Rage, RAGE against the dying of your disrupted night!

Good day non existent readers. What, you may ask, has driven me to add yet another post to this mediocre blog? Well, I’ll tell you. I had an experience last night. Not a good experience. No, not good at all. It was an experience so unwelcome that it has shaken me to my very core.  And without knowing what to do with the flood of emotions I’m dealing with in its aftermath, I’ve absolved to come to my blog, and send my thoughts soaring into the ether. Hopefully typing it out will prove to be cathartic. Perhaps it will help others who have had similar experiences (but I doubt that since, we’ve already established nobody reads this ridiculous blog). But who cares about all that. Let’s get on with it, already. Here’s what happened…

It all started with an innocent plan to spend some quality time with my family. What better way to make the most of our Sunday, I thought, then a trip to the art gallery. A little culture would be good for us, right? So we headed out, completely clueless that the universe was already conspiring against us. One plan after the other fell through. Emotions were running high. Temper tantrums. Arguments. Tears, and more tears. And this was all before we even got to the damn gallery. But we did make it and once my son realized that we were not at the museum to see the dinosaurs, he tried his best to keep his shit together. But like I said, it was a tough day.  Tempers were running high, and inevitably, the tears started flowing like a waterfall. It’s moments like these, moments when I can feel my sanity being pushed to the very edge, that I wonder why I didn’t just stay home and pop in a Disney movie instead.

But we survived. And when it finally came time for my son’s bedtime, I was ready. I tidied the house. I got my pjs on. My husband was going to reward my mothering efforts with a devilish trip for take-out from McDonald’s. We were going to eat junk food, and watch the new episode of Walking Dead. It was a great plan. I sat on the couch, picked up my book, and blissfully relished the quiet moment I had to myself, when something horrific happened. Something that would change the course of the evening entirely.

It started with a knock on the door. My dog leaped up from my side, barking like a lunatic at the intrusion. Who could that be, I thought. Who would disturb this tranquil moment, and how quickly can I get rid of them? What I hoped would be a stranger trying to sell me on religion, or new eaves troughs, was something much more horrific. The door flung open, and it was our friends, with their toddler.  That’s right, folks.  They decided it would be fun to “pop-in”.

And when I saw them, and I looked at my husband in disbelief, I hoped that they just wanted to drop something off. A quick hello, and then get lost. I mean, they couldn’t possibly be showing up uninvited on Sunday night to hang out with us. Clearly I was in shock, and in complete denial.  I didn’t want to give up on my quiet, indulgent evening at home. I had already dealt with a toddler all freaking day – why was there another one at my door?! This couldn’t be happening! And as they took their coats off, and their shoes, and the toddler got busy digging into my son’s toys that I had just finished putting away, leaving a path of  stuffed toys behind her, I knew that my night was no longer mine. And there was nothing I could do about it.

My fast food order was cancelled because now we had guests to entertain.

My clean house was destroyed deftly, like only a toddler could.

I feigned happiness at the surprise visit, and offered them drinks.

And once they were happily sitting on my couch, sipping on their beverages, there was nothing I could do but hang up my pjs, and put on my big girl pants.

I tried not to think about my empty stomach, or the fact that I was going to miss the new episode of Walking Dead, because it’s simply not suitable for a toddler. A toddler that should be in bed, at her own home!

No, I tried to make the best of their visit.  They are our friends after all. Maybe I should be flattered that they wanted to see us. Maybe that’s one way to look at it. But after the day I had, this was not my reaction. I just couldn’t shake the feeling of how f-ing pissed off I was about this whole situation.

Of course, I didn’t tell them to get the hell out of my home. I definitely thought it, but I didn’t say it. We didn’t even tell them that we hadn’t eaten yet. We didn’t want to be rude.

But weren’t they rude? Weren’t THEY the ones that couldn’t pick up a damn phone to warn us that they were coming? What’s wrong with THEM?! THEY’RE the crazy ones, not ME!

But this rage stayed bottled up. It would have been inappropriate to unleash it on them. Not only would it have been inappropriate, but it could have been downright ugly. Someone could have gotten hurt. And with a toddler present, I thought it best to keep my rage to myself.

By the time these home invaders finally meandered to the door, and slowly put on their coats, and boots, and the toddler had chased my dog around for the last time, I had accumulated an enormous amount of rage. A Hulk sized portion of the stuff. Not only was I angry at the intrusion, but I was STARVING. All I wanted was a burger. A simple pleasure that my rage filled soul desperately needed.  But once we finally closed the door on our uninvited guests, my husband informed me that it was much too late for him to pick me up a burger.  No, instead, he was going to eat some leftover salad. Did I want some?, he asked.

No.  I did not want a stupid silly leftover salad, with limp lettuce and sad little radishes. What I wanted was gluttonous burger. A big greasy burger with a side of peace and quiet. And as my dear husband was eating this horrid salad, I realized that this small “pop-in” had turned me into a monster. I was Godzilla and my husband was a tiny Japanese businessman whose life I wanted to destroy.  How dare he sit there so calmly, eating his puny salad! THE NERVE!

And so before I could act on my feelings of rage, I announced I was going to bed. The day had won. It had kicked my butt, and before I kicked anyone back, I had to call it a day. My rumbling stomach was not happy, but it soon realized, like I did, that after the atrocities perpetrated against us tonight, we had to take a stand. It was unfortunate that it came in the form of a hunger strike, but like I told my stomach, in the absence of our Big Mac, all we had was each other.

And while I lay in bed, seething with rage, burning with hunger, tossing and turning sleeplessly, I thought to myself, never again.  Never again will someone pop in on me. I will take a stand against the uninvited guest. I will share my story with anyone who’ll listen, so that they won’t ever participate in this despicable behaviour. The pop-in, as harmless as it sounds, is a destructive act that only disrupts and destroys the calm and quiet in its path.

Heed my words, non-existent readers, if you ever think it might be fun to “pop-in” on your friend, DON’T! It’s not cool. It’s the exact opposite of cool. It’s selfish. No matter how awesome you think you are, there’s nothing quite like robbing a friend of some much needed rest and relaxation. The whimsy that you think you’re creating, is actually just a gigantic ball of rage.  A big monster sized ball of rage that just might destroy a whole town, or city. And if you still can’t restrain yourself from the “pop-in”, pick up the damn phone and call first. That won’t kill you, will it? But not calling first just might.

 

I dedicate this blog to the Big Mac that never was…

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