I’m cranky.
I spent an hour and a half doing math homework while I hammered away at the knot burning a hole in the back of my neck. When I couldn’t take the pain any longer, I begged my son to deliver a flurry of karate chops to my too-tense shoulders. When he went all crouching dragon, hidden tiger on me, I sent him back to finish his ratios and sweetly summoned my daughter. At my request, she retrieved the rolling pin from the kitchen and did her best to roll out the rigid muscles. It got me off the couch long enough to navigate my way through the bedtime routine.
Why can’t I carry my stress in my abs or my pecs? I have one tight muscle in my body and it’s not doing anybody any good by being so damn conscientious! Where’s the justice in that? Why can’t I have stress and perky breasts? How about stress and a stomach I could bounce a nickel off of? No. I have a bump in the back of my neck and I think we can all predict how that’s going to turn out for me. If you need me, I’ll be in the belfry.
Showers are over and we’re all cuddled together in the big bed smelling like melons and cucumbers. I’m trying to relax with the aid of an orthopedic pillow and my daughter is driving me crazy with her cryptogram. Cryptograms are NOT fun. They’re not even fun when I’m happy and they are especially irritating when I’m crusty. They are torturous time wasters that were invented by cruel and evil men. A word to the wise – if you intend to buy a book of cryptogram puzzles for yourself, make sure the answers are in the back. If you are an American trying your hand at a cryptogram, hide your handguns; if you are Canadian, hide your beer. You will go nuts trying to crack these mind-twisters…unless you cheat…which is what I did tonight because I’m too grumpy for the pretense of patience.
Want to hear something ridiculous? Here’s the solution to her cryptogram:
“Please recall when you last consumed sufficient kohlrabi. This most important question evidences how cryptography can drive one mad.”
I had to read it twice. I thought it was another cryptogram. It’s not clever or funny or satisfying. If you are going to commit hours, if not days, decoding a 19-word message, shouldn’t it say something like...“You will find ten thousand dollars buried under the elm tree at seventeen Fisher Avenue. Don’t forget your shovel.” or even “If you picked up a paintbrush instead of a pencil, jackass, you could have painted your house by now.” Shouldn’t there be a reward of some kind; a laugh, a lesson, financial freedom?
Everybody is tucked into their own beds now. My kids appear to have survived my crabby mood without any permanent damage. I have great kids! I’m relaxing in bed as the team from CSI Miami hunts down another psychopath and I notice that about 80% of the time, Horatio Cain (played by David Caruso) is looking at the ground. Isn’t it strange that he doesn’t look people in the eye? Do you think he writes his lines in chalk on the pavement next to his mark? What is that about?
Enough! I’ve had it! I’m done complaining. I’m going downstairs to find a Tylenol and, if I have to, I’ll chase it with the pomegranate cooler I rescued from the cottage cooler. You have my promise that tomorrow I’ll turn over a leaf. If we’re all lucky, it won’t be poison ivy.
No comments:
Post a Comment