Otherwise known as “when your inner toddler runs shit”
Last week at work I had a day that I was so hangry today that I would have tripped a toddler with a happy meal. Yes to steal and consume in front of them….I never said I was nice.
On this same day, my four year old grandson informed his mother he was so mad at her that he was going to turn her into a frog.
The next day it was pouring rain. It was cold and bleak and I was in a veritable fog the entire day. My shining moment was my neighbor walking their dog. We call this particular dog a meatball on legs. It’s a sphere. It took a good 50 seconds for the dog to cross the street I was driving on and three attempts to clear the curb and all the while the owner was basically pantomiming the action the dog was attempting. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but if you had legs that barely allowed belly clearance of cement low born objects…
The day after that my grandson was watching Scooby Doo. I know many people think that Daphne is the tramp of the show but I (notsosecretly) harbor a vendetta against Velma. First off, how many times can that idiot lose her damn glasses. Secondly, at least Daphne wears tights under that short little excuse of a dress (hello purple and green said no one ever…except Daphne). Velma on the other hand wears those slut 90-tastic Catholic school girl gone wrong socks and a skirt so short I’m pretty sure they used it in the Basic Instinct vag scene until they realized Velma’s hooha was sub par compared to Sharon Stone’s hooha.
Also last week I decided that I am in fact a fat fuck and need to go to the gym and before anyone comes at me with some bullshit that I have low self esteem and shouldn’t be so self deprecating…shush. Have you seen the cover photos of this blog? I ain’t suffering kid! My self esteem is fine and so is my mirror and sense of perception. I’m a fat fuck. I need a treadmill. I’ll register higher on the hottie scale in about 4 months but until then, I’m a sphere and I need to get my fat ass in shape or at the very least find my waistline again. My back is better after a year and a half of babying it and it’s time to get back to business.
But last week, everything irritated me…
Self important bloated weenies irritated me
My husband irritated me
My period irritated me
Cleansing fads irritated me
The local post office irritated me
My lack of ability to commit to an eyebrow waxing appointment irritated me
My waistline irritated me
My husband bloats up like a toad when he’s trying to make a point. I’m the asshole with the pin that usually pops balloons, and inflated egos. I generally croak at him when he exhibits (ribbits) this behavior but last week was not a shining example of Shannon at her most ladylike. I think I threw his socks at his head. Allegedly.
So what does one do when they are having a bad week which in fact is happening for no other reason than I was just bitchy. I felt bad about myself; I felt old and tired and chubby and I was mad because of being old and tired and chubby. It occurred to me that life was so much easier when I didn’t have to rein my emotions in and adult 24/7.
Today I drove an hour and a half each way for a birthday party for my father in law. Bless his heart, he is 85 and looks and acts about 55. Mr. Magilla drove my parents and I drove Mei Mei and Wee Baby Child. The kiddo hit the wall at a certain point. He was so good; through the whole meal, the whole drive down, the whole…three stop lights on the way home before he hit the point of no return. The meltdown ensued which insured that driving home in pouring rain with every moron driver in New Jersey being accounted for on the Parkway would be the fun part of the trip home. We finally managed to help him pull his shit together by putting on 80’s music (thank you satellite radio). Men at Work to be specific. This inspired a dance party in my truck.
He was kicking the back of her seat. Mei Mei asked him to stop and he raspberried her. It was brief, direct and assertive.
It occurred to me….
How awesome would it be if we could let our inner toddler run the show? We all have one; that little selfish snotbag who secretly wants to lie to their children and say there are no Oreos left even as the chocolate crummy dust coats our lips.
You order a pound of turkey. We live in the modern world in which we are aware of the perils of processed food and insecticides. We are responsible and health conscious. Yes! The man behind the counter calls your number. You ask about MSG and nitrates and reiterate that you would like a pound, thinly sliced, of the healthiest and closest to organic turkey they have. They cut the first slice and hold it up for your inspection. It’s too thick. What do you do? Do you ask for a little thinner?
Fuck no – toddler is running this show.
You throw yourself on the floor and proceed to kick your way in a circle around the shopping cart because your turkey is too thick.
Adultypants, could you wire $150,000 to Mr. and Mrs. SUCHNSUCH? They’re closing on their house.
I’m eating a sammich.
It’ll just take a second.
But I’m eating a sammich…..lip quivers….tears fall…..snot bubbles form and burst as Adultypants throws their head back and starts to sob incoherently that they just want to do what they want to do FOREVER……..ALONE.
You were caught doing 40 in a 25. You’re facing a ticket and all you can think about is your pretty new dress. It would be even prettier if you could twirl. And twirl. Let’s get out of the these clunky wooden benches. And go to the front of the room and spin and spin and spin and giggle and spin.
Contempt of court? But I’m a pretty pretty princess! And I’m spinning. You can’t do that. No givebacks. I’m rubber, you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me….
I think we all need toddler time in a padded room so we can’t hurt ourselves.
This goes double for menopausal women. They need hour long regularly scheduled blocks complete with wine and cheese afterwards, especially the first time they find one of those chin hairs that seeminly sprout up in the span of an hour that are so stiff they could pick a lock.
As adults, when did we lose our ability to play? Toddlers have got this all right and we’re the dumb ones.
I want cartoon time. I want jammies with feet attached and a blanket that I can legitimately carry around sans judgement. I want the wonderment of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk. I want to cry some days until I get all this pent up bullshit out of my system and then hard core build a Lincoln Log city and thus be magically cured of stress.
And while as adults we may laugh at the antics of toddlers and all of their bratty, batty glory….here’s my final query.
Who sleeps better at night?
The little pint sized savages who let it all out? Or the adults who keep it all in?