Yesterday was Easter. Since I am not a religious person, I choose to celebrate the holiday in the truly American fashion, not in the religous one. This means, I spend way too much money on baskets for my kids (this year, personalized buckets!) and then I let a goddamned bunny take credit for my ingenuity. And then I prepare a humongous meal, fit to feed, say, a minor league baseball team. This year, I made, among other fattening, horrible, yet amazingly delicious things, a fluffy, homemade yellow cake with silky chocolate buttercream. It was wonderful. Trouble was, I continuously (and I literally mean continuously) found myself eating fingerfulls of the leftover icing. Like all day. From the moment I made it. At 10:00 last night, I had finally cleaned out the mixer bowl, and was sitting on the couch with Alice, who had eaten about 50 Hershey kisses and helped with the frosting as well. Everyone else was alseep, and there we sat, both of us, our t-shirts not hiding our distended, grotesque stomachs. We were both WIRED. And you have not seen wired until you have seen a chubby toddler and her similarly physiqued mother dancing to Yo Gabba Gabba at 11:00 at night.
Alice finally conked out at 12:06, but I remained up until between 2:30 and 3:00 when I finally succumbed to the ole balm of the weary. Which brings me to Rant Numero Uno:
1) How the fuck did I get this old? Seriously. When I was in college, I used to work the 4-midnight shift at a coffee house. I would leave work with a 20 oz. cup filled with leftover espresso, chocolate syrup, and a few chunks of ice. Basically an iced mocha without the milk, and add about 6 shots of espresso. And my dinner would consist of an everything bagel with cream cheese and two frozen brownies. I would drink/eat the whole thing greedily and then do some homework, and then pass out happily in my bed. Last night, I ate a lot of sugar, sure. But you have no idea how wired I was. Basically, I have turned into that lady who shows up at MacDonald's and looks at her watch before ordering an iced tea. "Oh, it's after 2:00! I shouldn't be having this!" Back in college, I used to laugh about those people all day. But now, due to my lower sugar lifestyle and my extreme age, I have become one of them. I cannot take the sugar, and I'm going to be a damn bitch about it.
I feel like I should be euthanized soon, before it gets worse.
I should also note that I brought up Facebook this morning and a friend of mine is turning 30 today. Which means that I am inching ever closer to the big 3-0. You know, I don't care about the age THAT much. What I care about is that I would really like to have some shit figured out by then. Moreover, if I reach that (advanced) age, and I'm still living in this area, I will strongly consider stepping out in front of a train. You think I'm kidding. Surely she jests, you say. You will think that when you find my little red purse beside a coal car.
(Apparently not getting much sleep turns me into a 13 year old girl who has spent the last hour listening to Nirvana's Unplugged album on repeat.)
2.) I do not give two flying fucks about the royal wedding.
You know, when I woke up this morning, I lived in AMERICA. Land of things like Nascar races and Baconalia and simultanously puritanical and pornographic views on sexuality. We rebelled so that we didn't have to listen to "King-This" and "Queen-That" and whathaveyou. Basically, we gave up free healthcare for all so that we didn't have to deal with that shit. And now? NOW? It is like I'm living in a goddamned Disney cartoon. I don't care what she wears! I don't care what he wears! I don't care if the entire United Kingdom expands with so much pride and love and whatever that the fucking place explodes and we all get covered in commemorative Will and Kate nuclear detritus!
Listen people. I'm just going to put it bluntly. I very barely cared about my own wedding. I mean, it was great, and I got to wear a pretty dress and eat bbq and my dad bought me a lot of champagne and that was AWESOME. But what I really cared about was the marriage, and for the love of God, the honeymoon. Somebody's wedding who lives in a whole different country? Oh and I don't know these people? Yeah, fuck that.
And if I see another Facebook status about this shit, I will spit on the picture of a baby panda. In fact, I'm printing out the picture now because I know I'm going to see it oh, in about 4.5 seconds. HACK. See? I spit on you.
3). I hate your faux sympathy. My office building is big, ya'll. Like there's a whole bunch of different offices and a whole bunch of different groups here, and I just don't know everyone. Let's rephrase that: I don't care to know everyone. I mean, sure I'll smile at you if I see you everyday, even if I don't know your name. But do I care to really get to know you? Get your life story? Ask your views on current events? No. I'm a horrible person, you see. Anyway, last week, a lady who works here, yet who I do not know, suffered a horrible tragedy in her family. When I heard about it, I was saddened. Not because it happened to her, per se, but because the world is cruel and awful and this happened at all. A card was hurriedly sent around and I signed it, even though that I knew seeing my name there would not help her really in any consequential way. And over the week, I've thought of her a couple of times and sent good wishes her way, even though I don't really know her. What I haven't done, however, is talk about it all day everyday. I haven't asked for gory details, I haven't tried to bully others into signing yet another card that I have purchased, I haven't asked accounting to reimburse me for said card, I haven't sat around spewing half-truths just so that I can feel close to some horrible tragedy so that I can have that tiniest feeling of excitement that such a proximity can bring.
Every thing that has gone on in here since this happened is indicative of how much I hate the way death is handled in my area of the world. Here, death is not a natural part of life or even a private family matter that is handled with grace and tears and silent questionings. It is a motherfucking event. If someone dies, it is like the community is brought together to gossip and eat fried chicken and talk about how awesome each person is for having done the gossiping and the fried chickening. I grew up with that, and it saddens me that my children have to live amongst it for the remaining time that we are here.
Which brings me back to my first rant.
If you need me, I'll be listening to Ray LaMontagne and growling at small children.