Do we need to have this conversation? Really? Again? Well, alright. Here goes.
Mama Leanne’s Life Rules – Version 1,137
One of, if not The stupidest rules I’ve ever heard is “Don’t go to bed angry.” What bollocky bullshit! Anyone in a long-term relationship or marriage has had the Stupid Fight that without warning spirals out of control into something ridiculous, inane and hurtful. We get emotional and each of us in our own way goes for the jugular.
Your toenails are like Eagle Talons! You fucking know you are leaving scars on my ankles EVERY night! It’s deliberate, I know it!
Oh yeah? Well my mom is a better COOK than you!
Gasp! Hurt tears. Plotting of untimely death of spouse…
Here’s my rule. Leave the fight. Go have a bath, hide in the office, take a walk, whatever, but Leave it. Let it lie. Sleep on it. Sleep is the great cure for nonsensical bullshit.
Note: The bed is also a great spot for passive/aggressive release. If you are still pissed off, you can steal covers, fart repeatedly and if you are in a slaughtering, mischievous mood, you may also place your obese feline friend ever so carefully across your partner’s throat. All of these work well to defuse anger. I’ve heard.
If I work with you but barely know you otherwise, DO NOT tell me your problems. First, I probably don’t give a rat’s ass beyond the level of concern that I would give to a kleenex I just blew my nose into and second, it’s WORK, not free therapy. I don’t need to hear how your husband is an asshole, your kids are dildos and you have a hemorrhoid the size of a goat! Find a friend, get some help but as a rule, leave your fucking co-workers alone! It’s WORK! That’s why they call it that. ( And if I continue to feel your hot breath on my mid-back as you sneak up behind me to spew your dullard view of life, I will start walking around with my elbows out. You are short and if I turn fast, you’re gonna get it in the throat. Accidentally, of course.)
There is absolutely no call ever to belch in public. Ever. There are no exceptions to this. Unless you are in a Burp Off, at which point you may be a semi-professional belcher and I might like to hear that. But otherwise, no. Just no. Same goes for a public crotch scratch. Don’t do that. (Why is your crotch so itchy anyway??? For the love of god, you’ve been going at that thing non-stop for like a minute! I think you may need to see a doctor, Lady.) *moving back from the scratcher several feet.*
This rule goes well with No.3.
If you are going to offend someone, do it well and out loud. No point in being all namby-pamby. *shakes head at self, calls self a silly twat, wonders why self is referring to self as self, thinks self may have finally cracked up, possibly due to the overnight fart and cat smother fight self and husband had.*
This may be the most important rule of all:
Never, never, ever, EVER go to an inexperienced waxer. Never, ever, ever. *wandering around with a bow-legged cant and a small bag of frozen peas on what is Formerly Known As The Black Hole, now known as %&*@!#&@%, singing ‘Purple Rain’ softly*
That’s it for now. If you need more, let me know. I can likely save the world with this blog. Probably.
Disclaimer: All resemblance to persons living, dead or zombified, and any similarities to any circumstances that you may think you’ve been in are purely coincidental. Probably. Except that crotch scratching one. That was totally you. Seriously, go see a doctor. Now.