|Oh no he didn't. Make sure you wrote that life insurance check, buddy.|
Over scheduled + over 50 + over-heated (menopause) = Snarkasaurus.
The Snarkasaurus is a close cousin to Momzilla; for the purpose of this story, Snarkasaurus may be more scientifically accurate. Both of these entities are well known to me lately, as they are my alter-egos.
In fact, my snarky Snarkasaurus-side raises its head much more often lately (which is really saying something). The triggers for this transformation vary and cover a broad range of subjects. With my family, I've got a lot to work with as far as snark fodder goes. It's almost a physical transition once the process starts. I soon recognize the familiar feel of my arms getting shorter and shorter, while my fingers curl up in unnatural tight clawlike forms. I know that slowly I am beginning to look more and more like a T-Rex. Should I fling my head back and let out that familiar Jurassic Park T-Rex roar or keep biting my own tongue for all its worth, trying to hold the snark in? That is usually a tough one.
My husband was doing the checkbook the other night. Actually, I love that he loves to balance the checkbook. As far as that particular task goes, I can take it or leave it. But good news! It's an unexpected nuptial score! He wants to do it. Most willingly, I surrender the chore to him. He won’t leave the task if there is even one penny unaccounted for. He practically cheers when he is done: “Balanced! Huzzah!” If ever I wanted to cause him to totally stroke out, I'd just forget to write something in.
But the whole time he is balancing the checkbook on this particular night, he is mumbling under his breath: “Dang, Cherdo.” No actual voiced question; just the whispered chastisement and displeasure.
Finally, he comments, “You need to write neater,” with a pointed emphasis on YOU.
Ahem...I’m 55 years old. My handwriting is what it is - and by the way, it's not bad. I've worked with doctors; they don't even see handwriting as an actual communication tool. Furthermore, at no time do I consider purchasing penmanship books, working all the excercises, trying to get third grade super A + + cursive with a gold star handwriting. That ship has sailed; that helpful hint is wasted on this old bird. But I bite: “Pardon?”
“I can’t tell if this is an S or a five,” he continues.
Where in the world is the checkbook alpha-numeric? Is there a third choice - I'm just asking? He is an intelligent man, really…my arms begin to shorten and I think I'm growing a reptilian tail.
“It’s an S. I spent thirty-S dollars. While we’re at it, there’s a hundred and Z that is not even written in.”