The Art of Irritability

We’ve all been there, ladies.  That time each month (every month) where little things we were willing to overlook just a few days ago become more irritating.

Why does he always leave his sneakers right in the doorway where he knows I’m going to trip over them?  You’d think he would have learned after the last time when I hid them on the roof.

Why does the guy next to me at work have to tap his pen and bob his head to some song on his iPod while I’m trying to get some real work done over here?  The spit balls don’t seem to get his attention.

Why do I have to text my adult son to remind him it is Sunday and he still hasn’t called his mother?  Can he not tell time by now? Did I not go through hours of labor, sleepless nights, and diaper rash to get him where he is today?

Most days I just breathe through it and work on with a smile. Some days I just want to explode.

For most of us, a bag of Lay’s potato chips, chocolate mint cookies (or double stuff Oreos will do), and a super-sized bottle of ibuprofen hit the spot.  But God save the guy who thinks he is doing you a favor by stashing the junk food.

“You said you were on a diet, hun. I’m just trying to help.” He smiles warmly at you like he’s protecting you from being mauled by a wild animal.  Within minutes he is cowering in the corner like a wounded puppy and you are licking salt and chocolate off your fingers.  It’s all good.

I have found that tapping into that evil inner self has helped me construct some of the characters in my novel.  Writing crabbiness is an art form that I am just beginning to learn.

A former in-law of mine mentioned to me once that her husband would never read a book written by a woman.  He felt woman were too soft and weren’t able to write the hardcore thriller novels he liked to read.  Funny, considering the woman he was married to.  She took irritability to a whole new level.  (Side note, she would make a really good evil character…)

What I am finding as I let my creative juices start to flow and my fingers type where they may, that I can be quite cynical when I let myself and that evil, irritable people make great fodder for mystery novels.  Instead of trying to keep these people out of my life, (or these personalities out of my head) I now invite them in and study them like a scientist studies moths.  I watch how they move, listen to what they say and how they say it.  It’s great!  Who knew that bitchy people could be so useful?


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