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TGIF.

TGIF.

This would be a full on rant if I had any energy at all.

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Michelle, Why Are You So Grumpy?

Michelle, Why Are You So Grumpy?

I needed a few things from the store. Most important was allergy medicine. The last dose was taken and now it was imperative that I acquire more. To be specific, I needed Allegra Oral Suspension Berry Flavor for Ages 2 and older. If I could have done with the dissolving tablets (orange flavor), Claritin (or its generic equivalent), or even some formula of Zyrtec, believe me I would have picked any of those up. But no, it must be what it must be. I trotted on down to my local grocer under the impression that as a self-proclaimed supermarket, I could find everything I needed in one place. I was mistaken because my local grocer seemed to be fresh out of Allegra Oral Suspension Berry Flavor for Ages 2 and older. The spot where it was supposed to be was still there, but in its place sat a store brand of a medication that would not suit my needs. I checked with the pharmacist since I know they like to hide stuff back there sometimes, but she suggested I speak with the courtesy desk. And because stopping at another store didn’t fit into my time budget, I did so. After a trying morning, I didn’t relish the thought of having to have another conversation, but I seriously needed that medicine. “Excuse me, I was wondering if you had anymore of the Children’s Allegra in the liquid formula. There aren’t anymore on the shelf,” I said to the fine gent manning the customer service counter. He turned to another employee who was approaching and asked her if she knew the status of their allergy relief supplies in the back. The woman looked at me and said, “There isn’t any on the shelf?” Yes. There were 45 bottles on the shelf but, just for shits and giggles, I thought I’d come over here and ask this man in the hopes that he would ask you because I’m so very curious about your inventory. “No,” I replied, having fully reached my limit. “Don’t you think that if there were any bottles on the shelf I would have picked one up instead of standing here talking to you?” “Oh, I guess we don’t have any then,” and she headed on out for her smoke break that I apparently had been keeping her from. And this, folks, this is why I’m grumpy. Because people don’t want to be nice to other people. Because even when I ask in my super-sweet voice to overcompensate for my underlying rancid mood, people still feel the need to respond to my very simple request with a very stupid question. So later, when I don’t really have the time, I’ll be heading to my local pharmacy to procure some Allegra Oral Suspension Berry Flavor for Ages 2 and older. I really hope for everyone’s sake they are fully stocked.   Joining my online family at yeah write with a family-free post. Click on through to read the submissions of some other fabulous writers. Featured image credit, and for the record, that’s not the one I need. I need the Oral Suspension Berry Flavor for Ages 2 and...
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Spreading Bug.

Spreading Bug.

After the recent discovery that it had snowed in my attic, it became abundantly clear that we were going to have to do some work to further protect our house from weather. And by “do some work,” I hope it is abundantly clear that I mean I had to call someone about coming to do some work. I know, you’re wondering how I can be all nonchalant about attic snow, but it’s the second time this has happened, and much like I hear about second children, you just tend to get more laid back about this sort of thing. Really, it’s no big deal. There’s apparently some issue with a shingle and the dormer and the whosy-what’s-it and I think the contractor said he has to make the roof bigger. I should probably ask him to clarify. Today was finally warm enough for me to get into the attic and start moving stuff around in preparation for the work to be done. I sorted and discarded and stacked and photographed items for sale and did all the things one does when trying to empty an entire floor of one’s house. I did all this while trying to ignore the fresh unearthing of a hole through which I could actually see to the outside world that was not, in fact, a window. And whilst I was up in the attic, rearranging all of the things we obviously don’t need or they wouldn’t be up there in the first place, I saw a dead bee. And a dead fly. And another fly, a spider, a ladybug, some unidentifiable shell of a creature, and another fly, all dead. Near them, I saw some of their friends, who were also, as you might imagine, dead. Now, I’m not the sort of girl to freak out over a bug in my house. I don’t imagine we are any more or less buggy than anyone else. Bugs happen and, though I’d prefer they happen less frequently, I tend to try to ignore them. But today,when I discovered no less than one zillion dead bugs, I got a little skeeved. I swept them up, shuddered a bit and entered into a period of denial. By dinnertime, I even forgot about them. As I was getting Nathan ready for bed, I noticed something on his floor. Thinking it was lint, or one of the many crumbs that seem to form a trail behind him, I bent to pick it up. It was neither lint nor crumb. It was, instead, the exo-skeletal remains of yet another insect. I am no fool, you see. I know how this happened. I was still wearing the clothes I had been wearing in the attic. In other words, I had bug on me all afternoon. It was me. I was spreading bug. My clothes are currently boiling in bleach. I am disgusted and revolted. I might need to burn down my house. Every single part of my body is itchy. I’m going to take a shower and then, when I’m done, I’m going to take another. Next time I go in my attic, I’m bringing my switchblade. If I see another of those little jerks, dead or alive, I’m going to cut it. Then I’m going to douse it with superfluous pepper spray. Then I’m going to step on it, and then I’m going to spit on it, just so it knows how I really feel. And then I’m probably going to...
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Winter Is A Jerk.

Winter Is A Jerk.

