|I'M REALLY CRABBY. I'M NOT KIDDING|
This morning, Sir Dave and I were having coffee and planning world domination, the usual start to our day. Day in, day out, this relentless planning! Honest to God I'm not sure I can do it much longer. So I changed the subject to the time I cried in the basement of a knitting shop where I was attending a class. Yes, I know, this was a rather abrupt subject change but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Anyway, the reason I cried at the knitting class was:
a. I didn't know this class was going to be held in a small dark, very warm room in the basement of a store which in which the main floor was deceivingly roomy and bright and air conditioned.
b. The teacher arrived on a bicycle, wearing a helmet.
c. The teacher did nothing but talk about her achievements in knitting using all kinds of knitting terms that I didn't recognize or understand and I'm sure that's because she was so much more advanced than I was (just ask her) and I couldn't understand how anyone could live a life that was this boring and still think that she was special.
d. I had just survived a trying ordeal, which in the city is a daily occurrence that I never got used to. A homeless junkie approached me at the street-car stop where I had been waiting for at least an hour because the schedules had changed and no one notified me and now I was late for my knitting class. This man got way too close to me, jonesing and begging for money obviously not smart enough to realize that a woman of my age is not someone you want to fuck with. I flew into a rage fueled by everything unfair and horrible in my life and super-charged with completely out of control perimenopausal hormones. I screamed and lunged at him my with all my estrogen induced fury until he did what all these ball-less freaks do - he ran.
e. I'm not a good knitter and I never will be no matter how hard I try. I will NEVER, NEVER, NEVER be good enough. I'm not kidding - Never-Ever.
f. A combination of all of the above while simultaneously experiencing the physical, mental and emotional symptoms of "the change" - believe me, no one can do this without sobbing. No one, I tell you.
Ok, back to this morning. Sir Dave and I were taking a stroll down memory lane and I was laughing all smug in the fact that a few years have gone by and "I'm so much better now" and that's when Dave got a look on his face that suggested that he wasn't going to completely agree with me and then he said:
"Well, sometimes you still get really crabby."
Really crabby. Really crabby? Really? I don't understand where Sir Dave has been all this time, but anyone who has been with me for even a little while knows that Princess Stupidhead is one crabby bitch, although she means well most of the time. Crabbiness is just a quirky part of my personality. I consider it more than a small part of my charm and quite possibly the secret to my successes in life. A tantrum thrower since the age of two, I have single handedly dominated every one in my path and put some others right back in their place, that place they mistakenly forgot to stay in. A once-coworker, (PT Penny) for example, having seen only a small example of my burning inferno of rage, never dared look me in the eye again, never again delivered that infuriating eye roll/head shake thing of hers. Domination is highly underrated.
But the upside to this little morning discussion, however, is that now I have a name for these tantrums, a nicer, kinder, gentler name that softens the sharper edges of my actions. From now on, when I go to my "bad place" we will just refer to this as "getting really crabby," Ok?
There. That's so much nicer, now isn't it?
We shall now begin our day.