To Be Complainy or Not to Be Complainy

“Don’t be an Andy Rooney,” my husband said to me after reading my last blog post, about parents who are tools at their kids’ musical performances. He claims I was on a complainy streak, first whining about kids in the high school parking lot and now people who are line-cutters and flash-photography-takers at concerts.

I don’t consider myself a negative person, but he has a point. No one wants to be the Andy Rooney of blogs. We’d all like to be Hoops and Yoyo as opposed to Maxine. So I’m making more of an effort to not complain. This gives me another reason to try to be more like my mom, who had a very short list of complaints: People who talked constantly about the benefits of exercise, Taco Bell’s fajitas not being over-baked like the Reed Middle School cafeteria made them, and Republicans.  I told you it was a short list.

Here was my mom:

“Here, Lil, sit here.”  No, I like sitting on the floor.

“It’s so hot. I’m hot. Are you hot?” No, I actually like to sweat.

“You guys didn’t have two nickels to rub together when you were first starting out.” We were happier than these couples today who have brand new furniture in a new house that they have right after their wedding. It was more fun to save up for things.

She used to tell the story of buying a half-gallon of ice cream on a Friday night and because they didn’t have a freezer, they had to eat it all right away and go get the next-door neighbors to help them eat it before it melted.

See? We had more fun. We didn't need major appliances.

Even when she was in bone-cancer pain, was out of cigarettes, and had a flooded basement, she could still find something to be happy about. She was clearly born that way, so trying to be like her may not even be an achievable goal, but it’s something to work toward.

Because I don’t like sitting on the floor and I don’t like to sweat and I think wolfing down a half-gallon of ice cream isn’t the least bit fun, neighbors notwithstanding.

By May, I’d like to have my list of complaints down to about 13. By next year at this time, I’d like to be at my mom’s limit of 3. You can all help me by behaving yourselves and following the rules when I’m around. Turn off your cell phones, stop driving so recklessly, and for god’s sake, don’t cut in front of me.

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