The Road to Hell

There aren’t too many things that irritate me. Okay, after writing that out and saying it in my head, I have to say that isn’t even a little bit true. I guess if I had to make a list, the list of things that DON’T irritate me would take less time. A perfectly good day can be completely, if not temporarily, ruined by nothing more than an unexpected task or errand that requires me to put on a bra. From that moment, up to a point in time in the forseeable future, you know what will piss me off? EVERYTHING.

Some people, like Husband, will say that I’m overly irritable but he is wrong. It’s actually everyone and everything else that is overly irritating. Not my fault. I could be in a perfectly good mood most of the time if other people could just make maintaining that mood a bigger priority. See? I’m easy.

Let’s take DJs as an example. I realize that the music chosen and played by the radio stations are based on the billboard charts but why can’t they ever take a stand and inform the public that their taste in music sucks when they are forced to play shit over and over again. It would be a public service. OCCUPY THE RADIO! As it stands, they are either playing utter crap or completely ruining a good song because they play it to death. I’ll be driving around, singing along to a song I love like this:

 

and then, BAM! The next song completely ruins my mood and for the next day or two, in my head, I will be singing, “hey, I just met you and this is crazy but here’s my number so call me, maybe…” until I am begging anyone and everyone to twist my wine opener into my skull just to make it stop.

My children are, of course, a source of frustration from time to time. Fortunately for them, the comedy of most of their moments cancels out the frustration but not all the time. I can never find a pen when I need one. Like ever. Number Three, however, can find markers, nail polish and crayons that I was unaware we possessed until I find the evidence all over my walls. After the first time, I went through the kids rooms and removed all these items and put them away,  most were thrown away, to avoid any more walls falling victim to Number Three’s antics. A week later, here he comes walking out with a sharpie and I discover it all down the hallway. I tell the older two that they are not to remove any of the markers or colors without my permission. I take inventory and seem to have it all. A few days later, here he comes out of his room with a few map pencils and a few more walls with his mark on them. A week later, he has found a bottle of nail polish that Number One had stashed. 

It is in the carpets and on the tile and a few baseboards got some pink accents. My only guess is that he has a secret stash somewhere that someone is replenishing because he NEVER seems to run out of shit to use in his effort to ruin everything. I can’t find a pen to save my life when I have a school note or permission slip to sign or just a list to make but he seems to have an endless supply of writing utensils and art supplies, some I have no memory of ever buying.

I am not a “type A” person by any stretch of the imagination. I wish I was, just a little bit. I am, unfortunately, quite the opposite, armed only with the inattentive form of ADD. There are certain things that I am particular about and for whatever reason I can’t get my family to fall in line. The toilet paper roll, for starters. It takes nothing short of an act of Congress to get anyone else to even replace an empty roll onto the dispenser and then on the oh-so-rare occasions that anyone does, it is on the wrong way. Most of the time, though, the new roll is balanced on top of the cardboard skeleton of the previous roll that is still dangling on the dispenser.  I’ve aired my frustration over this issue time and again, to no avail.

When I was single, I used to love my loofahs. Since being married with children, I have had to abandon loofah usage. You see, when Husband and I first lived together, I would get into the shower and grab my loofah only to discover one of two things:

1) It was wet.

2) It was hanging from the knob or it was on the soap dish.  I ALWAYS hung it from the faucet head because, unlike Husband, I just couldn’t use it if I thought it had touched any of the surfaces for any extended period of time. If I even suspected that it could have become mildewed, it went in the trash. As it was, I barely kept loofahs for more than a couple of weeks.

I finally asked Husband if he was using my loofah, a suspicion that he then confirmed. I was thoroughly appalled. I think I just stared at him in disgust for a minute or two.

He didn’t get my indignation, at all. I unleashed into a tirade that covered everything from the intermingling of his Irish Spring with my Bath and Body Works to how he should keep his dead skin to himself and I would do the same. He still used it a time or two but finally caught on and then Number One discovered loofahs and she would use mine, even though she had her own. She would just grab whichever one she saw first. I couldn’t continue and I had to end my long relationship with these shower accessories.

If you happen to be the cause of my pissy mood, there is one sure way to smooth it all over: Wine. I’ll even sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen after some wine, use the neighbor’s loofah that is in their trash can and give Number Three a can of spray paint.