The word surly is defined as: Bad-tempered and unfriendly. I love this word, and sometimes, I love being surly. You love it too, I know it. You just aren't going to put it out there in blog land.
So today, I call surly. I announce bad-temperament and embrace unfriendliness. And I have to do it all before 7pm when I punch in to work because while my employer encourages surly through their pay scale and staffing matrix, they do not encourage it in patient care.
I believe surly is viral. I have caught it from exposure to the following:
Facebook. My love hate relationship. It appeals to the immature voyeur in me, the person who loves to know what's going on, who is happy to sign on at 3am and know that there are others in the world working, not sleeping, bored or drunk. However, I have posted and rapid fire deleted more comments than I care to admit because I think from the hip. So here, in my somewhat safe blog haven are the things I have deleted.
No one cares how far you ran today, how many minutes on the elliptical you logged or what Zumba class you went to. All you want is for the world to know that you did something they may not have done, which is move your ass from the computer. I don't care about your exercise schedule. And until you do the Ironman, I remain unimpressed. You tire me. I have hidden your posts.
I think you are very blessed to have a baby. However, I have reached the point where I see your child more than I see my own. Your baby never changes because I see it fourteen times a day through the magic of pixels on FB. Unless your baby/toddler/child is doing something funny, dangerous or remotely impressive, please limit our exposure to once a week. I have clicked the hide button, yet again.
You have a spouse. You live together. Why must you continually communicate on FB? I get the once in a while stuff, but all the time? Are you too lazy to walk up the stairs? Do you secretly live in different homes? Do you want to prove that you have this fabulous relationship chock full of love and adoration? Because a lot of us see through that facade. Click. Hidden.
Vaguebooking. You can't give it up? Then shut it up. Or take up fishing, since you like throwing a worm on a hook out to the world. Attention seeking is so unattractive. Delete that post.
Whining. Four little letters: STFU. Solve it, shelve it, do anything but complain about your miserable existence on a public forum.
I could go all day about Facebook irks, but I won't since there are more surly triggers to cover. Let's move on.
Pajama pants. People! Quit! Now! If you are over 30, wearing a camisole with no bra and have the word "Pink" anywhere on your clothing I reserve the right to publicly humiliate you. No doubt there are ugly faded butterfly/heart/flower tats under there somewhere too. I only wish there was a hide button for you.
Smoking around your kids. This is me, rolling my eyes as I help your child out of their stinky jacket while you swear that you "only smoke outside". You wonder why your baby's asthma has been so bad lately while I have flashbacks to 80's bars and hair that reeked of smoke and hairspray. You ask for free medication, yet you can buy $50 cartons of cigs. You suck.
My dear sweet beloved children. You are not exempt from surly. Your ability to trash a room ten minutes after I clean it, your inability to wear something more than once before tossing it on the mountain of laundry and your general cluelessness for the effort involved in raising you properly makes me bad tempered and unfriendly. Sometimes. But I still love you. I will not click the hide button for you. Ever.
People, this post is not my finest moment. But I had to get it off my chest. If you're reading it, you can rest assured that you are not the target of my surly. I love you. You keep me balanced. You keep me sane. We should drink wine.