Real Bad Mood

Yesterday was the Fourth of July, a time of festivities, fireworks, family and friends, and shit. It was also day friggin’ five of the assholes in my neighborhood shooting off various types of explosives. I like looking at fireworks from a distance and I can deal with a little hoopla every now and then, but holy crap, be done! I’m out of The Big Dog’s anxiety medication and I’m just not in the mood to go get more and ain’t no need to light so much as a traffic flare today, so stop.

In honor of my foul mood, I’ve compiled a list of things which are currently on my nerves:

  • My neighbors. We’ve previously discussed that I need the Fourth of July to not be celebrated on the fifth. Even so, as I left my house today to deliver my daughter to all the places, my neighborhood was riddled with the litter of a thousand fireworks stands. The trash is everywhere. I can’t even count the garbage left on the street and in people’s yards. So, pyros of my hood, you suck.
  • The Son. He is currently (or at least he was 15 minutes ago when I left the house bound for Panera where I can mostly be at peace) laying on the fuzzy rug which was my Mother’s Day present from Huz. It’s a lovely rug which he is strand by strand fucking up by pulling on the threads. He also, in the last 24 hours, consumed half a bag of tortilla chips, half a jar of salsa, six eggs, four packages of creamy chicken flavored ramen, two tomatoes, 8 oz. of medium cheddar cheese, half a loaf of double fiber bread (have fun with that one, buddy), a whole damn lot of mayonnaise, nine slices of Papa John’s pizza, three bananas, about half a package of American cheese slices, and he got into his father’s mini fridge where he stores the Powerade he takes to work and has consumed no less than four of them. He’s a permanent fixture on my shit list.
  • The Daughter. She is currently babysitting for some lovely family. She is personally keeping Uber drivers employed. She’s got a lot of bills to pay and needs to purchase clothing for her newest job, but, dude, she’s got friends to see and Ubers to take. She also can’t wake up in time to go to work in the mornings. Any morning. All mornings. Every morning I walk down the hallway and pound on her door to awaken her loveliness so that I can have the privilege of taking her to one of her many jobs. Where she makes enough money to pay everything even though she never seems to have money to pay for her life. Yay!
  • THE ADULT CHILDREN. I’m trying to plan a trip across the country for my husband and I to visit my mother and my best friends. This is an important trip for me. My mother will be turning 80 while we are supposed to be there and both of my best friends have been through a lot over the last few years. I just want to hug them. THE ADULT CHILDREN are really making me question whether or not this will work out. One still will probably not have a car and the other, who knows what his status will be. All I need is the doors locked and the dogs loved while I am gone. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.
  • The Son, Part Deux. School starts at his college in about six weeks. He hasn’t enrolled. He hasn’t done his paperwork for a stipend he receives each semester. He hasn’t done his financial aid paperwork. And, dude, I question whether he will have his shit together enough to go back next month. And, that means one thing… He will remain in my house through fall semester. That right there is a lot of bad words.
  • These people at the next table at Panera. They have a toddler with them who seems perfectly annoying for a child of his age. The mother and grandparents, however, need a blanket party (not sure what that is, check this out) for just being stupid. They have no way of knowing I am well-versed in American Sign Language, but I am. They are teaching this poor boy some strange hearing person’s morphed version of Sign Language. And it is atrocious. I could have interjected and corrected them, but I decided against it because I’m here seeking peace. I’ll just assume they’re idiots and eat my cookie.
  • Panera. Somehow, they managed to jack up my favorite cookie. I have always enjoyed the iced shortbread cookies, but this monstrosity is kind of sucktacular. Too much icing is just too much, kids. Knock that crap off and give me back perfection, please.
  • My hair. What the hell is going on with this business? Floofy in one spot, flat in another, some kind of wicked curl sneaking in from nowhere, and a cowlick showing itself for the first time in 44 years? I call bullshit.
  • Summer. It’s fucking hot.

I could go on, but I don’t need anyone calling in a health and welfare check to the local police.


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