I feel like doing some bitching and complaining today. Not that I’ve never done that before in this blog. Whatever. I come by it honestly.
You see, I’m the daughter of a retired air force Brigadier General. In fact, there are enough active duty members of the army/air force/navy in my family tree that I could start my own war if I wanted to. I’ve been surrounded by the best of the best since birth. When Dad enlisted me in preschool, he set me up with a brush cut and obstacle course training so I would be properly roughed in. If I came home crying after a hard day fighting over who gets the red crayon, Dad would tell me to suck it up.
I’ve been trained to tough it out. Now that I am all grown up, after a day of sucking it up in the trenches, I find the stuff gets all up in my Koolade and clogs up the system. So I like to spit it all out again. It’s kind of like therapy. In yoga, its called releasing, moving the bad chi out, balancing the negative energies, blahdy-blah. So, fine. A rosy releasy complaint fest by any other name is a complaint fest, and its what I do best.
Here’s the top 4 things I feel like releasing today:
#1. It’s snowing again. A-freaking-gain. It’s time for winter to go away already. I know, I know, you want this too (unless you are reading this from Florida or similar, in which case I hope you fall into a hot pit of hungry alligators).
#2. It’s all winter’s fault that I slipped on a patch of ice the other day. Luckily I broke my fall with my butt plus an outstretched arm. Now my right shoulder hurts. My rotator cuff was already pooched before this happened so this means back to the Therabands (a bald-faced lie: I never made it past the “weakling level” yellow Theraband. Instead, I went in for electro-acupuncture. The acupuncturist/electrician rolled me onto my side and inserted 3,326 needles into my shoulders, back and neck. Then he connected them all to a 50,000 watt electro-shock machine. “During the treatment,” he said, leaning over me with oddly-glittering eyes, “you may experience tingling or mild involuntary muscle twitches. These are normal, temporary effects of the electricity entering the body.” Then he switched on the power and fled the room. A few seconds later my glutes landed in Moscow and performed The Nutcracker at the Bolshoi Ballet all by themselves. I don’t remember anything after that. The therapy didn’t work but at least I didn’t have to shave my armpits for a year.)
#3. My physiotherapist can’t see me for three weeks because too many other people are ahead of me with their own aches and pains from winter wipe outs, face plants and butt-flops. She’s booked solid. Evidently, a Bad Winter = Happy Days Are Here Again for physiotherapists and chiropractors. Why couldn’t this sore arm have happened in December? It might have gotten me out of doing xmas. Why am I always so full of rude health during the season of enforced merriment/family get-togethers/shopping malls/too much gluten/terrible music in the grocery stores?
#4. Next week is the dreaded March Breakdown for Canadian Parents Who Aren’t Getting to Go South. This morning, Alex announced his action plan for the break: he wants to run a series of 24-hour live streaming gaming events from his bedroom. If he is live streaming his game play on the Internet, does this mean the soundscape of my house will be mic’ed out to the world? Will the whole Internet be able to hear me sobbing and crying, round the clock in the background, like the champion whiner I am ?
If I can get over the guilt and shame of planning to let my kid sit on his computer for 240 straight hours, I might actually enjoy the break. If I was truly bold, I would book a flight somewhere warm and thickly lined with palm trees, and leave him with my credit card to order in pizza. That’s one good way to turn a winter frown upside down.
I may be a breaking bad kind of mom, but before you accuse me of being overly whiny consider this: have you ever had to eat an IMP (aka cold beans and wieners with “tomato” sauce) for your zero dark thirty breakfast in the woods of New Brunswick, in pouring rain, while being eaten alive by a horde of Brunswickian Mosquitoes the size of mini-vans? Have you ever slept in a dusty cot, wondering if you’ll survive the night, in a desolate combat outpost?
Okay, me neither, but the temperature was 20 below this morning. TWENTY BELOW. Someone please call the whaaambulance.