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The day my son was LITERALLY a pain in my arse.

I donned a white dress I haven’t worn in a very long time.  Since last Summer I believe?

Went to work.

Sat down.

OUCH!

WTF?

Checked out the chair.  Chair was not an unsub.  (For those of you that don’t watch Criminal Minds – first of all, “SHAME ON YOU!” Secondly, it means unknown subject.)

I madly rushed about my day and each time I sat, OUCH!

I checked the lace in my dress.  Oh, this was the dress.  (Looks better on me than flayed out on my bed.)

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I was brought up as a lady – so I had these very delicate panties/slip type thingys underneath said dress.

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They’re large, I’m slender.  They work as a slip.

So then I start inspecting THEM!

Nothing.

Half a day in at work I can’t take it anymore and actually found a private moment to ‘ladylike reach my hand up to my arse.”

(You’ll never read that in any Bronte novel)

And … What do I find?

Last time I washed the dress must have been with Nic’s work shirt – WITH name tag attached.

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I  peeled it off and announced my discomfort.  Because, we all know, I do SO well with editing.

“Nic was seriously a pain in my ass today!!!!”

I have since confronted him – laughed with him and he even allowed these selfies.  (This is rare – it’s like Big Foot accepting a photo op!) I even plastered his tag onto his forehead.

I look at it as a ‘thank you’ for doing his laundry.

Yes, you have hurt me

Yes, you have hurt me

But, I know you don't really give a shite

But, I know you don’t really give a shite

And I will always love you

And I will always love you

He wore the tag well … He braved the photo storm.  I shall forgive him this dress intrusion.

But, today, yes – he was a PAIN IN MY ASS!!!!!!

 

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Roast Beast

Snapped again.

I hold things in and then when it get’s to be too much I boil over.

My son is currently headless as I bit it off.

I had been cooking him and his friend a beef roast.  My kitchen is tiny, I was creating space for carving – while stirring mushroom gravy and fluffing the potatoes and cooking the vegetable.  All this was accomplished, barely, on probably 2 square feet of counter space.

I flipped the dog a piece of meat and got a comment from the living room (6 feet away) “Oh!  Feed the DOG before us”. 

Hold it in.

Kept cooking – almost done, where to put two plates?? 

As a hand snakes around my body to place an empty ice-cube tray into the sink  – I started to vibrate with frustration.

The microwave beeps and it’s blocked by a cup being filled with soda. 

Hold it in.

Son get’s the point (after a not so subtle ‘Really??’) leaves the kitchen.  And leaves the two plates I’ve now prepared. 

Oh hell no.

“Come and get your friends plate, then yours!”

Sulkily he comes for it.

Then the already dismantled living room is further dissected.  Well, my papers to be exact.  Since they’ve been moved from one spot to accommodate the gaming devices, they must now be moved to accommodate eating.

I stomp (very maturely, not) into the living room muttering something foul and say “Give me my things!”

And right then – I feel about as ugly as I have ever felt, but cannot stop. 

I’m hurt. 

I gave up the living room, the peace that was my Saturday so Nic could have his friend over.

I spent time cooking them a meal.

And ended up feeling used and invisible. 

I cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes and then took my food into my room. 

I was literally shaking.  Mad that my son never seems to be aware of his surroundings.  Mad that he doesn’t seem to appreciate me.  Mad because of his momentary lack of consideration.

I decided I would apologize for my outburst.

Until I came out with my empty plate and saw a dirty dish sitting by the sink.