Grump, grump, grump.
July 24, 2007I am a grump. I am grumping. I am engaged in grumpery. Nothing is right, everything is wrong. If I could stomp around muttering "grump grump grump," it would feel extraordinarily correct. I suppose I could. Nothing's stopping me.
(Pause to throw cat off lap.)
My sheets are unwashed, there are tumbleweeds of pet hair on the stairs. My right hand hurts for no reason I can figure. My hair is stupid. We're no longer on vacation. It's sunny and breezy out. If it were still be raining I could stay in and grumble under the (unwashed) sheets. But noooooo. Weather hates me.
While I'm writing this, Charlie is flipping out at the cat for, you know, being a cat. For batting at things. Charlie, let it go.
(Cat's back up, and is actively trying to delete my document. Aaand now she is flying off my lap, via the power of my sore right hand. Ow.)
And you know what? You can't tell a four-and-a-half-year-old that you're in a bad mood, because they don't care. If anything, they decide they're in a bad mood too, but unfortunately the bad mood of the preschooler is not characterized by silent grumping, but instead by a) whining and b) carrying on. So instead one should repress every glimmer of negative emotion, push it deep down into one's abdomen, where the four-and-a-half-year-old will still sense its presence and respond in kind so ignore what I just wrote, it makes no sense. Just… just don't bother getting up. Hire a replacement. When you're in this kind of mood, the preschooler will love anyone who is not you. Grab the guy who mows the lawn across the street, who seems to be there every day; why is he there every day? Who needs their lawn mowed every day? I ask you.
(Cat's back, purring violently at me. Soon she will put her butt on the keyboard while kneading my face with her claws. I know it.)
You people, however, amuse me. I never suspected so many of my delicate readers would be so stricken at the sight of a fellow enjoying an invigorating electro-massage of his innards. Look at him, does he seem disturbed? See how pleased he is with his newfangled gadgetry? Why begrudge him that? It's not like he's plucking at his intestines with a fork.
Oh, I need to lie down. Maybe I need one of those massagers. Did you ever wish you were getting sick? Just so you could lie in bed for days, perhaps being looked after by a sexy nurse? I need a sexy nurse. WHY DO I HAVE NO SEXY NURSE? I would also take a brownie.
The cat's on me again. I'm afraid I don't have the energy to remove her. Send help. Sexy help.
Reader Comments (51)
Hope it passes soon. Be well.
now i'll have that thought in my head all day. thanks a lot, grumpster.
(the feeling will pass, as all of them eventually do. until then, embrace it. let it be. the feeling wouldn't be there if some part of you didn't need it.)
I vote we all take a nap.
But first I must go to the gym ::grumble grumble::
I just end up writing lame posts and flicking boogers at the cat, instead of petting it.
Try Ian Garten's recipe for her "Outrageous Brownies." It's seven hundred pounds of butter, plus 18 pounds of dark chocolate, a henhouse full of eggs and 1/2 cup of flour. There is nothing better. If it doesn't work to chear you up I don't know what will.
In our house, the Grumps are called the Crank. As in, "watch out, Cranky McCrankypants got up on the wrong side of the bed, AND the world peed in her cheerios."
I was thoroughly cracked up by your comment that we should take our cue from HIM as to whether or not anything kinky or disturbing was being performed on his abdomen. I mean, I do take into account that it can't be TOO bad since he seems to be doing whatever it is to HIMself. But then again, people have died from autoerotic asphyxiation, too.
However! My point is that your assumption that he's fine based on his expression seeming to indicate that he's okay is uncomforting because: look again at his face. He's drawn with that classic Greek stoicism whereupon he could be getting a perfectly delightful electro-massage of his innards OR! ACTUALLY plucking at his intestines with a fork and STILL have the same implacable expression. The Greeks only had the one, you know.
Tell me how that goes, ok? ;-)