Perhaps rabies?

I don’t recall getting bit…but I must have.  I just cannot shake the rage.  Sure, nerves over the upcoming descent into madness flight is part of it, but the rest?  I have only rabies to possibly blame. 

Of course, the boys have to get sick before we leave, right?  I mean, what good is a Little Gym class if we don’t lick the floor or stick our feet in our mouths, or something?  We’ve had plenty of illnesses compliments of the Little Germ, er, Gym.  This one is the snottiest by far.  Slime trails EVERYWHERE!  I wanted to leave the house-sitter with a relatively clean house, but I am now simply following the boys around, attempting to make them use their “bogie rags” and cleaning snot off of everything.  So, that’s the culprit for part of the rage.  Dirt and a Mobius cycle of cleaning that never, ever, ever, ever ends.  Oh, and add the constant crying, clinging, and re-messing of what I have just cleaned… 

Culprit #2:  NBC and the Olympics.   I really want an explanation for why on Earth there is no recording of the Opening Ceremonies.  Why?  I have looked everywhere, and the most I can get is some less than half-assed pieced together piece of excrement video of the athletes discussing how they feel about the games, interspersed with footage from what may or may not be a recent opening ceremony.  WTF?  I am assuming that the athletes aren’t suddenly going to change their mind about how they feel.  Like I am going to be astounded when I hear one talk about how it wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  Why in the name of all that is sacred is it not possible to see the Opening Ceremonies after the fact?  Positively enraging!

Culprit #3:  A-holes.  Chances are you’ve encountered one or two in your lifetime.  The one I encountered yesterday should have his face beaten in by someone, but I will just stick to my story that his wife made him take his teenage daughter to the pediatrician because she is hopped up on the junk and pregnant or wanting birth-control (and from the evidence of the rudeness in the gene-pool there, chances of more offspring within that pool should definitely be controlled). 

I was on my way out the door of the Dr.’s office, and preparing to open the doors by myself (not an unusual thing.  Wasn’t looking for help.)  Exceedingly self-important-looking guy (SLG) next to his angsty she-teen (her playing with her cell phone, him on his laptop, tension clear as they ignored the Hell out of one another), offers to open the door for us.  

Me:  Wow!  Thanks!  That’s an unusual treat. 

SLG: I bet you do this by yourself all the time.

Me: Yes.  Usually.

SLG: You are probably a pro at it by now.  It’s probably easy for you.

Me: Oh, I don’t know, probably not.  I don’t think its something I have perfected yet.

SLG: Well, if you want, I can go back in, close the door, and you can practice it all by yourself from the beginning. (He says this all smug-like, as though I am putting him out, and had asked him to do this service!  Like I am wasting his time, and i’m just some dippy woman whom he is far too good to speak to.)

WTF?  All I could respond with was a stupidly, enragingly saccharine and squeaky, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you…”  It felt like I was telling that self-important bastard nothing but “thank you” for something that I didn’t even ask him to do!  No doubt what made me feel like shit made him feel like a stellar and upstanding citizen.  Idiot.  Asshole!

I didn’t even manage a, “Beg your pardon?” or an “Excuse me?”  Why am I always too stunned to respond the way I should?  I was so angry as I piled the boys back into the car in a downpour, snot and rain running down their faces, rain running into their infected little ears…ARGH!!!!  Who are these people with no rudeness filter?!  Why would you say something like that, in that tone, to  someone you don’t even know?  That’s a clear sign that you are a gift to the world right?  Who does that?!

See?  I don’t suppose that enrages most people for as long as it enrages me.  It must be rabies.

Hmmmm…that is not a smell I should be smelling…  You know the smell when you were a child and you put leaves between two sheets of wax paper and ironed them together?  I smell that…wax…

ENRAGEMENT #4! :  The boys have apparently been stashing crayons inside the air-conditioner in the sunroom…and those crayons have slowly been melting away in the stinkin’ florida heat!!!!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I need a very dark closet in which to hide and cry.

