Monday, October 19, 2009

Beware of the Font Monster

It's that time of the month again. You know. When my husband turns into an idiot and my kids belong to someone else. Yes, it's PMS time and, boy, has this time around been a doozie.

Of course, when my PMS starts, I don't realize that PMS is actually what the problem is. Instead, I blame every little annoyance on the person annoying me. But as things start to build, there will inevitably come a moment when I am beyond annoyed and just outright seathing mad. It is usually then that I lose all sense of reasoning and rationale and I realize that the problem is not every one else. It is me and my PMS. Of course, there is always a victim, and this time around, it was my poor little son.

He had a book report due on Friday, so naturally, he waited until Thursday afternoon to finish the damn thing. He had written about two paragraphs when he was at his father's house earlier in the week, but he still had a lot more to do.

He began on the report at 4:00 p.m. after he had finished all of his other homework. There he sat, pecking away at his keyboard, working diligently. After about an hour, I asked him how he was doing, and he said he had two more paragraphs to go. Pleased with his response, I'm thinking he'll be done in no time.

But at around 6:00 p.m., two hours from when he started on his report, he was still sitting at the computer. This is when my annoyance started to set in. So I asked, "Are you done yet?"

"No, I have one more paragraph to type," he answered.

"You mean to tell me it took you an hour to type one paragraph?"

"No, I typed other stuff too."

"But you said you only had two paragraphs left to type the last time I asked you, and that was over an hour ago."

"I know, but I had some stuff I had to fix. I'm almost done."

So I left it at that and went downstairs to begin dinner. Meanwhile, my stepson is going in and out of the house, letting the door slam behind him each and every time, adding to my annoyance.

At around 6:45, I yell up the stairs to my son, "Are you done yet?" And my stepson, more than happy to tattle on his stepbrother, proudly announces, "No, he's not done yet." I look over at him and ask, "Was I talking to you?" He turns his eyes to the floor and answers, "No."

So I yell back at my son, "Evan, are you done yet?"

"Almost, Mom."

It is at that point that my annoyance starts to bubble over into madness. So I yell back to him, "Alright, that's it! You've got ten minutes and then you are done whether you're finished or not!"

I go back to the stove and work on dinner some more, this time keeping track of every minute that passes. After five minutes I yell up to my son, "You've got five minutes left!" I go back to stirring this and turning that, checking the clock like a crazy person.

As soon as the ten minute mark hits, I yell to my son, "Time's up!" He says something that I can't make out. But as my husband comes down the stairs, he tells me that he said he just needed two more minutes.

I stormed over to the stove and began slamming things around. After two minutes, I marched up the stairs to find my son waiting at the top of them. Very close to shoving him back into my uterus, I ask him, "Are you done?!"

"Yes, but I need your help emailing it to you so that you can print it for me."

"Jesus Christ! I just showed you how to do that yesterday! What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell.

So I go over to his computer and explain each step of the process of attaching a document to an email in a manner that did not mince any words.

I trudged over to my computer to retrieve his report and print it. As I sat there waiting for the document to open, my son quietly crept down the stairs, probably greatly relieved that he was done with his report and even more relieved that he was done with me.

But little did he know he was not done with me. In less than a minute after opening the file of his book report, I yelled, "EVAN, YOU GET YOUR ASS UP HERE RIGHT NOW!"

As quiet as a mouse, he crept back up the stairs, as if walking quietly would somehow calm the monster he was about to face. I could see that he had no idea what he had done wrong now. He stood there before me, his face full of unknowing fault and fear.

It was then that I enlightened him on the error of his ways when I asked,
"Why in the HELL did you use this stupid font?!"

Before he could answer, I started into my lecture. "This is ridiculous! I can barely read the damn thing! And if I can't read it, I know your teacher won't be able to read it! She's older than me! So I know it's going to be harder on her eyes than it is on mine! Old people like us can't read shit like this! Look at it! It's impossible to read! You mine as well have typed it in Japanese! And why is everything capitalized?! Your report is NINE frickin' pages long! That's ridiculous! You have like only five or six words on each line because of the stupid font you used! And why did you put a hard return after each damn sentence?! That makes it impossible for me to fix the stupid thing! When I try to fix it by changing the font, there are still only five or six frickin' words on each stupid line! I don't know how you can be an "A" student with crap like this! What were you thinking?!"

And on and on I went, ranting and raving about the font my son used in his book report.

Of course, my son offered to fix it, but I was not going to have any of that. My patience with him had run out and I did not think he would survive the night if it took him longer than a minute to remove all the hard returns. I just printed it off the way it was and he quietly crept away with his book report in hand and whatever lesson he learned.

By the time dinner was done, everyone in the house was annoying me, even if all they were doing was breathing. So off I went to my bedroom to watch some TV. As I sat there decompressing, it was then that I realized that I was PMSing. I mean, how more obvious could it be? I got angry at my son over a font!

Lucky for me, my son is a very sweet and forgiving young man. While I laid in bed watching TV, he came into my room and curled up in bed next to me. It was then that I told him I was sorry for yelling at him and being so grumpy. "It's okay, Mom," he answered. I hugged him tight, and as he hugged me back, I told him, "Thanks, sweetie. Just make sure you don't use that stupid font again."

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7 comments:

Daffy said...

I think my husband is a stupid font and I'm not even PMSing...

I really connected with this one! Like 'lets bump chests in the locker room' kind of connect... LOL

BigSis said...

I don't suffer so much from PMS, but when I'm angry, my nine year old hears, "What the hell is wrong with you" a lot. And, thankfully, accepts my apologies when I calm down.

Happy Hour...Somewhere said...

Boy, you old people sure are cranky. *runs away cackling*

Janiece said...

Oh my gosh!!!
So what font DID he use???

Two Normal Moms said...

I get that PMS. I am possessed at during that time. The whole world annoys me. I hear you, sister.
***Ally
http://twonormalmoms.blogspot.com/2009/09/stages-of-pms-from-hell.html

adrienzgirl said...

OMG, this is SOOOOOOOO me! I mean really, really me. The hubs and my boys have a name for me when I get like this...Momzilla! They also call me Mommalicious so I didn't think much of the moniker at first, it wasn't until I was in RARE ZILLA form one night that my son said "Yes MOMMY ZILLA" that I finally got that the only time they call me that is when I am the PMS BEAST from hell!

Frugal Vicki said...

A. I don't know how I missed this post, but
B. am I going to be the ONLY one that points out that the reason I used to use font like that was to get to the required page limit when I knew I otherwise probably would not?
But he is a sweetie to cuddle with mommy. I still have the stinker of a 2 year old that tells me he is still mad at me and I shouldn't have yelled in the first place. Who the hell asks for a smart kid?