Minor Irritations

Attention all low talkers, leg twitchers, and snifflers: this entry is for you. Please read on.

Low Talkers - What's that? I can't hear you. No, really, I still can't hear you. Maybe if you mumble whatever it is you need just one more time, I'll be able to hear. Nope, still can't hear you. No, no, no, you don't need to yell, you just simply need to speak clearly. It's called enunciation. You should try it sometime.

Leg Twitchers - Where did this phenomenon originate? It looks like some sort of derivation of pen-tapping. One day I looked around and it seemed like everyone's body was shifting left then right then left then right just enough for me to notice. Is it an anxious mannerism? Is it a way to burn extra calories? Having a physical disability is completely different from what I'm talking about here. Leg Twitchers have no purpose except to irritate me. SIT STILL!
 
Snifflers - You are the worst. *Sniff* Yeah, I know it's getting chilly outside *Sniff Sniff* and the extreme temperature changes between inside and outside result in runny noses, but it is completely unacceptable. Walk yourself to the nearest restroom *Sniff* and wipe that landslide clean before I take the liberty and hand you 22 tissues myself, like I used to do when I was younger. Believe it or not, I used to be way more obnoxious *Sniff* than I am now. There were multiple times during elementary, middle, and high school when I would get up from my desk in the middle of class, grab the box of classroom tissues, and walk it to the offender's desk *Sniff Sniff* just to put my brain out of its misery.

This has been a public service announcement.  

Your Kid Is An Asshole

I'm one of those 30-year-olds that doesn't have children. That's right: another human being has not exited my body through my vagina. I am as selfish as they come and reproducing would completely shatter my amazing life where I mostly worry about going to work, making social plans on weekends, and whipping up Paleo/Primal recipes (more about that later). Sometimes I make time to obsess about why Rigatoni's dipping sauce bowl is still on the counter, slowing drying and crusting up, after 72 hours.

Facebook provides me with lots of opportunities to see what it is like to have children, but without having to deal with them directly. Honestly, I think I have learned more from Facebook about raising children than any book, pediatrician, or wrinkly grandma could ever provide. I have learned if you want to be a superstar parent you should: own a camera whose battery never dies, post insanely positive Facebook messages even when you are covered in poop, exhausted, and want to kill everyone, and stage your child in funny adult situations so you and everyone else can be conviced you have not lost your sense of humor. Timmy put down that beer (hee hee)! You have to do these things otherwise everyone will think you are a bad parent. Especially me.

There are massive amounts of photos, parent-groups, quotes, and "funny" child moments that I get to live through practically first-hand. Little Nikki smeared poo all over the bathroom walls and her face was precious (Awww.) Baby Stephen was using a pair of scissors as a lollipop while playing "drums" with the pots and pans (LOL-Giggles). Toddler Timmy put the family dog's tail in the blender while humming "It's Beginning to look a lot like Christmas" (HOW Cuuuuuuuute).

Wouldn't it be hilarious if I typed exactly what I was thinking under each and every one of these toddler "milestones"? Guess what parents? That's about to happen right fucking now. Nikki will proably end up as a sociopath making weekly trips to the therapist, Stephen will more likely than not be in seventh grade for two years, if not three, and Timmy will without a doubt blow something up, someday. Trust me, this is for your own good that you now are aware of this.

 Let's say, for example, you have reproduced. I already know you hate me: it's okay, I'm not upset. You hate me because I "don't understand" and somewhere between breastfeeding and diaper changes, your perspective has gone missing. You most likely, at some point, had an excellent perspective about other peoples' children, but then: you reproduced. Now, what I say is offensive because "all children are miracles". Maybe you'll find that perspective. Maybe you won't. Either way, you can now thank me for telling you, based on your crazy Facebook photos/updates/comments, how your children will really turn out. And also, your kid is an asshole.

You're welcome.

