biting ain't friendly

Ugh. I'm exhausted. You too? Yeah, I haven't slept for the last two nights. Blech. There's a fog inside my head extending to my eyes and the nerves inside my shoulders are pinching themselves. And no, I don't know what the hell we are having for DINNER!

I don't do well with little sleep. Let me rephrase. I require sleep--a LOT of sleep.
 Like teenager marathon sleep. Yes, I am a generally good-natured, well-mannered, happy-go-freakin'-lucky person, but if I don't sleep: Hell hath no fury....Few people see it, the transformation, the evil that erupts...stay away from me. I will bite.

All day my son punched my shoulder from the back seat. "Punch bug white, can't punch back." Really? Can't I? Ugh. No, I wouldn't, usually, but yes I thought about it.

"NO! NO! NO! NO punchbug! NO PUNCHING! That's NOT NICE! I am TIRED and if you punch me again...." At which point I either grit my teeth and make a sound comparable to a jammed chainsaw or, or  I shake my head with a hurrumph.

Every nose pick, teeth grind, whisper, noturnsignalturnwithoutwarningandthinkI'mnotgonnasaysomethingugh! Everything today falls into a category. There are only two categories on day's like this:

GETSONMYNERVES or HURTMYFEELINGSPLEASE.

Why, when I can't keep my eyes open enough to drive (slight exaggeration there), is my brain hyper capable of analyzing, over analyzing, everything that everyone else is doing? Why is my well-rested self able to process that the driver of the car in front of me has a mental illness which causes severe weaving and incessant braking which has nothing to do with me. Yet, my over-tired over-sensitive self determines that that same driver is totally out to piss ME off. Hurrumph.

Really it's a bit narcissistic to think that the world is out to cause me stress right? Right? Why aren't you answering? HELLO? Oh, sorry.

I felt his eyes as soon as we pulled in. Already late. Gas light on. Of course. Grr. Gas is a fact of life; I accepted that simple truth. Why is the only available pump always the one in direct view of the creepy guy with the bad truck. No, it's not the same guy; there just seem to be a lot of them.

I step out of my car and turn on my toes all in one fluid movement, pivoting on the big toenail of my right foot. OW! I swipe the card, drip gasoline down the back of my left leg--ugh, really?--and set the pump. Aidan's fiddling in the back seat. I open my door without moving my eyes past the edge of my own car. I do not want Mr. Creepo's eye contact. ANY OF IT. I slip in.

"Mama, I heard on the TEEVEE that you're not supposed to do that." Good boy, that is SO right. "Something about causing electric charge or something...."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. The static. I touch metal first. I'm fine."

"You'll start a fire...."

No, that'll give him a reason to come over here.
I avoid my big toe's nail this time and Creeper's stare.

$40.01. Damn it. I grab the receipt and with Creeporama copping a steal, I bounce into my seat.

"AIDAN!"

"What?"

"When you are a man I better NEVER catch you staring at a woman like that. It is rude, and disrespectful, and it is just GROSS!"

"Mom, I wasn't even looking at anybody...."

Yes. Today was one of those days. You're nodding along with me now, aren't you? We should write a song about it. Nope, Manic Monday only works one day a week. Tuesday's Gone. Friday I'm in Love....I'm SO losing it.

Today was  great radio with sucky reception and incessant interference. Know what I mean?

I pick my daughter up. God bless her sitter, 'cause I'm late again. She's forgotten her 'animals' and blanket at home. She's thrown a fit over said items that I reminded her to bring five times before leaving this morning. The sitter is wise and quick with a surrogate mere cat. Shew. Thank God for stuffed mere cats (and good sitters!) I forget to ask if she's pottied today--the kid not the sitter--but she's still wearing pants, so we're in good shape.

We load in the car, and I'm literally halfway between there and home when both kids ask if I wanted them to buckle up. I'm SO DONE. Just then I see my husband's truck crest the hill. We wave in silence. Golf. I'm on my own. And no, I STILL don't know what we're having for Dinner! The 'animals' sit on the front porch staring at us from beneath a furry purple blanket.

Before we get out of the car, I announce: "Now before we go in here, I want you to listen to me. We will not fuss. We will not fight. And I am NOT going outside." No one says anything, and I feel silly. My daughter giggles, "I faaated." Yay.

"Mama."
"What?"

"Buffalos do not have wings." 

"I know that."

"Well that's just stupid. What are buffalo wings then."

"Hot wings."

"What kind of wings?"

"Chicken."

"Well then why do they call them buffalo wings?"

"Buffalo, New York."

"WHAT?"

"They originated in Buffalo, New York."

"But then what kind of wings are they?"

"CHICKEN WINGS!"

"Well that is just stupid."

Smart kid.

I make dinner. Sort of. Leftover bagel bite and salad: plate one. Shrimp and leftover greenbeans: plate two. Fresh greens, vinegared cucumber onions and tomato, croutons, and baby shrimp: plate three. "Mommy's pate look like a birfday cake."
Neither kid finishes dinner. "There will be no more food after this and I mean it! I do NOT like to waste food." Whatever Disney show on TEEVEE has their attention, and I know a secret. I clear the plates and wipe the table.
"We want dessert!"
I grab the plate from atop my coffee maker just as they round the corner. Before they can blink their pretty blue eyes, it is gone. Stuffed into my mouth. A piece falls from my hand onto the floor and the dog gobbles it up.
"What's THAT?"
I spit crumbs. "cwookie."
"UGH!"

I collapse into my chair. Aubreigh pushes in beside me, hand shoving into my ribs.

My son grinds a tiara into my scalp teeth barred in a Cheshire grin. "Mommy, you a princess." Damned right I am.

Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.