The Tell-All Story behind Last Week's Facebook Rant

Ha!  Tricked you into reading...

Although I know you might enjoy it, I am not going to write a tell-all about the very minor episode that unfolded over the past week.  And yes, my attitude towards it is that it was very minor...  very very very minor.  It was brought on by someone else's drama, not mine. And it would just give more power to the other person.

In fact, I am only going to reiterate "Thanks to those who congratulated me. Many hugs.  And thanks to all who posted kind words about the whole craziness."

I would like to say one thing. I was mad. Pushed to the limit and sent over the edge. Not the kind of mad where you're upset that you didn't get any of Joan's famous cheese ball at work or mad at Rover for chewing up your favorite shoes.  I'm talking about mad. I wanted to punch something. Like take a whack at Ouiser Boudreaux.  I might have been able to uproot a mighty sequoia given the chance or at least flip over a Mercedes.

Me getting angry is so infrequent that I'm surprised that the National Weather Service didn't picked it up as a sudden 90 degree heat wave across Central Indiana in mid-December. It just doesn't happen.

My father was the type to fly off the handle and the whole episode was over in flash.  My mother, on the other hand, had that type of anger you should fear the most.  You know that "look." The one that mother's give.  The one that says "no need to worry about what your father's going to say."  It's more like "you need to worry about right now and what I'm going to do to you."  That look that has made grown men cry.

I have my mother's kind of anger.  Once you're there, and it takes a lot to get there, you had better get the hell out of my way.  But not before I let it ferment and fester.  Or if you like, let it simmer and put it in the fridge over night, allowing the flavors to blossom, then reheat it and see how they dance across your palate.  Which is exactly what I would do... Push you down and clog my way across your face.

But for the most part, I chose not to get angry anymore.  There's no need.  I always stop and ask myself "Will this matter in five years?"  If so, then I might throw a temper tantrum, but even then I don't feel like dropping to the floor and banging my fists on the carpet.  It's just not good for my back.

I prefer to think that I am like a fine Chardonnay or Pinot Noir.  The more I age, the better I get. Pop open my cork and see what you get. Tasty. Bubbly. Flamboyant. Velvety. Yes, those are all words used to describe fine wines.  Don't believe me, just Goggle it.  Look up "words to describe fine wines."  Go ahead...  Search...  Go on...

HEY!  I said "Search..."  Or else!

CSM