 

Vodka, Sweat, and Tears

A few years ago, I implemmented a pre-cohabitation training program known as Operation Rigatoni. This training program consisted of various household routines such as paying bills in a timely manner, washing dishes after they are used, taking the trash out every weekend, closing cabinet doors that had been opened, placing dirty laundry in a laundry basket, grocery-ing on a weekly basis, and wiping up liquid that had been spilled the same day as said spill. If you ever met the Rigatoni, you would immediately realize that training the Rigatoni to do anything would take massive amounts of vodka, sweat, and tears.

Operation Rigatoni started off pretty successfully with him being eager to help out and make our lives more organized in general. The "honeymoon" portion of our pre-cohabitation days quickly transformed into a downward freefall and I have been battling with the Rigatoni through these cycles of ups and downs ever since. Woah woah woah, you might say: Why are you being such a rageaholic bitch about meaningless household tasks? Why don't you worry about solving world hunger or volunteering at a homeless shelter? Because, goddamnit, that shit isn't nearly as important as the stuff I'm talking about here. I need dirty dishes to be in the dishwasher. I need clean clothes to be hung in the closet. I need mail to stay on the glass table by the front door in the area I have specified it to stay. I need both of the television remotes to remain on the coffee table. I need the second bedroom to not look like the fucking laundry basket barfed Banana Republic button downs and Penn State sweatshirts on every flat surface. I need the trash to be taken out every single weekend whether the bag is full or not. And for god's sake, I need the new toilet paper roll to be placed ON THE TOILET PAPER ROLL HOLDER.

Let's go over some of the excuses Rigatoni has thrown my way over the years: I was tired. I forgot. I didn't know how you wanted me to do it. I wasn't sure if that needed to be done this week. I fell asleep. I didn't have time. I got a call from my mom. I saw that it was late and didn't want to wake you up. It was raining. It was cold. I needed work clothes and only had time to do laundry. I thought I did everything. My stomach was bothering me. I had to pay some bills online. Time out. Let me understand this: You had to "pay some bills online" so you thought you would save a bunch of time by putting mail in the bedroom, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, in the second bedroom, and on the couch? Um, what?? Thank baby Jesus he isn't an attorney, because his defense is typically weak like a vodka sprite from a campus bar.

This morning I'm ready to walk out the door when I see something truly appalling: the couch is being used as a coat rack. I can feel the rage building. My plams start to get tingly and my heart starts to race. OMFG, not this again. My brain screams, Son of a bitch! Goddamnit! What the fuck! Rigatoni sucks! I paced toward the bedroom, flipped on the hallway light, and threatened Rigatoni with bodily harm if this abomination continued. It must have been too much for him to place his coats in the closet that is 4 feet from the couch.

I'm Going To Turn Your Airbag Off

Yeah, I'm at that point. I have a feeling that Christmas does this to me every year, but I find other events to blame it on. Maybe it's the three-story sock pile in the second bedroom. Or the crusty pizza stone on the counter. Or maybe it's the seventeen bags of recycling lounging in the kitchen waiting for one of us to finally drive it three blocks to the recycling station. (More about my OCD later.) You're not going to pull the wool over my eyes this year, Christmas. YOU are to blame.

My husband's name is Rigatoni, by the way. I mean, not really, but on this blog it is. Whatever works, right? Last night I contemplated setting Rigatoni's ugly blue chair on fire after an argument about Christmas presents. Actually, multiple remarks and snarks got the ball rolling, per say, on the argument. The day before, I may have mentioned to him while we were driving that I was going to turn his airbag off. Perhaps that's where it really started...

Either way, the fact is that I vowed one year ago this Christmas that I would stop spending in December like it was going out of style. I would stop using that visa so much that the black strip on the back felt warm at the end of a shopping day. I would stop wrapping eighty presents all marked "To: Rigatoni". I would stop going into holiday debt. The irony behind all of this is that I'm more than aware of the meaning of Christmas.

In the end, Christmas isn't really to blame, but it's hilarious to attribute overreactions/crying/temper tantrums on said holiday because no normal 30-year-old has temper tantrums, right? I'm partially to blame for making it all about the presents year after year and then stopping short last year without a thorough explanation. He is partially to blame for buying me such good shit the last 10 years. Rigatoni and I should talk about this (again) tonight; then I can finish wrapping his six presents. Baby steps.