I am wearing one of those purple Complaint Free World bracelets this week in an effort to you know… stop complaining. The idea is to switch wrists every time you catch yourself complaining thereby becoming a better person and hopefully throwing some good karma in your direction.
In other news, my wrists are sore.
Growing up in Southern Baptist Land, I was always aware of the ever looming Devil just waiting to jump out at me from behind the shower curtain. I knew he was coming to snatch me because little girls who tell lies, hit their brothers and/or refuse to eat their lima beans are pretty much the reason the Devil gets up in the morning. Forget things like genocide and serial killers. Nothing says eternal damnation like a mouthy seven year old with a stubborn streak.
That’s why even today as a grown woman I am still trying to do whatever I can think of to keep me out of “Down There”. (That’s Baptist for Hell.)
Thus the wrist band.
I figure if I stop complaining and start being insanely nice to everyone, everywhere, all the time, I can divert the Score Keeper’s attention and maybe get a room somewhere with a climate a little more favorable for my skin type.
Pay close attention to that word “insanely” as that’s how I handle everything from grocery shopping to hair spraying to boiled cabbage production. It’s sort of my thing.
Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time. From before I even had my make-up on until late in the evening, I was smack dab in the middle of verbal business battles. If ever in the history of bad days there was a time to NOT have a piece of rubber around your arm reminding you not to bitch, yesterday was the day.
Because the top of my head is dangerously close to blowing right off, I’m going to temporarily remove the Hell avoidance device known as this wrist band and let loose for a couple minutes. Please help me out by doing something sinful while you read the following so that the Score Keeper’s attention is diverted from me until I become complaint free once again. My dry skin thanks you.
1. Hey Mr. I’m Driving 27 MPH For 20 Miles on a No Passing Stretch of Road: I want to park my car and run on foot right up to your window, tap on the glass and punch you right between the eyes. I don’t care that you are 108 years old. Unless you want your last moments on this earth to be behind the wheel of your truck at the hands of an angry woman wearing a purple get out of hell bracelet, put the pedal to the medal.
2. Hey Lady who thinks she can be mean to me because of my job. You got away with it this time, but the next time you speak to me as though I just pulled your cat’s whiskers, I will. I will come over there and pull your cat’s whiskers really, really hard.
3. Smelly Guy who did that smelly thing right in front of me WHILE YOU WERE TALKING TO ME: I hate you. I don’t hate you the way I hate that woman’s cat, I hate you the way I hate lima beans. Just as I was willing to risk Down There in my stand against lima bean consumption, I am willing to risk it by hating you. (PS: I’m sending you the bill for having my office painted.)
4. Twenty-something who thinks you are cute in your little shorty-shorts in October wearing your Cops Love Me T-Shirt. Listen here you little hoochie, get your happy ass back home and put on some clothes before you go running around in public. Cops may love you (bad cops…cops who are on the take… cops who get birthday cards from guys named Lefty & Chubby Paul), but I do not love you. Not one little bitty bit.
5. DJ who played the first Christmas song of the year on the radio yesterday even though it was Halloween: I actually like you. I’m just mad because it wasn’t Hark Harold’s Angels Sing. (Little Christmas trivia here – Hark Harold and Charlie are brothers and used to work together until Charlie got too big for his britches and hooked up with Farrah Fawcett. She was their Yoko.)
OK, I’m done. Rubber band back on. All systems are go and all complaining has ended. You may now safely stop sinning. Unless you like sinning in which case, pack moisturizer.
I miss Liza. Where the heck is she anyway?
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