Shit-Colored Glasses
If overly optimistic people can be said to view the world through "rose-colored glasses," does it also stand that the gloomily pessimistic among us view that same world through shit-colored glasses? Here, let me hand you my pair and we can share some thoughts and visions!
Setting the scene...
Eddy, Sherry, Paul and I are at the dinner-table, there is a comfortable lull in the conversation, and dinner seems to be a success. Paul comments, "People were crazed on the highway, today! Some guy with out-of-state plates was weaving through traffic like crazy, and barely missed hitting several cars." Eddy acknowledges the remark with raised eyebrows and a startled look. Sherry chirps, "Know what? That SAME THING happened to me!"
Rose-colored glasses...
Isn't that the cutest thing?! Can't you just picture an 8-year-old behind the wheel of a car, tooling down the freeway at 75 mph, shaking her tiny fists at careless drivers... As precious as that scenario is, it's more likely that Sherry just feels the need to be an active participant in the discussion and has some incident to relay.
Shit-colored glasses...
What the hell?! Trying to be "all grown-up" at 8, Sherry constantly inserts herself into conversations, regardless whether it's appropriate, viable, or beyond the farthest reaches of reality as we know it. When Paul and I look at her and indicate she should continue this line of thought, she grabs the spotlight and shines. Sitting up a bit straighter, reaching up to primp her hair, she smiles as though selling detergent on an infomercial and explains that "there's this boy... in my class... and he is SO careless!" Oh, okay... I can see the connection, NOW. We wait patiently for her to continue, to expound on this "boy," his identity, and examples of his obvious disregard for safety. Her performance, however, consisting primarily of ensuring she had our undivided attention, has come to a conclusion.
Setting the scene...
Paul is resting, and I'm feeding the kids dinner so he can have a break. Dinner, tonight, is smoked chicken-breast pieces, in fettucini with a mild tomato sauce. Call it "chicken spaghetti" if necessary, to simplify and take away the kid-level intimidation factor. Two bites into his meal, the expression on Eddy's face sends a message of loathing and despair.
Rose-colored glasses...
Well, dang. There must have been some flavor or texture in the meal that Eddy simply didn't like. It's a shame, but it's not the end of the world. Kids' likes and dislikes can vary on a day-to-day basis, and who knows? He might even like this the next time it's presented to him!
Shit-colored glasses...
What the fuck?! It's CHICKEN, for heavens's ake, and PASTA! With the blandest, most Chef-Famous-Are-Dee-kinda sauce on it... what's not to like when you're TEN? I guess it didn't quite live up to the all-starch/all-fat fast-food he's presented with at his other "home," and might not pack on the POUNDS like whatever he's been eating over there. No wonder he doesn't like it, it's not take-out shit in a paper-bag. Imagining what my Mom would've done to me had I gagged on her meals, I content myself by excusing him from the table and informing him there'll be no more food for him this day.
They didn't nickname it "Mother's Little Helper" for nothing... surely I'm not the first to tread these grounds.
Now hand back my glasses...!
Setting the scene...
Eddy, Sherry, Paul and I are at the dinner-table, there is a comfortable lull in the conversation, and dinner seems to be a success. Paul comments, "People were crazed on the highway, today! Some guy with out-of-state plates was weaving through traffic like crazy, and barely missed hitting several cars." Eddy acknowledges the remark with raised eyebrows and a startled look. Sherry chirps, "Know what? That SAME THING happened to me!"
Rose-colored glasses...
Isn't that the cutest thing?! Can't you just picture an 8-year-old behind the wheel of a car, tooling down the freeway at 75 mph, shaking her tiny fists at careless drivers... As precious as that scenario is, it's more likely that Sherry just feels the need to be an active participant in the discussion and has some incident to relay.
Shit-colored glasses...
What the hell?! Trying to be "all grown-up" at 8, Sherry constantly inserts herself into conversations, regardless whether it's appropriate, viable, or beyond the farthest reaches of reality as we know it. When Paul and I look at her and indicate she should continue this line of thought, she grabs the spotlight and shines. Sitting up a bit straighter, reaching up to primp her hair, she smiles as though selling detergent on an infomercial and explains that "there's this boy... in my class... and he is SO careless!" Oh, okay... I can see the connection, NOW. We wait patiently for her to continue, to expound on this "boy," his identity, and examples of his obvious disregard for safety. Her performance, however, consisting primarily of ensuring she had our undivided attention, has come to a conclusion.
Setting the scene...
Paul is resting, and I'm feeding the kids dinner so he can have a break. Dinner, tonight, is smoked chicken-breast pieces, in fettucini with a mild tomato sauce. Call it "chicken spaghetti" if necessary, to simplify and take away the kid-level intimidation factor. Two bites into his meal, the expression on Eddy's face sends a message of loathing and despair.
Rose-colored glasses...
Well, dang. There must have been some flavor or texture in the meal that Eddy simply didn't like. It's a shame, but it's not the end of the world. Kids' likes and dislikes can vary on a day-to-day basis, and who knows? He might even like this the next time it's presented to him!
Shit-colored glasses...
What the fuck?! It's CHICKEN, for heavens's ake, and PASTA! With the blandest, most Chef-Famous-Are-Dee-kinda sauce on it... what's not to like when you're TEN? I guess it didn't quite live up to the all-starch/all-fat fast-food he's presented with at his other "home," and might not pack on the POUNDS like whatever he's been eating over there. No wonder he doesn't like it, it's not take-out shit in a paper-bag. Imagining what my Mom would've done to me had I gagged on her meals, I content myself by excusing him from the table and informing him there'll be no more food for him this day.
They didn't nickname it "Mother's Little Helper" for nothing... surely I'm not the first to tread these grounds.
Now hand back my glasses...!
posted by Aunty Social at 10:54 AM
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