Yakety yak, don’t talk back!

I think I am going to try not to complain for a whole week. This is a challenge I sincerely doubt I will be able to meet. Not only do I enjoy complaining, but I am also enamored of engaging in any of the acts synonymous with complaining, i.e., grumbling, grousing, griping or even growling. In fact, I feel great when I grasp the grooviness of a grand, graceful gripe! I gravitate towards groups of graybeards greedy to groan gregariously, and with gravitas, over matters both great and gram-like. (Alliteration – always a good time, but can be so addictive – not that I’m complaining!)But I digress. As I was saying, I come from a long line of kvetchers. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood.
I was a bit unsure as to what exactly constitutes a true complaint. I mean, if I tell someone about something that is negative that has happened, like the fucking caterpillars eating my beautiful tomatoes, but I just state it as a fact, is that complaining? If I someone asks, “What do you think about all the big blockbuster comedies coming out this summer?” and I tell the truth about how I don’t think they are funny, and that they’re stupid and I get really bored during the flick and start thinking that all of America is part of an idiocracy that just keeps getting dumb and dumber, is that complaining or just answering a question? (Did ya see how cleverly I worked in the titles of two such movies? I got it goin’ on!)
I went to an expert. My friend Denichiwa can complain fluently in two languages, and has the soul of a poet. She has raised the bitchfest to an art form. She says that a true harangue is dependant not only on content, but more importantly on tone and intent. This means that I will have to think before I speak of not only what I say, but how I say it. ‘Pre-think’, as I like to call it, is not my strong suit. I’m more of a let-it-flow kind of gal. Still, I decided that I was up for the challenge. I am resolved not to pollute the cosmic, karmic airwaves with my poisonous negative vibes, at least not for a week.
Of course, one should never be too hasty when embarking on such a daunting trial.
As fate would have it, on Monday, when I decided to quit whining, I had a doctor’s appointment. To not complain at the doctor’s office is irresponsible. Patients have the obligation of holding nothing back from their chosen medical professional. So I complained about everything: waking up to pee in the night, allergies, the heat, vertigo, impetigo (I don’t know what this is, but I think I probably have it) moles, weak ankles, hdl, ldl, dsl, the lds, how tightly the blood pressure cuff squeezes, hair that is lacking in luster, dry skin, entropy, plastic surgeons who did that to Michael Jackson’s nose even if he asked for it, Sarah Palin, things that look delicious but aren’t, summer movies, dental floss, how pets won’t clean up after themselves, fucking caterpillars*, cleaning the toilet, not clean toilets, when the lid of your urine specimen cup falls into the toilet, blog entries that go on for too long, the education system, the sewer system, the renal system, war (past, present and future), Drew Barrymore’s childish lisp, how my sister is always right about everything – you name it, I complained about it.
I have to say, I feel much better. Cleansed, even. Lighter. Almost holy. I am ready to shut my piehole and not whine for a week. I’ll let you know how this develops.
*The word ‘fucking’ is used here as an adjective, not a verb, though I imagine the actual act would be a cause of myriad complaints.

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