For those of you who had less than satisfactory showers, ask yourself if you'd have preferred taking a bum shower at the local gas station. Think that would have been warmer, more relaxing, and had a massage option? So, of course, I'm totally sorry your morning routine didn't meet your expectations. When my boiler broke and we took ice cold showers for three days until we were able to get someone to come fix it, I wasn't screaming from the rooftops about how miserable my life had become. Shit happens, I knew there was an end in sight and it wasn't worth my time or effort to bemoan it all fucking day long. It certainly wouldn't have repaired the damn thing. Yet, the second someone's shower head leaks or drain doesn't function properly, it becomes a media circus. Get a grip.
A long line at Starbucks? OH. MY. GOD. You actually had to wait for your venti four pump non-fat tuxedo mocha with the extra shot? Christ on a cracker, what is this world coming to? An extra five minutes has been sucked out of your oh so hectic day. I'd be furious...maybe you should write to someone. Hell, I'll help you compose a scathing letter to the CEO of Starbucks right now. Your time is precious, goddamn it. You have to race to Nordstroms before your Zumba class and get to your child's day care on time so you won't be charged a penny more. Priorities? Have any? I should begin by asking why someone who has nothing better to do than shop and work out has placed their child in day care? But that would open up a can of worms that you don't want to unleash. But what I really want to know, what really sticks in my craw...is the fact that you have no ability to experience delayed gratification. Yet, you expect children to wait without fussing. I feel sorry for the person with whom you currently making the beast with two backs.
"My ass is too fat." Trust me, if your ass is fat, chances are, there are many other body parts that have joined it in all its Rubenesque glory. Not that I am being critical in the least. I'd like to think that by now, you all know my opinion about weight and size. Rock the body you have and you'll always look fabulous. Dress it up with sexy clothes, slather it with expensive lotions, spritz it with beautiful perfume, and shake that curvy ass up and down the fucking street. However, if you are somewhat dissatisfied with the condition of your body, shut the fuck up about it and do something. Don't go on some ridiculous crash diet that you couldn't possibly maintain for more than a week without either passing out or alienating everyone around you because you've become positively demonic. For God's sake don't become that annoying gym rat that suddenly goes seven days a week, three times a day, and waxes poetic about the merits of spin class and Pilates. This is yet another thing that you will never continue for any length of time and will poison you for any further activity in the future. One bit of advice, it always works and alienates no one. PUT THE FORK DOWN. It's called portion control, try it.
Aw, crap. You got your period? Your uterus is working properly for yet another month? Dammit all to hell. A cramp, a twinge, a backache. Yeah, I get it. But please don't preach to this choir about how heavy your flow is and moan and groan about how many super tampons you've used. Until you have a uterus that is described by your very own Ob/GYN as a bouncy house of fibroids...and that children's ride that rests inside your body causes you to bleed through Ultra tampons and pee-pee pads and turns your bed into a crime scene...you've not had a bad period. We've discussed my issue before, so I won't belabor it. What I will tell you, is that every time you get your period...on time...it means your body is functioning correctly. Complaining about a working reproductive system seems almost bitchy. Think of the women who have bodies that betray them and their desire to have children. Their uterus doesn't work like yours, does it? Still want to complain?
The cat barfed, that's one of the most frequently utter sentences in my house. But you know what? I wouldn't trade my bulimic baby for anything in the world. Sometimes it's a hairball, sometimes it's her inability to exercise portion control and slow the fuck down. To me, it means that my little old lady is still alive and kicking! Instead of looking for shit to whine about, think of all the wonderful things your feline child gives you. Unconditional love, head butts, snuggles, loudly vibrating purrs at the sight of your face, company in the bathroom...can you really complain about someone who provides all that, unselfishly? And only asks that you feed, care for, scratch in all the right spots, and once in a while clean up a little puke? Come on, find your heart...if you have one.
Holy shit, your husband forgot to take out the trash? Maybe you should just beat him with a stick to teach him a lesson about responsibility? He came home from busting his ass at work all day, helped you finish dinner, set the table, played with the kids so you could watch your favorite show uninterrupted, and opened that stuck jar lid for you...yet he forgot one little thing and you spend the next day bashing him to anyone who will listen. Of course, you won't mention all the things he did do for you. It doesn't prove your point about what a lazy asshole he is and how he can't remember to do a simple task that you've asked him to do a million times. Couple of points I'd like you to ponder: you CHOSE him as your life partner, what does this say about you if he is an ass? The other point I'd like you consider, the question I'd like you to ask yourself is...does he hurt you? Does he hit you, twist your arm, pull your hair? Does he make you feel badly about yourself, scare you? If you can't answer yes to any of those...he's a good man and you are a ungrateful harpie.
Should your ass be itchy, there are creams for that. The real issue here, is that people today don't know how good they've got it. They don't appreciate what they have and who they have in their lives. As I think about my next phone call to my aunt to ask about my Godfather, uncle, second father...whatever name I assign him today...when I am calling her every night after work to ask if his condition has changed, if he has woken up and been lucid, if the doctors are offering any hope today, if the feeding tube surgically implanted in his stomach is working properly...I can't help but hate you and your First World problems. When I dread the sound of my cell phone ringing because it may be her and it may be the news I fear the most, and then I hear you whining about your kids fighting with each other or the price of gas these days...I want so badly to punch you in the throat, shake you until your brain beats around in your thick skull so hard that you have a concussion, and tell you what I really think of you and your *problems* once and for all. So, the next time you feel a whine about to erupt from your lips, stop yourself. One day my restraint will fail. Feeling lucky? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
No comments:
Post a Comment