I have recently developed a theory on why some old ladies are grumpy.
Think of it. . . we all know that these ladies weren't born that way. Sometime - when they were younger - they must have smiled. . . and danced. . . and loved. . . and laughed. They must have cooed over newborns and puppies and mini-muffins and pink baby booties. They must have been awed by a spider's web . . . a sunrise. . . a dust bunny.
Let's face it, something must have happened to morph these ladies from happy and productive individuals into the Granny you see trying to hit someone with her cane in the produce aisle! And I think that perhaps I have discovered what it is.
Perhaps she raised a teenage daughter or two.
Perhaps her daughters were vegetarians and her husband, a carnivore.
Perhaps sometimes she felt like the dog was the only one with any manners.
And Perhaps - long ago - those daughters lied to her . . . and stayed out past their curfews . . . and went to concerts. . . and unauthorized parties. . . and cut school. . . and stole her vodka. . . and lied about detention.
Perhaps those daughters treated her as nothing more than a human ATM machine - draining every dollar out of her bank account and every bit of energy out of her soul.
Perhaps they lived on choka-broka-macho-facho-lattes and mani/peds and iTune downloads.
Perhaps they were always needing money for gas.
Perhaps - even though her mother told one daughter that she was the only one authorized to drive the car - she repeatedly let her boyf with the right arm in the sling drive instead.
Perhaps dealing with the Auto Mechanic, Division of Motor Vehicles, and the local parking authority began to unravel her.
Perhaps she even kept a list of her daughters' misdeeds under her pillow.
Perhaps once they embarrassed her by getting caught drinking beer on a church trip. Her church. I mean her place of employment!!!
Perhaps, before she knew of their misdeeds on the church trip, she had shopped for them at the conclusion of Her Perfect Week - vowing to stock all of their favorite things in the house . . . nuts, berries, tampons, yogurt, coffee, energy bars, bottled water, razors . . . you name it, she purchased it . . . and after one of them searched through the kitchen, she snidely quipped How come you didn't get vanilla yogurt? You know I don't like white chocolate raspberry anymore!
Perhaps little things like that made her cry from time to time.
Okay. . . perhaps they made her cry quite often.
Or perhaps those daughters racked up a $430 cell phone bill one month and a $520 bill the next. But perhaps neither of those bills won the prize for most expensive month ever, 'cause nothing beats the one that rolled in at Seven Nundred and Nifty Blue Scholars!
Perhaps things like that phone bill made her drink sometimes.
Okay. . . perhaps they made her drink . . . quite often.
And Perhaps - before she even finished dealing with her mid-life crisis - this same mother found herself tired.
And cynical.
And overwrought.
And overwhelmed.
And - yes - a little bit cranky. . . and irritable. . . and cross. . . and grouchy. . .
And perhaps one day she woke up, looked around, and thought. . . Whose kids are these anyway????
And then, Perhaps, she even started her own blog. . . .you know. . . . kind of like a Public Service Annoucement to warn young parents to eat their offspring while they still could. . .
But by then. . . perhaps . . . it was too late for the poor mother, and she was destined to live Grumpily Ever After. . .
So that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. . .
