It's All About The Crust...

So on occasion, I throw a dramatic tantrum strictly for comedic effect. It’s a service I provide free of charge that lightens a dark mood or dissolves anger. Trust me. It’s funny. So one delightful afternoon I walk into the kitchen to find Dewie making a peanut butter sandwich while opening an envelope. She stares at the paper she pulled out with that wrinkly eye look and her mouth slightly agape as if silently saying, “What the hell?”

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Huh?” She looks up at me like she’s never seen me before. “Oh, this.” She holds up the paper. “I don’t understand what… they didn't  no they definitely didn't put my overtime on here. What the hell? I worked two weekends in a row and then nothing?!?!”

“Oh, well, yeah that sucks, you should call them or something, but when I say ‘what’s up, buttercup’ then you say something back that rhymes. It’s like a game.”

She scowls at the paper. “I don’t want to play.”

“Are you too mad to play?”

She looks at me like she’s going to say, “what the hell is wrong with you?” but instead she says, “Yes. I’m too. Mad. To. Play.” Just like that. All spaced out.

“Well then I’m mad too! What the hell? How DARE they mess up your check? WHO THE HELL DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!?!” I purse my lips in rage and dramatically slap a pack of toilet paper off the counter that had come in with the groceries but not found its way to the hall closet yet. The toilet paper bounces off the cabinet and makes it into the next room. I ball up my fists, throw my head back and growl. “AAARRRGGGGGRRRLLLL!!!!!”

I can tell Dewie’s trying not to laugh. She stands up with her sandwich in one hand and a paper towel in the other. She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “Are you quite finished?”

I make my eyes all ginormous and cop an attitude. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not!” With that I slap the sandwich out of her hand. I am genuinely surprised that it has made its way to the floor. I didn't think I hit it that hard. She stares at it on the floor and watches as the dog slowly slinks her way over, watching us out of the corner of her eye and scarfs it up and then promptly gets out of the line of fire.

She looks kind of annoyed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Really?! Are you new here? You had to know I was coming for the sandwich. Why weren't you holding it tighter?”

“I didn't know I needed a death grip on my damn sandwich! I was getting to the good crust! I always save that part for last! You ruined the good part of my sandwich!”

“Oh, no. I ruined the good crust?! What ever will we do? If you would have just played the game none of this would have happened.”

“Fine. Make me a new sandwich, bit..”

“ALRIGHT! I’ll make you a new sandwich. But I'm going to do it angrily.” 

Temper Tantrum

I woke up feeling like I needed to be productive today. Still in my jammies and my bare feet I gathered all the laundry from various rooms and carried it to the utility room. I was met with a full basket of clean clothes that haven’t been folded and clean clothes in the dryer. I start to feel a twinge of aggravation flaring up in my gut, but I push it aside while I gather the clean clothes and bring them to the closet to be folded.

We have a very limited amount of space and I have developed a carefully planned system for storing clothes. The majority of our clothes are folded neatly and stored in cubbies. It only takes a few items out of place for the whole thing to look like rabid dingo has made a nest in the closet. I sigh as I look at the wall of what was beautifully folded clothes. There are sleepy pants in the t-shirts, work shirts in the good shirts and nearly half of the clothes are folded stupid. That itch of aggravation is growing into anger. Damnit, Dewie! Realizing I can’t repair it, I just take everything off the shelves and start refolding it. The more I fold the angrier I get.

I’m about halfway through the pile when Dewie shuffles in all sleepy eyed and happy. This makes me even angrier. What in the hell does she have to be so damn happy about?! She rubs her eyes and innocently rasps, “Morning babe. You doing laundry?” Oh, it’s on now.

“I was trying to do laundry, but apparently someone can’t manage to put anything where it goes. Or fold anything right. Or fold anything at all. Why are your clothes all mixed up and folded stupid?”

“I don’t have enough room.”

“You’d have room if you actually FOLDED anything.”

“I can’t fold them like you.” She sweeps her arm toward the wall of clothes like she’s showing a brand new living room set on The Price is Right. “It looks like a damn department store!”

“You could if you tried. You just don’t want to. And why was there two loads of clean laundry in the utility room?!”

“I needed underwear.”

“Ok, new rule! If you wash it, you fold it and put it away! You know what? Even better, you’re banned from laundry!” Wait, what? Crap. I know as soon as it comes out of my stupid face that I have made a tragic mistake. That same carefree grin slides back over Dewie’s face.

“Ok.”

And thus my idiotic tantrum reaps its just reward.