It’s only late fall and I’m already sick of winter. We’ve had one snowfall so far, and arguably it was a dusting at best. It was still far more snow than I’m comfortable with. It’s possible that the anticipation of snow could be a big part of my Winter Grouchiness. Please don’t confuse this with my regular, all-season grouchiness. That’s an entirely different matter. Winter makes me angry, even when nothing is happening. Today I was in my basement and I saw the snow shovel up against the wall. I could feel the bile rise up inside of me. I am a master at resenting inanimate objects. The fact that I knew I was going to need that shovel at some point this winter was enough to make me furious even though it was nearly sixty degrees outside. You see, the only thing worse than a surprise is knowing a surprise is coming and not knowing the details of the surprise. (Don’t you dare tell me that’s the point of a surprise because I will hurt you.) For example, when someone skips up to me with a grin and an I-have-a-surprise-for-you!, I immediately feel like I’m going to vomit. If you want to surprise me, please don’t tell me in advance because I will worry, even if you tell me not to worry because it’s so awesome. If you do that, I will worry more. Snow is like the Earth’s awesome surprise. Every December, sometimes November, sometimes October, the air turns frigid and my stomach just turns. I can guarantee at least one time in the coming months I will be looking forward to plans and the stupid weather is going to ruin them. As someone born and raised in New Jersey, this is part of the territory. This happens every year and every year I find my patience running thinner. Some people around these parts like to say things like, “Well, if you don’t like the snow, why don’t you just move?” as if picking up and moving to a better climate is the easiest thing in the world. Believe you me, I would be on the first train out of here if it were that easy. Snow showers appear twice in the upcoming 10-day forecast.  I’m going to go kick my shovel now.   I’m adding my post to the moonshine grid at yeah write. Go check it out. It’s more fun than snow. Featured image credit: www.golocalworcester.com Featured image comment: Don’t give me that winter wonderland...
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I Just Wanted To Sit On My Couch.

I Just Wanted To Sit On My Couch.

Now, I’m not one prone to complaining, but, well, I’ve got something on my mind. I’m about to say something you’ve heard more than once already this month: I had a post planned for today but you’re not going to see it here. And the reason, as it almost always is, is that I’m too tired to write it. Nathan woke up at 4:30 today, but he didn’t wake me up because I’d already been up for 2 hours. So I’m well aware that I probably would be in a much better mood and less crabby today if I had gotten some sleep, but this is not the reality we are faced with. Please, someone tell me that 7 is the magic age at which only children suddenly start to play by themselves. Please. Because if it’s 8 or, gasp, later, I’m not sure I’m going to make it. I have parked my child in front of a borderline inappropriate show so that I could sit down for a little while and not have to entertain this kid. I played dominoes against my will, I fed him, I let him follow me around, I even let him throw stuffed animals at me. But then, when I begged for a few minutes to sit down and not hear his precious, sweet little voice talking to me for just a few minutes, he insisted upon sitting down next to me. Now, when I say next to me, I don’t mean a foot from me or even a few inches from me. I mean practically on top of me. His head is leaning on my arm and I can barely type. We are all squished up on one end of the couch and there is enough room for him to stretch out with his head touching the other arm of the couch and his feet wouldn’t be touching me. He could sit on the love seat with his father and they would both have plenty of elbow room. He could sit on the chaise that is next to the couch I’m sitting on like a king on his throne, but no. No, he is sitting all up in my personal space. (I cracked myself up there. Mothers don’t actually have personal space, do they?) Do not misunderstand. This kid means the world to me, but I would really, really like it if he wasn’t sitting on me right now. I’ve asked him to move, but he declined citing an extreme necessity to be close to me. It looks like the only way I’m going to gain a little space is to go cook him dinner. He just made me put my arm around him. That’s my cue. I’m off to the kitchen. This is NaBloPoMo Day 9. Read more from other NaBloPoMoErs...
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Leave My Daylight Alone.

Leave My Daylight Alone.

(image credit: dknucklesstock.deviantart.com)   I’m really over this messing with the clock nonsense. And, since I’m over it, it’s time for it to stop. When I was a kid, I had a friend who had a sleepover on the weekend of the change. We loved getting an extra hour at her party. Messing with the clocks was a good thing. In my late teens and twenties, I loved the extra hour. I’d get up at my regular Sunday morning time just slightly more rested. Messing with the clocks was a good thing. But then in my thirties I had a baby and messing with the clocks turned into the dumbest thing ever. It’s not news that we are a household of disrupted sleepers. My husband has battled insomnia most of his life. I haven’t had a full night of sleep since early May 2006 when I first started feeling pregnancy symptoms. My son, now almost seven, has slept through the night about three times. If that. It’s multi-generational insomnia at its best! My son gets up when he gets up, clocks be damned. If his body is done sleeping, there is no getting him back to it. So for a kid who rises before the sun most days, gaining an extra hour from two to three a.m. does not help me. Instead of getting up at six, he’s up at five. During the years he was getting up at five, he was up at four. Let’s not talk about when he was routinely up at four, ok? Now, that day when we lose the hour, that I can get behind. I don’t sleep anyway, so I don’t really care about losing any time. What’s one more hour? When my son wakes up on a Sunday morning and it’s already seven, well, happy day! Rejoice! The thing is, the gaining and losing don’t really feel like an even trade and so I’m willing to give it all up for the sake of consistency. I realize the original intention was to have extra light for field work and the like, but now it seems like an antiquated notion. And you can’t convince me that something is vital when you go and move the date until after Halloween just so kids have more daylight for Trick Or Treating. Last night, Nathan went to sleep at his normal time, about seven-thirty. He woke up around three and couldn’t go back to sleep. I hadn’t changed his clock, intending to do it in the morning, so he thought it was later than it was. And when he was still up an hour later, which really should have been almost five but was still only four, I was exhausted, thoroughly confused, and more than a little ready for him to go back to sleep. Sometimes when he’s up at five, I’ll let him sit in his room with the light on with a book or just sitting, but basically giving him permission to stop trying to sleep. I don’t allow that at almost four though, because that would be insane. I’m trying to manage his messed up sleep, not create a kid who is up all day and night. When he asked for the light, I had to tell him it wasn’t even four. He looked at his clock and I had to break the bad news that I hadn’t turned it back yet (mental note for next year!), and he sobbed. WHY!? I’ll never sleep again!...