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Smackdown
Please Note: I wrote this first thing this morning and then read Jane's Journal, and she links to me today of all days describing my usual bleeding heart approach to children which is not represented here. I then spent the rest of the day freaking out that I would be getting into the middle of some debate about how to raise kids, which was not at all my intent. My intent in the final story is to call out a bratty kid who in my opinion needs a talkin' to. Of all the crazy coincidences...
Yesterday, I spent entirely too much time looking at baby stuff in preparation for a couple of baby showers that are forthcoming for my friends Kiki and Mo. After walking through aisle after aisle of baby-related products, I decided the baby registry is a much more scary beast than is the wedding registry. At least with wedding shit, most people have a good idea of whether or not they will actually use the items on their list. Sure, I'll probably end up with a jar opener that is cast aside in favor of the tried and true dish towel, or maybe a coffee maker with an automatic start that never gets used, but baby shit??? I'm convinced that the manufacturers of baby supplies have put the scare in scare tactic. The labeling on many products would lead you to believe you are two steps away from watching social services take your kid away if you don't buy a bottle warmer. They have wipe warmers, so that you child will be spared the cold shock of a wet one on his nubile butt cheeks. Baby blankets have achieved new levels of softness completely unimaginable in days past. I believe the word "Sherpa" was tossed around as causally as a slutty drunk freshman at a frat party.�
It has been a few years since my childhood development courses in college, and I am not a parent, but the toys these days - ohh! By the time you get to the toy aisle, you've purchased everything short of a Rubbermaid onesie with scratch resistent teflon coating for your child to protect them from the harsh world around us. Now that you have protected this child, and taken away any chance at natural exploration and learning, it appears it is time to force learning and "promote thinking" through hideously colorful made-up creatures called sprites, and bob-its and whatnot. Even the teething rings have an educational slant to them. Rather than polka dots or fields of color, toys are covered in letters and numbers. All of this would lead you to believe we are raising the next generation of Einsteins, but a trip to the local warehouse club over the weekend proved otherwise.�
The Boy and I were there shopping for these wonderfully delicious potatoes which unfortunately they do not carry anymore, and while waiting in line to check out this chubby little girl around 11 years of age squares up and starts to stare at me. And we're not talking spaced out, kinda sleepy from being at the pool stare, we're talking watching my every move, eyes piercing me like a possessed Care Bear, I want to dance in your skin staring. I ignored her for the most part. Wait, first I checked over my entire being for a reason she might be staring - something hanging out my nose, big hole in the crotch of my pants, ink stain on my shirt, blood gushing from my eyelids... nope, so then I ignored her.�
The cash registers were situated so that customers stood in line back to back while they were checking out. I have no idea what this kid was doing because I was occupied with the process of checking out, but she managed to SMACK hit me in the leg with her arm. I looked down, acknowledged that she hit me, but passed it off as an accident. I mean there was only like 10 feet of space for her on her side of the checkout lane. Her chubby younger brother came running up, did a little dance, annoyed his mom and then ran off somewhere. I moved forward to type in my PIN number, and while I was typing it in SMACK! This time almost square on my back. I thought maybe The Boy was fucking with me, but when I turned to hit him back, he was given the little demon girl the stare of death to defend my honor. She had frozen in her spot and was staring at me. She mumbled something then turned back towards her checkout lane. Meanwhile, her mom was negotiating with her brother on a THIRD Kit Kat from the giant box of 48 they'd already opened during their shopping extravaganza. The man finished checking me out, and I was about to grab our new belongings and leave when SMACK. The little bitch hit me again. I looked at her and looked up at her mother who was unwrapping another Kit Kat for her son, and gave the little girl an evil glare and then shook my head and walked away.�She'll get her's someday, and I need not waste my breath arguing with her mother who surely imparted some of her grace and social skills on her ratty little offspring. Had the kid not been oversized for her age, and me a midget, I could've taken her.
This is the Snow Princess's beautiful baby girl, the only baby who did not benefit from yesterday's shopping excursion. Despite the fact that I didn't buy her anything, I'll bet she won't ever hit me in the check out line when she grows up :)
P.S. Someone found my site by googling "How to Walk a Cat on a Leash" based on last Friday's entry. That cracks me up!
3:02 p.m. - July 23, 2004
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