Wishing they made Zoloft Gum

Yesterday Jon woke up in a cloud of grumpiness, and as we all ran madly through the house trying to get ready for a dentist appointment, that cloud quickly became more of a thunderstorm raining down grapefruit-sized grumples on the windshields of our morning.

We had a lot to get done yesterday, mountains of those tedious things that fill up your life when your name is attached to 32 different monthly bills. On the drive to the dentist Jon kept doing this breathing thing that he does when he’s indignant, this heavy, explosive exhale that sounds like a water buffalo who’s trying to pass a stone the size of a human head.

“Jon,” I said grimly as we slowed to a stop at an intersection. “You are way too grumpy today.”

“I know,” he said. “I woke up this way, and I can’t seem to shake it.”

“We have so much to get done this morning,” I reminded him. “I need you to get over it.”

He blinked fourteen times, shook his head as if trying to clear his ears of water, and then repeated WHOA over and over. Each WHOA was its own sentence.

“WHOA what?” I asked.

You are telling me to get over it? To deal? I thought you would be the last person on Earth to tell someone else to get over being grumpy.”

“Oh well, I mean… just… I need you to get over it this morning, not in general.”