Jennie Smash

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how crabby everyone has been, including me. It seems like we’re all pretty tired and worn out these days. I don’t know if it’s the long winter, or the oppressive political climate, or just some sort of global bitchiness, but dang. I feel like hell. How ’bout you?

Anyway, while I was thinking about this, it occurred to me that one of my problems with extended cranky moods is that I always feel guilty when I’m not cheerful. That’s just dumb, of course, but what can you do. Hardwired stuff like that often is.

The thing is, I come from nice people. I don’t mean, like, my-parents-are-married nice, or we-had-money-growing-up nice. (First one: True. Second one: Not so much.) I mean that we weren’t a yelly, whiney house, and that just about the only thing that could shake my sainted mother (say with an Irish accent for added fun) from her usual kindly disposition was to say that you were bored, or to start a fight. The result of this was that my sister and I were about five and eight years old, respectively, before we understood that most people yell. She was always quicker on the uptake.

And we were always very nice to each other, even when we were fighting. Our worst fights, the physical ones, were farcical. She was a pincher and I was a biter. She’d dig into me with her pinchy little fingers and I’d angle for a good spot to sink my choppers into her arm. It was all fun and games until Mom came in to see what the shrieking was about. Whereupon, we’d assure her that nothing was going on, and then go right back to biting and pinching each other as soon as she’d left.

Nowadays, of course, we’re adults. We don’t bite and pinch each other. We still fight nicely, though, especially in comparison to most other grown siblings.

Here is a re-enactment of a fight between me and my sister, now that we are adults.

Mrs. Piddlington: (Nothing.)

Me: What?

Mrs. Piddlington: (Mumbling.)

Me: Jesus Christ, what?

Mrs. Piddlington: (Sigh.)

Me: GODDAMMIT, ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG?

Mrs. Piddlington: Nothing’s wrong. Jeez.

Me: Well, obviously something’s wrong.

Mrs. Piddlington: (Whistling to herself, internally. Regarding the ceiling.)

Me: You don’t have to look so bored.

Mrs. Piddlington: I’m not bored. I’m just thinking.

Me: I think you’re mad at me.

Mrs. Piddlington: No.

Me: You’re not mad at me?

Mrs. Piddlington: (Nothing.)

Me: You are mad at me.

Mrs. Piddlington: No.

Me: Then what’s wrong?

Mrs. Piddlington: You’re driving me crazy.

After that, I usually just bite her. I am kidding.