Swear Jar Warning! This one’s a doozy. But Kitchy be pissed off. Apologies in advance.
We’re going through a heat wave here–in more ways than one.
Hot Mess #1: the dang weather. 97 degrees in September? Now I know I’ll be bitching about the cold in less than two months, but this kind of mercury in school season is 7 kinds of wrong.
Hot Mess #2: my internal mercury. I have been in denial, denial, denial, but I just can’t fake it anymore. *sob* I have entered the land of The Personal Summer. I should have known in June–when I overheated so massively at the BlogHer Voices of the Year Party that nobody remembered my name. I was just “that blonde chick who was fanning herself with 9 program flyers and stuffing cocktail napkins down her chest.” But even then, I refused to admit it. It was just nerves, right? Ha. This has been the summer of strippage. I begin the day with yoga pants and a hoodie and end it with pasties and a thong. The latter, at my age, ain’t pretty.
Hot Mess #3: flaring tempers. Female-style. I’m pretty sure my husband has buyer’s remorse for signing up for the Minxes and me. We’ve been hissing at each other like agitated camels.
It’s been a couple of pissed off weeks, yo. I am SuperCrank.
I am the person who sent the following reply to my husband’s FB update that he was at the CU football game on Saturday: “Good thing you’re at the game because your older daughter is being a bitch.”
Yeah. I called my eleven-year old a bitch. On Facebook. I am so proud.
But dudes, she was totally being a bitch. This puberty thing is gonna kill me. Or maybe her, if she doesn’t tame this shit down.
All of this hot mess stuff, swirled together like the world’s nastiest funnel cake, results in one thing.
The September Airing of the Grievances:
Why does December get to have all the fun? We’re starting early this year.
* Weather: fuck off.
* Menopause: fuck off
* Puberty: fuck off
Okay. Now that the big guns are accounted for, Petty Grievances can commence.
* Older child: I realize that hormones are running through you faster than shit through a goose, but do they have to cancel out all brain activity? Find one firing synapse, please? If I have to make one more trip back to the middle school to bring onemorecrucialitem that you’ve forgotten, I’m going to blow like Krakatoa. And for those very helpful people who are going to tell me to let her “go without and learn her lesson the hard way,” and that I probably should stop “enabling” her spacey behavior: fuck off. You deal with her when she gets home.
* Dinner: Fuck you, dinner! I am so over you.
* Grocery store: ditto.
* Seminars for Males: how to load a dishwasher, how to throw out an empty cracker/cereal box, how to apologize after explosive farts that everyone heard.
* Older child: you get your period every month. I know this. You know this. We both know it because I mark it with a little dot on the calendar, just so you are on the down-low. Then why do I find fatal undies hidden in the bottom of your laundry basket every 3 1/2 weeks? And not just one pair–we’re talking three or four. How long does it take you to realize that something special is going on down there?
* Mornings: Die, okay?
* Math homework: ditto.
* Adult-onset acne: isn’t the Personal Summer torture enough? The moguls on my chin are seriously crushing my groove. My chin is not Aspen. Desist.
* Football season: Thank you for trying to steal my husband, you tramp. But guess what, honey? You don’t give blow jobs.
* All members of the household except the cat and yours truly: if you pass a turd the size of a Subway sandwich, it is unwise to attempt flushage. I suggest you grab a fishing rod and try to reel that sucker in, because it’s not going down.
* The plumber: your joke about my household needing a “frequent flyer program” is getting old. Snatch your check and get out.
* Sack lunches: see Dinner.
* Seminars for Younger Child: how to flush a toilet, re-hab for public butt scratching, how to open your own water bottle.
* Night sweats: what’s the deal? I’m already drowning the day away and sporting mogul chin. Now you have to visit every two hours? I look like the spawn of Billy Joel and an elephant seal. Give a girl a break.
* The Creepy Meat Man: how can I miss you if you will not go away? No, seriously. Go away.
* The refrigerator: clean yourself, dammit.
* The laundry: see Refrigerator. Especially if fatal undies are involved.
* Older child: Babe, I know puberty is hard. But if you snarl at me one more time? That cell phone you begged for and worked so hard for this summer? It’s finding a home up your ass. Tread softly, pre-teen dream. You’re driving momma crazy, and it’s a short drive.
Sigh. I feel better now.
But don’t think this rant gets you out of the December Airing of the Grievances. December is always power-loaded. All that stinking holiday cheer and Pinterest crafts/baking projects.
I am so excited!
If you are so inclined, feel free to post your grievances in the comments section. Sometimes we girls just gotta air.
Happy September, Readers! May you weather the month without the Bitchies. But if you’re already afflicted, let ‘em fly.