This One’s For You, Internet

I bitch a lot. I know, I know. Water is wet. Sky is blue. Daniel Craig is hawt. My therapist might say something more empowering like I am emotionally reactive. My husband might say something more truthful like I puke up a lot of word vomit.

I attribute some of this word vomit to my parents. Yeah, blame the parents. I don’t know whether they meant to raise my brother and me like this or not, but it was sort of like a Talmudic scholar and a Socratic scholar decided to have children. With each other. Then they sat back and were horrified and fascinated with what fresh hell THAT was. They also instilled in me, purposely or not, a deep distrust of politicians, organized religion, groups of people, Amway, and the DEA. They are not hippies. Oh, but no. I said to my dad recently that it seems the older I get, the more disdain I have for law enforcement. I’d have thought I’d have had more respect. His response was a reasonable, “No, you get more respect for the law. Not the enforcers of the law.” Daddy explains it all.

I question and poke and prod and analyze and wrestle with answers. My tombstone will read EXPLAIN THIS TO ME! The reason my blog is Yeah, And Another Thing is because I say that. A lot. Like, “Yeah! And another thing?What’s up with the top to my lunch meat container being pink? My honey roasted turkey supports breast cancer awareness? What the hell does that mean anyway? And another thing! Why does the NFL go pink in October? Shouldn’t they be a little more concerned with frontal lobe disorder from concussions? Huh? Where’s that ribbon?”

I can be, what’s the word? Tiresome.

For reasons I needn’t go into now, the past couple of years have been–without question–the toughest of my life. And yes, I fully remember what it was like to be fourteen. Oh, but I do. That memory is closely followed by the memory of being twenty when everything is SOOOOOO deep and meaningful and political and you argue with your parents because you’ve just taken philosophy 101/psych 101/religion 101 and YOU. KNOW. EVERYTHING.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

I could get all sappy and tell you all the things I’ve learned about myself and the incredible, wonderful, smart, funny, hot, sarcastic, idealistic man who took leave of his senses and married me. Or how his family accepts me as one of their (slightly damaged and odd) own. Or how I’ve pushed my family to the brink of sanity and they haven’t stopped speaking to me. Or how I’ve learned to fire friends and acquaintances when I need to. I won’t even tell you how I’ve learned that the biggest, messiest hurt in the world is seeing people you love suffer and feeling totally powerless in the face of that pain.

So, back to that word vomit. See? There’s a point here. I’ll tell you this. I know I bitch a lot. You want to know why?

I bitch because it feels fucking awesome.

I can get that bad energy out of my system and sometimes, occasionally, hopefully, make someone smile. Someone once commented on a piece I did somewhere else that he or she hoped I had the worst week of my life the next week so I’d come back and write about it. Has there ever been a more beautiful backhanded comment? No. There has not.

People of the interwebz, I BITCH FOR YOU!

Things Making Me Stabby Today (in no particular order):

  •  That these stupid shirts exist. These, These, and These.
  •  That the Democrats would not buy a clue if it was on clearance.
  •  That the GOP wants to glorify the fetus and let the human die.
  •  That my ass looks like the surface of the moon.
  •  That I probably won’t get to see Glengarry Glen Ross at Theater Memphis.
  • How much I just spent at the grocery.
Things That Are NOT Making Me Stabby Today (in no particular order):
  • I remembered butter.
  • Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She’s like the Super Supreme. Sliding out of a dangerous airplane? POW! Cancer? KAPOW! Clarence Thomas? SNIP!
  • The Man of The House does not have to work late tonight.
  • A conversation about cheese which has now lasted three days.
  • That within that conversation, the term dairy whore was born.