I don’t even really have the vocabulary to explain how downright bitchy I’ve been feeling (and, ummmm, acting) the past few days.
“Super fucking bitchy” come close.
But mostly on the inside, because I’m 46. And 46 year olds aren’t allowed to act as bitchy on the outside as they feel on the inside.
Unlike three year olds, who can let it all out under the guise of “age appropriate behavior”….
I was reminded of this fun fact of life at the (normally quiet) cafe where I go to write sometimes.
There I was, just sitting in my booth, minding my own business and slamming my head against the table trying to force myself to write when this band of unruly and seemingly terroristic three year olds arrived.
(There were only two of them. But they were frightening, in very different ways.)
And all hell broke loose.
First, they were wearing sparkly tutus — with boots — in the middle of the business day.
Which made me think “have they no sense of decorum?” and “fuck you little kids who get to do whatever you want all the time.”
Then they start fucking singing, for no apparent reason.
It was downhill from there:
Noooooo! Stop singing! I’m singing, you can’t sing. Moooooooommmmmyyyy, she’s singing and I’m the one who sings, not her! STOP IT HANNAH — Don’t touch my napkin! (shrieking) I WANT A NEW NAPKIN (sobbing) shetouchedmynapkinandthat’snotfairmommy I HATE YOU, Hannah.
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: “Jessie, do you want lemonade or milk with your lunch?”
Jessie: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” (falling apart)
Hannah: (sweetly) “I love lemonade!”
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: “Honey, I gave you a choice, lemonade or milk.”
Jessie: (still crying/shrieking) “I HATE YOU, MOMMY! I don’t want that.”
Hannah: (smiling sweetly at her mommy, who is probably also medicated) “We never say we hate people, do we mommy?”
Hanah’s medicated mommy: (smoothing little Hannah’s perfectly coiffed hair) “No, sweetheart, we don’t”
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: (unnaturally calm) “Jessie, I’m not understanding why you are upset, honey, I’m giving you a choice of drinks with your lunch – lemonade or milk.”
Jessie: (takes it up another notch) “NONONONONO I hate LEMONADE I hate lemonade I hate it…” (falls out of booth onto the floor, writhing in pain at the torture being inflicted upon her)
Hannah: (continuing to suck up) “That isn’t good restaurant behavior, is it, Mommy?”
Hannah’s medicated mommy: (a grim/concerned look on her face) “No, pumpkin, it isn’t. I’m glad you’re making better choices.”
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: (losing a little of her calm) “Jessie, you need to pick your body up off the floor and sit down in the booth. If you don’t want lemonade, you can have milk.”
Jessie: (doing the breastroke on the floor and kicking one of her boots off)(enraged) “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I hate you! I hate lemonade! I hate milk! I hate this place! I hate lunch and I’m NOT taking a nap, MOMMY. Because I DON’T CARE what you say to me. LEAVE ME ALONE and I’m NEVER going to be in that booth because Hannah is mean to me and I hate her.”
Hannah: (flaunting her superior emotional control) “Jessie thinks she hates me, Mommy, but we know she is just having a hard time, right?”
Hannah’s medicated mommy: (barely concealing her feelings of superiority at this point) “Yes, dear, Jessie is having a very hard time.”
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: (deciding to use physical intervention, like a normal person) “Jessie…..you’re so tired…..let Mommy hold you and then you can calm down and eat lunch…. I know you don’t hate me and you don’t hate Hannah. It’s ok, sweetie, let Mommy hold you.”
Jessie: “DON’T TOUCH ME! I do too hate you and I hate Hannah and I hate lunch and you’re mean to me and I DON’T CARE!!!! (shriek, shriek, shriek) YOU’RE HURTING ME WITH YOUR HANDS, MOTHER. OUCH! STOP IT! HELP!”
Hannah: (shaking her head in disappointment) “Look, Mommy, Jessie’s mommy is putting her hands on Jessie. We don’t do that, do we Mommy, we use our words.”
Hannah’s medicated/superior mommy: (also shaking her superior head) “We never put our hands on other people…”
Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy: (finally overcoming the medication) “Fuck you Hannah. You don’t have better behavior, you’re just slow and everyone knows it! And fuck you, Jessie. Stay on the floor, see if I care. Hopefully one of the people staring at you while you writhe around on the floor will want to adopt a bratty and ungrateful three year old who is covered in glitter and god-knows-what kind of shit from the floor and who can’t even fucking decide between having a lemonade or milk with her lunch. But I’m keeping that damn tutu, Jessie– you can go live with the strangers, but I get the tutu.
I made up that last part, but wouldn’t that be kind of awesome?
My point is this: That little kid Jessie gets to wear a sparkly tutu — with boots — and throw a major fucking fit in public, but because she is three, other people are all “I wish that kid would shut up, but what can you do? She’s three.” And the other little kid, Hannah, gets to wear a sparkly tutu with boots and be a TOTAL BITCH and act all superior and totally manipulate the adults around her and, even though it’s sickening, everyone kind of nods and smiles because, you know, she’s three.
I’m totally bitchy and superior enough to be three, dammit.
Here’s how my day might have played out, if I were three and/or not pretending to be a non-bitchy 46 year old:
- I would have worn my magenta tulle skirt with my comfy lesbian shoes and maybe a baseball cap and my sparkly bangle bracelets.
- When my Mom came crashing into my room at 2:30 a.m. looking for the narcotics (she has cancer, you know, and sometimes forgets that she already took the pain meds and then wakes up and thinks “yay! more pain meds!” even when it’s not time yet) I would’ve said “WTF? Go back to bed, drug seeker!” instead of “Mommy, it’s only 2:30, what is going on? Are you in pain? Let me put you back to bed.”
- When I walked out to my car this morning and was reminded of it’s utter crappiness by the duct tape around the brake light and the passenger side mirror I would’ve thrown my shit down on the ground and screamed/cried “What is going ON with this car?? It’s not fair! I hate this. I can’t afford this. I don’t want to deal with it and I WANT MY DAD and why does my Mom have to have cancer and why is my kid ignoring me???? WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH I’m not moving from this spot until things fucking change, dammit!” Instead of, “Fuck…”
- When the lady at the car repair shop started talking about how they needed to check my timing belt I would’ve screamed “What? I came here to get a new fucking brake light and side mirror, how does that even relate to my timing belt you crook? I knew I couldn’t trust you, I hate car repair people! All of you! You’re just mean! Don’t you fucking come near my engine, bitch, I will make your life HELL.” Instead of, “My funds are really limited right now and I just need to get the brake light/side mirror fixed at the moment, thanks.”
- When the teenager at the cafe brought me my croissant sandwich that was so over-toasted that it literally crumbled apart when I picked it up (therefore I was holding onto the egg and cheese directly with no “sandwich” around it) I would’ve just slid to the ground and started crying, loudly, “God. Damn. It. that’s. not. a. sandwich.” and “I hate you, stupid teenager who doesn’t give a shit about the food he serves” and “all I wanted was a sandwich, is that so wrong?” Instead of “excuse me, sir, this seems a little over-cooked, would you mind very much redoing it?
I think I am going to spend the rest of the day embracing my inner three year old.
Oh look, I just got a message from the car repair place, it’s probably the estimate…..
This should be interesting.
*i found that cute picture on pinterest.com and the “source” is listed as www.twigandtoadstool.blogspot.com
** don’t worry, i’m not going to unleash the three year old on my poor mother, if i can help it.