It’s Surly Thursday!**
I wrote a post over at The Ladies Who (Make) Lunch. It was about string cheese. Because I am a Media Savvy Individual who is Active on Social Networks, I linked it with Facebook and Twitter.
On Facebook, one admittedly-assholish and off-topic comment (not by me!) suddenly turned into an explosive debate about school peanut bans… and it crossed over to Twitter… and in all the mishegosh ONE PERSON thought to compliment me on my actual post. And that’s after I asked rather pitifully for us to get back to the original point, which was my delightful and charming post.
Turns out I really need praise, or I get stabby. I knew that, but I’m surprisingly annoyed by the whole thing. People, I love snark as much as the next person, and lord knows I hold some strong & unpopular opinions about things, but motherfucker, that was not how I imagined the reaction to my first post on a collaborative blog that I was extremely flattered to be included in.
So I guess the lesson is I need to toughen up, or get off the internet.
Louis is completely trained for pee and completely not in any way trained for poops. He had an “accident” in his pants yesterday that required a handful of wipes, two handfuls of toilet paper, TWO FLUSHES, a large scented candle, and the stifling of my gag reflex to deal with. Were he my kid, I would calmly and with no fuss be putting him back in PullUps now. He can still practice peeing in the potty, but he won’t withhold his poo for days at a time until his back end explodes in a Chernobyl-level horror show of stench, and I’d so much rather that was contained in a diaper than in his underwear… and his pants… that I’m about ready to tell his parents that while he’s here, anyway, he must be in a PullUp for now.
I do not have the words to adequately express the sinking dread I felt of seeing a small boy stand up and
walk waddle splay-legged toward me, his unholy fug preceding him, and realizing that I would somehow need to pull that mess down over his legs and clean him up while two one-year-olds stood outside the bathroom door and hollered because if they can’t see me, I must be dead.
Teenaged babysitters make $10 an hour these days. TEN DOLLARS. My first job in an actual store only paid $5.15. So a movie had better be The Most Exciting And Unmissable Thing Ever or I’m going to feel ripped off. Take note, Hollywood.
The whole country is in a cold snap – in some places it’s so cold the numbers lose all meaning. It’s -45C! It’s -50C! MY EYELASHES FROZE TOGETHER AT THE BUS STOP WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. Am I going to complain about the weather? Of course I am, because when parts of your body can freeze to other parts it is too cold, go home. But it’s not the weather that’s got me surly. It’s not even other people complaining about the weather.
It is the self-righteous dicks that are complaining about the rest of us complaining about the weather.
Look, I know I live in a northern country (although I’m south and east, and on the coast, so it doesn’t get half as cold here as it does in many other parts of Canada. Goooooo, Gulfstream!) and I also know that bitching about the weather doesn’t actually change the weather at all.
But trading war stories is what gets us through. I’m still shaking my head at Beck’s story of her hand freezing to the doorknob yesterday when she tried to go out to her own porch. Do you really think that soldiers in the trenches spent their non-combat time chatting cheerfully about what a delightful thing it was to be squatting in the mud? NO THEY DID NOT. They bonded over their shared misery because that’s what you do when conditions are holy-shit-this-sucks.
So, if you’re a Canadian and you’re trying to tell me that cross-country skiing to work every morning through the -50C windchills in Winnipeg makes you somehow morally superior to me because you’re “embracing winter”? Yeah. Enjoy that. I’ll be over here with a cup of tea and my fuzzy slippers.
George has decided to reward me for all the nice things I said about him in his birthday post by learning that if he takes a big drink from a sippy cup, and then blows everything back out of his mouth, that it makes a grand noise and an even grander mess. Right now, he’s sitting on the floor next to me, taking huge swigs of water and then spitting them all over himself and the carpet.
Final thought – I started taking birth control pills when I was 15. I didn’t stop until I was 26, when I had Harry; then back on them for two years; then after Ron was born I had a M*rena IUD put in, which I hated. Now, post-George, I have a regular old non-synthetic IUD – so I’m no longer on any hormones and oh dear lord, Ladies’ Holiday* time is THE WORST.
Migraine! Digestive complaint! Craving salt with a ferocity that stuns me! Weeping uncontrollably over news stories! I honestly think that for about two to three days a week once a month that I might be legally insane.
I realize that there was some study that came out a while back claiming that PMS is not real. And to that I say “oh, rilly? Listen, science-guy – let’s take a three-day road trip when I’m at my worst, OK? If you survive, we can have another discussion about whether or not PMS exists”.
*The phrase “Ladies’ Holiday” was brought to you by Nicole. It is now in standard usage in my head. So much more polite and well-mannered than “FUUUUUUUUUUCK HERE WE GO AGAIN”.
**As I’ve mentioned before, “Surly Thursday” was started by Bibliomama and I totally borrowed it forever, because I’m mean like that. Go read her post here.