PMAT

Why? Why do people have to be cryptic and mysterious and not say what they mean? Seriously, I do not get it. Say what you mean and mean what you say or you will just make me cranky. Children, students, friends, prospective dates, everyone. I think it has something to do with texting. OMG, WTF, BTW, LMAO, or my least favorite of all: LOL. Crap, just take the one minute it takes to write out that it was funny. For god sakes, if you are over forty please just type clearly. Remember those typing classes they made us take in the seventh grade? They weren’t just so we could take the wonderful finger placement of the asdf and ;lkj and then throw them out the window. Hmmm...Finger placement sounds dirty.

My students have this habit of writing papers like they text. Some even type papers on their phones, which is a wonderfully environmental friendly choice, but hey, capitalize the damn “I”, won’t you? Write “you” instead of “u”. Seriously, if I see IDK one more time, I am going to fail that damn student just on principal.

Then you have the dating texts and we get to add messaging to the mix. Oy. Don’t get me started. (too late) The ones from prospective dates with their silly little online messages, yep, those. The people online who seem not to have a clue. Or the one-line-trying-to-be-super-awesome-cool-and-not-give-away-anything-about-myself message. The dating websites should come with a super-glow-in-the-dark-decoder-ring with every membership.

I don’t want to sound like a bitch (too late) but there is this one guy who has sent me four messages, none which I have answered. Um, hello, not interested, go away now, bye. I mean, I always feel bad when I push the “not interested” button because I don’t want anyone to take it personally, but let’s face it, you should take it personally. I don’t want to go out with you because I am not attracted to you whatsoever. Accept it deal with it and move on, please.

Then there are the spelling errors. Oh dear god, I am the worst speller for an English teacher (something my students actually enjoy) but if you are going to write it, try to spell it correctly. Seriolsy. Oops. I mean, seriously.

Then of course there are the ones that don’t understand humor in a text. I try to be clever, but re-explaining yourself over and over again kind of makes the humor subside. Then there are the guys who try to be clever and fail miserably and teeter on being offensive.

Ya see, all men think they are three things: Great kissers, fabulous lovers and that they have a sense of humor. Rarely do you get all three. I have all three, but I am rare. Well, medium rare, but close enough. Plus, I have a rather high opinion of myself now. I didn’t used to. I used to think that all things in the world were my fault. The depleted ozone layer, 'cuz I used too much hairspray, my x-husband’s failed business, 'cuz he said so, Anne Heche’s career, etc. Yep, that was all me. At least that is what I felt like. That was what I was told. I guess when you hear it over and over again, you tend to believe it. Y know, I once ran into Anne Heche at Trader Joes and then a week later she had her epic melt-down. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Some people can see that I am fabulous. Some think I am alright. I guess all I can sort of hope for is that no one thinks I am a pain in the ass. Or if they do, they think I am pain in the ass but totally worth it. Sometimes I think my biggest fear in the whole wide world, besides my children hurting themselves, sharks and cockroaches, is that my x-husband was right and I actually am a pain in the ass. Like, 100% of the time. Like, I am wrong and annoying and not as funny as I think I am and my ass is much bigger if you are standing behind me and I am not really that fabulous. Yes, these are the fears. That some guy who I really like will think, “Nice rack, but a pain in the ass, so really not worth the effort”.

I guess that would be texted, “PITA”. Great, now, I’m hungry. Humus sounds good right now. Anyway, I am a PITA some of the time, once a month definitely, but not a PUTA but certainly a PYT. Well a PMAT (that would be ‘pretty middle aged thing’ for those of you are diligently trying to figure it out and area a fan of Michael Jackson from when he was still black).

The thing is, I am a pain in the ass. Shhh…don’t tell anyone. Not everyone knows (I’m whispering now). My kids don’t know this yet and they are really the only two males that really matter in the grand scheme of my life. The rest really don’t matter. Someday one might, but they will always come second. Oh, that totally sounded dirty. Stop giggling.

Anyway, one last point. There was one day Max walked up to me, wrapped his arms around me and said, “Mommy, I love you and think you are the best mommy in the whole wide world. No really, mommy, I do. I mean that. I do.” Those big green eyes looking up at me, sincerely, nodding his head to convince me. I love it. My seven year old already knows how to validate me.

Best validation in the whole wide world. Seriously.