Joys Of Being A Sourpuss

Another reblog from another time…

Been a long time between posts. I wanted to write but people and things kept cutting into my bloggy brainwaves and once they were gone they sulked till I came grovelling to get them back. Cognitions can be a bitch that way. You remember things you would much rather not; not because they are unpleasant but you don’t want to be stuck replaying the same happy shit from 5 years ago in your head. You want new happy shit!

You also want, need, desperately crave your own bloody, friggin’ space! I finally know which way my life is going. I’m a bag lady in disguise as an urban woman. I’m cranky, I want to wander about when I feel like it. I don’t particularly want to feed pigeons and smell of stray cats but I want the freedom to sit on a park bench and watch life go by from time to time.

This particular epiphany occurred a few days ago when I was being talked at (not talked to mind you) from all directions. I hate being talked at. I don’t talk at people unless I’m pissed off at them or I want to show my derision, disdain or other words starting with “d” having negative connotations. And having people talk at you in your own home gets you riled.

It turns out I was in the wrong. I often am but admitting it is tougher as I grow older because as a kid you think when you’re an adult you can be as wrong as you want unless that means you chopped off someones’ toes. I’ve been a mean grouch for the past few months. Moments of tranquility have been less because I didn’t know where to look but damn being a grouch can be fun.

People give meanies a wide berth. It’s almost like you’re a monster truck everyone else makes way for. You speak only as much as you want to and grunt your assent/ dissent the rest of the times. You sink in silences which people can misinterpret as gloom or ire but actually your mind is taking delicious trips with glorious technicolor images and yeah, you down more quantity of alcohol than usual.

The alcohol isn’t a must-do but it someone worms its way into the whole thing so why fight it, eh?

Another benefit of being grumpy is that you can bitch, moan and gripe to your heart’s content and NEVER have people question your need to do so. You’re a grump. Ergo you must exercise that grumpy bone. You can start with injustices of your kindergarten days when someone got the last lollipop to when you had your last yeast infection and the world’s your oyster!

Try to bitch without being a grouch and people (read women) come in droves and ask you what’s wrong. They start with the obvious- PMS and move into break-ups, fights, bad hair day, bloating, cramps, unending issues with the mother, or something to do with the person you share your life with. Seldom does one hit the nail on the head- you *want* to bitch and spread bitchiness the way you do when you’re happy and the world seems brighter and you want to pull people into your little rainbow&unicorn world. What? Wait…that was a bad hangover post too much girly time. Scratch that scenario.

But grouches have it good. They can shoot from the hip, get excused for their behavior and can tell it as it is and be labelled moody and yet speak their mind.

That’s 1-up from the rest of us yuppies who’re conforming with our smiles and hellos and air kisses. Think about it.

Signing Off,

XOXO (not!)

 

Lock’ed’ and Losin’ It!

We had a very robust English literature syllabus while I was in school. Pope, Dylan Thomas, Matthew Arnold, Sassoon, Rupert Brooke et al.

I specially remember Pope because just reading the title of his famous long poem ‘The Rape Of The Lock’, had us all giggling like silly school girls (which we were) and also because we had totally misunderstood which lock the poem referred to.

Now, 20+ years later I know. Oh, HOW I KNOW!

The relationship that women have with their hair is quite different from the one men have with theirs. While in both cases having a good head of hair induces happiness and a good amount of vanity together, we women cannot get away with being bald. There! I’ve said it. It’s a man’s prerogative to be bald. Its something he can feel bad about but it’s not something people will look askance at. But a women having bald patches, or just not having enough hair to cover her scalp brings about reaction ranging from, “Oh you poor dear! Is it chemo?” to “Damn! these cult-types give me the creeps.”

A bald woman, unless gorgeous in her baldness quite like Persis Khambatta will have a TOUGH time getting laid; among all the other angst in store for her. It’s inconceivable for people to think of a bald woman without there being a less than extraordinary reason for it.

Male pattern baldness? Hell, teenagers know about it these days; with alopecia having become a common word in all householders’ vocabulary. But baldness doth not behoove a lady be. Erm…you get the drift.

I lost a lot of hair while I was pregnant. But a gained a cute kid so it was a sacrifice I was ok with. Thankfully he doesn’t show signs of being too light-headed trichologically speaking. And while he’s not headed into McDreamy land either, he’s just fine.

So when I started losing hair yet again, often just at the thought of combing, I began to get very truly and thoroughly sad.

The worst of it was when the offspring once came up to me with a clump of my hair that he’d rescued from somewhere saying I’d dropped it and if I wanted it or not.

I’d have drunk myself into a silly stupor had I the requisite booze around. But I don’t so I’ll just focus on thinking thick-haired thoughts and try to not comb my hair as long as it’s possible. Who knows? Maybe dreds are my thing.

*fingers crossed*