For some reason, I suppose as my special comeuppance for becoming an older and somehow unwiser–now 28 year old!– birthday girl, Alex has turned this week into The Week Where I See What Teenage Years Have In Store For Me. In short, he’s turned into quite a whiny, demanding and possibly possessed baby.
A possibly possessed baby who tantrums when the world does not do precisely what he expects it to. He’s turned from a laid-back (okay, that’s a lie. Complete lie) dude into a high maintenance diva, kinda like Paris Hilton. Actually, she’s probably kinder.
What makes it all the more interesting and hair-greying is that he does it all without actually using real English words. Maybe he’s tapping into his past life and speaking The Old Language (perhaps Swahili?) or maybe he’s just channeling The Devil himself, but I can’t understand a fucking thing he’s saying.
Yet without the benefit of a Devil->English dictionary I’m expected to not only understand what he’s demanding, but get my ass in gear and GET IT FOR HIM, Mom, you ignorant slut! And it better be damn right the first time!
It pretty much means that my days are now spent listening to a wee tot scream at me for hours on end. My nerves, if they weren’t frayed enough to begin with, are beginning to look like they’re leaking out of my ears. Charming. Quite a charming look.
Think I’m exaggerating? It’s now 11:13 here, he’s been up since 9:45 and this is what I’ve been tantrumed about so far:
*Not turning to the right page in a book (incidentally, not the NEXT page in the book)
*Not going outside right now, where the wasps roam freely, looking perhaps, to eat me alive (no, I’m allergic. So much so that I need to call 911 if I get stung. Which is really not what I want to do, because how embarrassing is that?)
*Not giving him the proper piece of my waffle, even though I was kindly sharing AFTER he’d had his own breakfast.
*A beach ball not doing what he wanted it to do (which is? I don’t know)
*My audacity to use the bathroom at such an inappropriate time as ever.
*My refusal to open a bottle of pricey vanilla extract for him to play with.
It’s a good damned thing that he’s singularly one of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met, or I might start threatening to sell him to the gypsies. Or get him an exorcism. Whatever works, right?