List of Victims: Alphabetical or Chronological?

I’m in a murderous mood today. I know, you’re already wondering what member of society has a) done something heinous to me and b) is gonna die in ways that it will take the cops weeks just to figure out who it is, let alone who killed him. Sadly, I don’t have a victim in mind, I’m just being a bitch right now.

I really have had a rough week, this already being Tuesday and all, but it’s not one of those funks that you can just throw wine and barbeque sandwiches at until it goes away. It’s one of those life-is-so-unfair-I-just-wanna-die kind of funks.

And that’s what’s making it so frustrating. If there was an actual real live about-to-be-dead person who had hurt me in some way, I’d know how to handle it. Trust me, cutting the brake lines is for amateurs. But I can’t even exact revenge on someone because my grumblies is just from the general blah of life. How do you get back at life?

Since plotting revenge is always very therapeutic, I’ve started a list of ways I will hurt the next person who wrongs me. Of course, I have them categorized by how awful the offense was, how intentional it was, how far the reach of the actual crime extended, and so on. It’s quite a masterpiece. And it’s making me feel better already.

Feel free to buy me this for Christmas because it’s awesome and I like to be really organized and because it will make me not kill someone. Just don’t get your fingerprints on it in case the cops ever nab it as evidence.

Baldilocks and the Three Hairs

Those hairs are actual size.

Out of the mouths of babes. Awesome verbal spew comes flying out of their tiny angelic little pieholes, especially when they’re mad. And when they’re autistic. When they’re autistic AND mad, just go ahead and give up. Of course, if you’re the spouse of the person the autistic, angry child is mad at, get your pencil ready because it’s going to be epic.

My husband and my daughter had done the “you can’t have that”/”why can’t I?” dance for about ten minutes and both of them were a little short on patience. Right up until my daughter ended it once and for all: “I can eat that later and you’re bald.” We had to make her repeat herself just to be sure that’s what we heard.

You know how when your child says something she shouldn’t say, the worst thing you can do is laugh? Because that just teaches them the behavior was acceptable? No one ever said I couldn’t give her a fist bump behind my bald husband’s back.

Well, that sealed his fate. Every time the man walks through the room, whether she’s angry or not, she feels compelled to point out his lack of hair. Before you get mad at me, I have to say: the man is actually bald. It’s not receding, he’s not thinning on top. He’s been bald since college and he even shaves what little hair he has left. So technically, she’s just practicing her language skills by stating things she observes around her. We’re supposed to be encouraging her experimentation with language, right? RIGHT?

The problem is this: she’s also not stupid. She’s not pointing it out because she’s trying to make a new sentence, she calling him Bald Guy because it bugs him. And because she can hold a grudge for weeks if you don’t let her have a BlowPop before dinner.

Things got ugly when she came home from school holding the new stapled-together book she had written and illustrated for reading class. It was called, “Baldilocks and the Three Hairs.” The teacher wants a conference with us. (By the way, I’ve read the book and given it five stars on GoodReads.com. Excellent plot development, although the characters don’t really give explanations for their actions.)

We all learned a valuable lesson from these recent events. My husband learned that, despite the autism, she really is just as pissed off as the next kid when you won’t let them eat candy. He also learned he should probably sleep with one eye open. My daughter learned the very fine art of muckraking, of solving your problems by writing ugly things about people and publishing them. I learned that I’d better not piss her off unless I want to be called Old School for my gray hair.