Just Call Me Nancy
Negative Nancy, that is.
I'm in a foul mood. And have been for several days now. (Not to be confused with a fowl mood, which I intend to satisfy tonight with a bowl of Ben's chicken soup.)
I'm just at the point where I don't want to be fucking bothered anymore. I don't want to talk about my problem kid. I don't even want to talk to my problem kid. (And this is unavoidable, as he still hasn't outgrown that toddler thing where they expect you to acknowledge every damn thing they say, kind of like the people on Springer.) I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, I don't want to answer emails, I just want to sit on my ass and read, because the lives of fictitious characters are much more fun than my own life right now.
And because of this sudden onset of antisocial behavior, I have become Miss No Damn Fun to Be Around.
I feel horrible for my husband and son and anyone else who has the displeasure of dealing with me this week, but I just can't help it. I look forward to my lunch hour, when I'm home, by myself, in a good chair with a good book and (passably) good food. I've managed not to stand in the middle of my house and scream "GO AWAY," but it's certainly crossed my mind. I just want a break. A very long break. Grocery shopping, getting my hair butchered and burning the shit out of my face on a tanning bed isn't long enough.
And Bob has been pestering me to play video games with him. I haven't played a video game (other than computer solitaire) since I saved the princess back in 1989. And I thought the Nintendo controller, consisting of left-right-up-down arrows and two buttons, was challenging--a real step above the stick/button combination I had grown accustomed to during my quarantine with Pac Man Fever. I can't even figure out what this game system is called (I keep calling it "game boy" and am promptly corrected by whichever male is closest to me). And these fucking games--what the hell? I wouldn't have the first fucking clue what to do. Tell you what, kid--find me a vintage Atari set-up and I'll show you the intricacies of Pong and Space Invaders and Donkey Kong and Pitfall. You can keep this newfangled shit for yourself.
Ben just informed me he had (yet another) flat tire when he went to pick up Bob. He asked me, in his exasperation, "how does this happen?" Um, I can answer that, I say as I tentatively raise my hand. It happens because you don't pay attention to what you're doing when you drive, and you run over shit.
Of course, I would never say this and incur the wrath it would provoke, so I just took a deep breath and said, "I have no idea." I'll be biting my tongue over this all night and fighting the urge to do the very mom-like deed of lecturing him on the importance of watching the road, avoiding curbs, etc. I have no doubt that sort of thing would end badly.
And wonder of wonders, Bob had a good day at preschool today. No major incidents, other than one where the teacher got "very upset" with him (I don't know what for) and he started to cry and said he was sorry. Wow. Usually someone getting "very upset" with him ends in a 2-hour tantrum complete with threats of world domination.
Take what you can get.
I'm in a foul mood. And have been for several days now. (Not to be confused with a fowl mood, which I intend to satisfy tonight with a bowl of Ben's chicken soup.)
I'm just at the point where I don't want to be fucking bothered anymore. I don't want to talk about my problem kid. I don't even want to talk to my problem kid. (And this is unavoidable, as he still hasn't outgrown that toddler thing where they expect you to acknowledge every damn thing they say, kind of like the people on Springer.) I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, I don't want to answer emails, I just want to sit on my ass and read, because the lives of fictitious characters are much more fun than my own life right now.
And because of this sudden onset of antisocial behavior, I have become Miss No Damn Fun to Be Around.
I feel horrible for my husband and son and anyone else who has the displeasure of dealing with me this week, but I just can't help it. I look forward to my lunch hour, when I'm home, by myself, in a good chair with a good book and (passably) good food. I've managed not to stand in the middle of my house and scream "GO AWAY," but it's certainly crossed my mind. I just want a break. A very long break. Grocery shopping, getting my hair butchered and burning the shit out of my face on a tanning bed isn't long enough.
And Bob has been pestering me to play video games with him. I haven't played a video game (other than computer solitaire) since I saved the princess back in 1989. And I thought the Nintendo controller, consisting of left-right-up-down arrows and two buttons, was challenging--a real step above the stick/button combination I had grown accustomed to during my quarantine with Pac Man Fever. I can't even figure out what this game system is called (I keep calling it "game boy" and am promptly corrected by whichever male is closest to me). And these fucking games--what the hell? I wouldn't have the first fucking clue what to do. Tell you what, kid--find me a vintage Atari set-up and I'll show you the intricacies of Pong and Space Invaders and Donkey Kong and Pitfall. You can keep this newfangled shit for yourself.
Ben just informed me he had (yet another) flat tire when he went to pick up Bob. He asked me, in his exasperation, "how does this happen?" Um, I can answer that, I say as I tentatively raise my hand. It happens because you don't pay attention to what you're doing when you drive, and you run over shit.
Of course, I would never say this and incur the wrath it would provoke, so I just took a deep breath and said, "I have no idea." I'll be biting my tongue over this all night and fighting the urge to do the very mom-like deed of lecturing him on the importance of watching the road, avoiding curbs, etc. I have no doubt that sort of thing would end badly.
And wonder of wonders, Bob had a good day at preschool today. No major incidents, other than one where the teacher got "very upset" with him (I don't know what for) and he started to cry and said he was sorry. Wow. Usually someone getting "very upset" with him ends in a 2-hour tantrum complete with threats of world domination.
Take what you can get.
posted by Mitzi Green at 4:38 PM
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