There's no point in lying about it--I am easily annoyed. I'm sure this is a shocking fact, almost as shocking as Ricky Martin peaking out of that closet that everybody thought was open for years and years and years. Things like somebody clipping their toenails in public or people who cause gridlock or incessant beeping noises that I can't seem to find and smash with a sledgehammer, they all annoy me. A lot.
But not as much as the Monster I like to call Ms. Butimjust.
Ms. Butimjust has been known to invade Alexis' body. I imagine she looks a lot like the little alien in Men in Black who lived in the guy's school and drove his body around like a used car. Ms. Butimjust controls Alexis' mouth, making it impossible for her to start a sentence with any words other than, "But I'm just . . ."
"Alexis, please sit down and finish your dinner," I'll say.
"But I'm just . . . " Alexis will reply. I don't even hear the excuse because the minute Ms. Butimjust makes an appearance, I start looking for the phone number to call in a priest to do an exorcism.
"Alexis, please put your toys in your playroom," I'll say.
"But I'm just . . . " she'll say. She could tell me that she's just shaving the cat and feeding the fur to the dog. I wouldn't know, because the second the "But I'm just" comes out, I start stabbing my eardrums with a spork.
"Alexis, if you go put your pajamas on right now, I'll buy you a unicorn that poops Troy Bolton-shaped glitter," I'll say.
"But I'm just . . ." she'll say, completely oblivious to the fact that she just missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime. Oh, yes, it works both ways. When Ms. Butimjust is in the house, nobody listens to anybody.
If ever I get my hands on Ms. Butimjust, I'm planning on putting a violent end to her, if she stops making excuses long enough for me to beat her down.
That's a stamp on Alexis' face, by the way. I tried to tell her not to ask for it there, but Ms. Butimjust insisted.