Can you not tell that I'm in the front seat driving and I can still hear you? I have turned Led Zeppelin up as high as my ears can stand it, mostly because I like this particular song, but also because I can still hear you pretending to fart.
And why the hell did my husband tell me that it was a joke that he wanted me to stay up so I could put his laundry into the dryer at midnight? That wasn't a joke. You meant it. You really did!
And why the hell does it have to be ten things I hate? Why can't it be eight?
Thank you for listening, jules
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