Oh My Angst Hurts

The Offspring (TO) has been introduced to the world of peer pressure. He has met the “popular” kids, met the jocks, met the goody two-shoes and is trying to fit into the whole ecosystem as we speak…erm type.

Being of a slightly more touchy disposition, TO is at times inclined to want to change schools if he doesn’t have a good day or have a bad experience. Of course the very next moment he can be on top of the world as well. Am told such is the world of children.

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This morning his reason for not wanting to get up and go to school was due to the kids he had a falling out with. He gave us more details while having his milk. The conversation went something like this- TO: ” So I’m not friends with X anymore. Me: Why? TO: She doesn’t want to be friends with ME. Me: (making sympathetic face) Whhhhyyy? What happened? TO: She says stop following me around. Me: Well…do you follow her around? TO: (looking sheepish)..only a little bit. Me: Well then, don’t follow her. TO: (huffily) ok fine!

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The rest of the conversation consisted of words irritating, annoying, irritated and annoyed and why the middle finger is *not* to be shown and at least a 1000 reminders to finish his milk and go for his bath.

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Turbulent Thursdays anyone? And to think that we have yet to navigate through the choppy waters of puberty. God help us.

Buzz and Woody (Toy Story) Meme meme

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!)

 

Sunday Morning Shenanigans

While growing up I think the one thing most people on this planet had in common was their Sunday mornings. Even if it came at different times across the world, I firmly believe every damn person with a whit of grey matter WANTED to sleep on Sundays!

As kids we slept pretty much as long as we liked on Sundays and and as adults the sleeping in on Sundays took on a religious zeal almost! It was as if the Galactic Amoeba (am kind of a fence sitting on the existence of the Almighty so I guess HE/SHE could be like a giant amoeba in the cosmos too right?) created you with the inability to get up before 8 am on Sundays.

Enter matrimony and you find a husband who likes to sleep and let sleep. Till date I can’t recall Red (he shall be called Red hereafter) having woken me up because he was hungry or he thought it was too late in the day. He likes to sleep till it leaves him on it’s own and he wishes others around him do the same.

But we people are an odd bunch. Just when things are going well we think to ourselves, “wouldn’t it be fun to have my body stretched beyond normal capacity and give birth in excruciating pain, to a child who will change the course of life forever! Let alone my Sundays.”

And the baby cometh. The baby groweth. From a wailing infant to a chubby toddler who puts his fingers up your nose as a wake-up call. Then when he grows to a preschooler he comes and bounces on your undefended form on the bed and demands for toys and Play Doh and whatnots. And just when you’re growing the slightly bit immune to his tactics and have developed an armor to deflect it, he says those words, in that tone that no mother can ignore. Beyond a point anyway…”am hungryyy”.

You haul yourself out of bed, try to be a good trooper and give the poor starving child with his Oliver Twist eyes something to chow down on. And think it’s just a Sunday…no biggie…I’ll sleep when he becomes a teenager and is surly and non-communicative. But till then your Sundays are toast! And so is your sleep. 

So what’re you gonna do? You are a good mother after all! You wake up the spouse and ruin his Sunday morning because NO good deed goes unpunished!