I Have a Bone to Pick with …
And that should be ’nuff said and this could (and probably should) have been the shortest post in history, but I have a few gajillion more things to say today.
What the fuck is up with hormones? It’s like a vile trick, jerking you hither and fucking yon at the whim of the hilarious hormone gods. I am crabby today. CRABBY! And let me just tell you a few of the things that seem so important today that I am yelling and glowering and complaining and generally having a shit morning.
Exhibit A: Crossing guards. I’m not kidding. Remember back the dark ages of your youth (well, maybe not yours since you might be one of those people who is still young and spry and were born after MTV (which doesn’t play music anymore – WTF?) went on the air) when being a crossing guard was a reward for good citizenship for the cute 6th grade boys? Well, not anymore. It’s now the goddamn domain of old, lazy, fat retired women who work for the local police department. We have three crossing guards on the way to school and the one that the genius police department puts on the busiest corner is the laziest motherf-er EVER. She’s controlling, like, 20 lanes of traffic and she can’t even get off her ass to push the signal button let alone pick up her lame ass sign and walk two steps into the street to help my son across the street. Am I walking with him, you might ask? Why, yes and I am So do I need her? NO! So why is she there? Like anyone would let their kid walk to elementary school by themselves these days. And she has bad hair! Arggghhh!
Exhibit B: Table manners. Seven year-olds do not have impeccable table manners. And why the hell should they? They’re SEVEN. There is world enough and time to learn what to do with your fucking oyster fork. Without going into details, let’s just say that this is one of the points on which my husband and I do not agree on childrearing so, you know, strife abounds. I’m not saying anything more except this: We’re not dining with the fucking Queen. We’re eating frozen mini-waffles in a hurry so we can walk to school and get dissed by the goddamn crossing guard! Jesus!
Exhibit C: Food. Why does the good stuff taste like shit and the bad stuff taste like nectar of the gods? WHY? I don’t want to eat oatmeal for breakfast! I want Eggs Benedict. I want to go down the the crepe place and eat cheese! This might be my eating disorder talking but why, oh why, do I like food so much more than it likes me? (Or more than it likes my size 5 jeans … onto which I am holding by my pudgy little fingers.) And why am I friends with a bunch of Southern California size 0′s? Bitches! You know who you are…
Exhibit D: Exercise. Why do I hate it so? My 46 year old bones are turning to mush as we speak and yet, do I strap on my shoes and go out for a run? No, I do not! I sit here and complain, wishing I could put cream in my coffee so it will taste like ice cream. Oh, and later I’ll go read a book about it. That’ll help for sure. In fact, here’s a revealing little bit of nonsense … here’s what’s on my nightstand right now:
- Running for Women Over 40
- The Ten Habits of Naturally Slim People
- Slim and Sexy Forever (like Suzanne f’ing Somers can help me with anything!)
- The Desperate Woman’s Guide to Fitness
- The RealAge Makeover
- Secrets of Gorgeous
Mother of God. What am I? Stupid? If books could make a difference, I think the hundreds of diet books I own would have done the fucking trick by now, don’t you?
I have more but I’m too pissed to write about any of it. And I don’t want to scare anyone under the age of 40, but just be warned: the hormonal shit has yet to hit the fan for you, my friend. All that PMS crap is for children! I am 46, hear me roar … or at least get out of my way. And if you’re a crossing guard, get way, way, way out of my way. I’m gunning for you …