Pasta Up Your Ass

pasta baby


When someone says they are having a bad day, I have trouble figuring out what that means. As a mom of “special kids”, my bad days can be pretty darn bad. So, my meter of what is considered a “bad day” may be skewed.

When you say you are having a bad day, are you talking, “Wawa didn’t have any of my favorite creamer left ”, or “my jerk boss made me rewrite the entire report again”? Both are definitely crappy. Or, are you talking like one of my “bad” days, like “having to pin my son down while he is having a tantrum about the xbox, so he doesn’t hurt himself, me, or his siblings” or, “my son refusing to take his meds, making him so impulsive he decides throwing rocks at my car is a good idea”. See how I could get confused?

My girlfriend, Jeanine, and I were hanging out and she was complaining about the “bad day” she was having with her son. She told me in an exasperated sigh, “Danny refused to eat the pasta I made for him. Downright refused! I was so angry because he told me it was what he wanted to eat and then, out of the blue, changed his mind!” While she was all bent out of shape about her neurotypical son not eating pasta, it took every ounce of my being not to throw her across the room. 

Seriously, he won’t eat pasta? That is NOT a bad day. A bad day is when your son shoves that pasta up your ass! 

Good grief.

Side note: I am your friend so I still want to hear about your “bad day”. I just might secretly want to strangle you while you do it. Love you!

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