If I Only Had A Window

Has you life ever been taken over by a small, wailing child and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it? And the sad thing is you could totally do something about it, but parents seriously frown upon throwing their children out of a window. Though in some cases it would probably be a serious improvement on their attitudes. And as an added bonus, my day would be a hell of a lot more livable.

The problem with this is that I should really not know the horror of a small thing sending my life into a whirlpool of what the fuck. The fact that I was born without that deathtrap called the uterus, combined with my strong preference for the hee hee instead of the hoo haa, should have insured a brat free existence. I mean there is always the possibility of adopting, but really no. As each day goes by it seems less and less likely that Lance Bass is going to show up on that white horse (Is the problem that you can’t find a white horse, Lance, because I’m sure you can find one on Amazon. And if worse comes to worse, it doesn’t have to be a white horse. I mean it might mess up the fantasy a bit because who the fuck ever heard of riding in on a brown horse, but if you must, Lance.) and he’s the only one who I would want to raise a Madagascar Hissing Baby with.

Anyway, I’ve kind of gotten off track. That tends to happen when I’m discussing Lancey Poo or bitching. Or shiny things come into my life of vision. This whole line of thinking was brought about by one of my sub assignments. (Yes. Yes. I know you are asking why the hell am I a sub if this is my attitude? We’ll I’ll tell you. Deep down inside, I’m sort of a marshmallow. If you repeat that to anyone, I will, of course, destroy you I the worst possible way ever, namely forcing you to listen to hours of Tyra Banks talking about herself. (You know she has a ton of free time now that her show is off the air and I am sure her stuffed animals need a break from her.))

So there’s this one particular class that I’ve sort of fallen in love with. It’s a kindergarten class and they are just adorable. There is only a small underlying evil. Well, the school knows how much I like this class so they keep me sticking me in it. At first, it was all rainbows and sausages, but after a while it got a little old. Namely because the class got a little used to me and that small underlying evil became a big ball of pure crazy.

I mean, I guess it must be nice when the worst thing in your life is someone cutting in front of you in line (And I use the term line in the loosest possible sense because these kindergarteners think a line is some screwed up Harry Potter lightening bolt zig zag.), but is it necessary to break down when it happens? And I’m not talking just crying, I’m talking full on hysterics. Sobbing. Snot. High pitched whining. Fucking hysterics. From the level of hysteria this girl has, you would think someone just told her that they had gang raped the Easter Bunny.

After the fourth time this girl pulled this shit, I just had to sit down and ask myself a very important question. “Am I really going to let this little dictator-tot run my life like this?” Sadly, the answer is yes. Because, quite frankly, I am just a giant whore for a paycheck. And it’s not so much that I’m a whore, it’s that I need money or they are going to threaten to take my car away again. Not only that, but I will no longer be able to afford books anymore. Then I will be sentenced to a life of reading the Twilight Saga over and over again, which for a nerd like me is a death sentence. And if that were to happen and I start quoting lines of Bella’s dialogue, therefore causing myself to yank my brain out through my ear, I will blame a screeching child. And then I will be extremely bitter. Okay, I am already extremely bitter, but I will be even more bitter than that.

Yes, it is possible.  

Comments

[Stephanie Soileau]

Dictator-tot. Gawd I look forward to these posts.

An acquaintance of mine has a son named David who's sort of like a little poisonous Chihuahua with an Oprah-caliber ego (not a good look on a three year old), and we've nicknamed him Deathray Davie.

Because we're pretty sure he's building one.

[Coco]

My children are nicknamed Satan & DC (devil child).

And people wonder why I don't sing and dance around when they tell me they're pregnant. They should fucking know better.