Hateful

One of my grandma’s favorite things to tell me when I was a teenager was that I was a hateful, hateful child.

Yeah, whatever. She was (in my teenaged mind) a nagging old hag (by the way, she was probably all of 50 years old when I was a teenager, so…yeah, let that one simmer.)

These days, my grandma is a lovely 91 year old lady with lots of awesome stories to tell. She has the softest hands and always smells like roses. So sometimes, we can grow out of being hateful.

Except, while I’m no longer hateful to my poor, dear grandmother, I am hateful at other times in my life.

I find myself muttering, “I hate that guy.” I do this while at work.

While in the car, I mutter much worse (is there much worse than hate, though?) I hate people who drive the wrong way in a parking lot. I hate people who pull through parking spaces and then ‘have’ to drive the wrong way.

I hate that one guy that ALWAYS pulls out in front of me when I’m on my way home. I hate to tap my brakes because even though he can see me coming, he pulls onto a state road, drives all of 40MPH for a freaking mile and then turns off the state road. I hate him sooooo much.

So yes, I’m so hateful these days.

I should probably do something about that. It can’t be good for my soul to be so full of hate. I need to find my zen.

Any advice on doing that?

Either Or

I was in such a tizzy for most of last week. I think we can all guess why. Perhaps I should invent some ‘alternative facts’ to see if they make more sense than the actual truth.

Ahem.

Anyway, yes. Last week was tough. This week doesn’t feel much better, to be honest. I mean, please, it’s Monday. Mondays suck. Not as much as Tuesdays but still.

So I realized that along with all the bullshit that went down last week, I was also PMSing. That’s always great fun.

I picked up some hair color over the weekend because, duh, when one is 46, one either goes gray gracefully or one covers one’s roots.

I’m a root-coverer.

I even mentioned to Alyssa (and my husband and my mom) that I should probably consider going gray gracefully since, yes, I am 46.

But then I amended that. I declared that before I can stop coloring my roots, I have to lose weight because I cannot be fat and gray. I will be either fat, or gray. And right now, since I’m fat, I can’t be gray.

It’s a bit like having pimples (Hello PMS!) and wrinkles. It just seems so wrong. And just plain mean.