Now I have never actually had a child of my own, but I HAVE seen Mommie Dearest about fifty seven times, so I think I know a little something about parenting, and as such I am concerned by the lack of parenting I’m seeing at local grocery stores and I am about to make my own Modest Proposal.
Picture it: a Wednesday afternoon in beautiful Austin, Texas. Your heroine, laid low with the hamthrax, has dragged what remains of her dying-yet-still-pretty-great-looking carcass to the local grocery store to avail herself of some lemonade popsicles. She needs more lemonade popsicles because apparently that’s her lawn guy’s perferred form of currency, which is just fine with her because I don’t think it counts as child labor if it’s on the barter system. (ManoloLawyer, where are we on that?)
Everything was going just fine, I had my box of tissues, I had my sunglasses, I had my enormous cart for one (possibly two) items because I cannot be trusted to not lose a handbasket. The whole thing should’ve been a 10 minute excursion, 15 if I bought wine.
So there I was, minding my own business, gracefully dying of the swine when *WHAM.* CHILDREN.
Now, I think I’ve made it clear that I really don’t care for children. They’re loud and self-centered and usually leaking some sort of fluid, and frankly that’s my shtick. So basically as a species, once they’re past that cute stage where you can just put them in the dryer and let them take a nap (helpful tip: the dryer really does have to be off. Even on “fluff” your cocktail hour will still be interrupted with THAWUMP THAWUMP WAAAAH and that defeats the whole purpose) I could do without them.
The one exception is this boy named O.
O is 8 and calls me “The Prim and Proper Lady” he is a tribute to both his mommies and once waited in line on Easter Sunday to tell me how much he regarded my chapeau (which, of course, was lovely.)
In my head I’ve got some sort of thing where I’m his Auntie Mame and he’s my Patrick and we’ll travel the world together until I accidentally buy him long pants and then he tries to marry some yankee girl with a Locust Valley Lockjaw and extremely wrong-thinking views about iced tea.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t O who rammed into me going full force somewhere near the frozen green beans. No, it was some feral tribe of ankle biters who had escaped their astoundingly young mother (confidential to mother: seriously do you even go to the hospital anymore or do you just point and shoot, hoping they’ll land on the soft spot of their skulls?) and had gone all Lord of the Flies on me.
Who? Who are these people? I mean shouldn’t they be at school, torturing the smart kids who will one day buy and sell them? Why are they disrupting the natural order of things? What’s up with the mom and why am I not allowed to beat these children the way they so sorely need?
Mmmph. Okay, need a poptail now (Poptail recipe: take one lemonade popsicle, and 2 oz of Pernod or Chartreuse –or Absinthe if you’re an a#%hole– dip popsicle in the booze, lick, repeat.) so while I’m getting potted on popsicles, let me give you this big question:
Today Miss Plumcake wants to know:
What is YOUR child-related pet peeve and what, in your non-legally-punishable fantasy would you do about it?
I’m just saying.