Beware the stealth fury (with bonus extraneous Star Wars reference)!

Today was one of those days. Please take note, though, that I didn’t say it was One of Those Days. Capitalization and italics are bad. Those Days are the kind your momma warned you about. The kind where your boss tells you she gave your job and your office to Snake, from the mail room, on his fourth day of work, and then a toilet literally blows up in your face while you’re working out a method of retrieving the special anniversary watch your wife gave you that went kerplunck as the result of a freak, localized, gravitation spasm. It’s One of Those Days when you wake up and realized you’ve become a Dark Lord of the Sith, you’ve spent your life as a pawn for an evil galactic despot, and you’re actively trying to off your own firstborn son.

That’s a bad day.

I didn’t have one of those; I had the sneaky kind where the molehills eventually become a mountain. The kind where luckily, nothing really bad happens, but as you progress through your day, the stress builds up into a dazzling crescendo* of frustration and irkedness that almost always results in the infamous Regretted Tirade.

I spent my day staring, alternately, at one of three active, high-priority tasks that need dealing with at work, hoping that eventually that Eureka! gong would sound in my head indicating a problem magically solved. Sadly, no gong was forthcoming.

Thus, with a bad case of gong-deprivation buzzing around my head, I came home from work and found my children a little, um, rambunctious. I’m not sure what it is, honestly, but it seems that since we turned back the clocks over the weekend, my darling children have been acting like soccer hooligans. Well, minus the drunken rioting. But trust me, we’ve got all the bickering a family could ever ask for.

So you take all this stuff, dump it unceremoniously into a bowl, and mix well. Eventually, with the work stress and the arguing and the dinner dishes sitting beside the sink, mocking you with their filthiness, you find yourself near to screaming that No, no one gets a cookie tonight*! You know, because for some reason you won’t ever really recall, it was completely unreasonable that a six year-old to ask for a cookie.

Inevitably, fifteen or twenty minutes after the Regretted Tirade, you start to wonder when Child Protective Services might be stopping by to investigate reports of a raving anti-cookie lunatic in the area. You also wonder who had that lunatic been, because certainly you would never snap and lash out irrationally over a minor little thing. Goodness, no.

Shortly thereafter, you realize that everyone involved could probably benefit from a little warm, soapy Calgon action.

That’s not like…unmanly, right?

Pud’n

*Since I put in the Star Wars reference I’m not sure the Puddinette will appreciate, I figured I’d toss in a musical term too. She likes music.

**No children were harmed in writing of this post. Embellishment has been applied in cooperation with the producers to enhance dramatic effect.

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