Pru.

Oh, and if we survive our trip, I will be certain to detail our adventure…  The doctor said that flying with an ear infection is fine…that when the ear-drum bursts it clears the infection and heals quicker.  Her words: “Everyone has this misconception that kids can’t fly if they have an ear infection, but that isn’t true.  The worst that can happen is the best that can happen, and that is that the ear-drum will rupture.  There will be some puss and blood oozing out of the ears, and it will hurt really badly, and they will scream really loudly.  They will feel a lot better after that though, and a lot quicker, actually.”

Next time someone says something to me without turning on their rude-filter, or replacing a broken one, I am going to respond right away, and not stew over it like this.  I just need a grab-bag of responses and the coolness to pull them off understandably, rather than screaming them out in a blizzard of incoherence.

A Moratorium: Eat it

I am declaring a moratorium on the discussion of, allusion to, or even thought of items of food and various exercises as they relate to calories, fuel, diet, maintenance, and health, while in or near the presence of Prucilla. Friends and relatives shall not, when in her presence, discuss how many calories are in X, nor how many or few calories they or Pru has consumed. Nor shall they discuss her exercise regimen, nor their own. I do not think that a stimulating conversation consists of someone telling me about how many reps they did, nor what food they ate and why, nor what happens when you eat two protein bars in one day. The moment one begins speaking of such nonsense, Pru’s brain will seize, her eyes will roll back into her head, and she will begin to drool/froth. Or, if she is having a great day, she will simply expect you to hand her the nearest and dullest utensil available, so she can shove it through her skull. If one insists on conversing in such a manner, they should at least have the decency to contract their zero-calorie-filled-sentences into a speech lasting no longer than 30 seconds (which is significantly more time than it will take me to stick a fork in my eye).

In a somewhat related tirade, I have noticed an alarming trend amongst the young ladies. What is this frightening business with the overgrown toenails? On Monday, Sam came in with her toenails horrifically done in a “French” manicure. She had them painted hot pink, with white tips, which gave them the alarming effect of having all been chipped and way overgrown. I was trying to find a still from the movie, Nacho Libre, because it really has the horrific effect of Eskeleto’s toenails: Nauseating. It’s what Jo and Vic refer to as Horrified Fascination Syndrome (HFS), where my eyes are transfixed and no matter how hard I try to divert my gaze, the eyes, they will not move. I keep thinking that I am seeing hands instead of feet, and then I am reminded of apes, which leads to the consideration that these women might eat with their feet. It’s a well-known parlor trick of mine–picking things up with my feet-but I certainly wouldn’t eat with them. Disgusting. How about a cultural moratorium on that hideous act of blatant hygiene defiance and just plain bad taste?

The eyebrows, however…I always come back to the eyebrows, because it wasn’t until I was 28 or 29 that I had my eyebrows “shaped.” I had no idea that being girly took quite so much work, and frankly, was under the misguided impression that women were simply born that way. The process of eyebrow waxing has always made me wonder: Has anyone ever had their eyebrows shaped into cartoon-esque angry brows? You know, the straight lines angled down and inward. Now, that would be some awesome brow.

From toes to potatoes, I will circle back to my moratorium. The last bit of which is this: That, whomsoever offers Prucilla a half a baked potato for dinner will rue their dietary fate. I have come to the hard-won conclusion that Mother Nature piles the fat on the pregnant ladies for a reason, and it has nothing to do with growing healthy babies, nor breastfeeding. The reason is toddlers. That fat store, which I so diligently depleted, would come in mighty handy right now, as my food intake is seriously compromised by toddler activity, and the Pru requires a little more sustenance than half of a baked tuber.

In conclusion, no longer will such verbiage regarding said infractions be tolerated without the induction of a narcoleptic fit, a violent rage, etc. There have got to be a billion more interesting things to speak of, and the Pru is in dire need of adult conversation.

Lovely, conversant weekend to all,

Pru