EEEEEEEE
A giant cicada (husk? shell? whole and hearty living cicada entity? I do not wish to know) was discovered clinging to my back porch this morning. I was all like EEEEEEEE and Nora was all like “cool.”
Then on the way to the bus I nearly stepped on a dead squirrel, half on the sidewalk and half in the grass, and yeah I do mean literal halves, and all the attendant necrosis-loving little life forms were swarming everywhere. Again with the EEEEEEEE and why is there so much disgusting nature today? I pay good money to live in this concrete jungle! More concrete, less jungle!
THE THINGS I DO NOT SAY AT WORK
Figure it out yourself, genius.
No, I didn’t answer your email. It was so incoherent I couldn’t figure out if there was anything TO answer.
Why haven’t we finished Y? Because X comes first. Deadlines tend to go in chronological order.
THE THINGS I DO NOT SAY TO STRANGERS
Okay, those pants don’t fit at ALL.
Yes, you are MUCH more important than me or indeed anyone else in this subway. By all means, push past me to be first on the stairs. Then be sure to ascend those stairs very slowly.
Your son is a repulsive little sociopath.*
THE THINGS I DO NOT SAY AT HOME
Wow sweetie, that sure was a long story about nothing!
Must you make a lecherous comment every time my shirt is off? I’m glad you still appreciate my wifely boobs, but damn.
EAT. MORE.**
*The playground was empty except for us and a mom with a toddler girl and this boy who looked to be about six or seven. He was the strangest, unhappiest kid I have ever encountered. Nora was digging in the dirt, trying to find bugs and make them fight (don’t ask), and the kid walked over and purposely stepped on her hand. She yelled and shoved him off, he fell over, and I said, “Hey! Cut it out!” Then he got up and kicked over her dirt pile. His mom came and dragged him off, apologizing, but what the hell?
Later, I watched him shove his baby sister down the slide (she fell on her head and started crying), find a discarded and rotting chicken leg on the ground and carefully place it on a baby-swing seat, and smack his mother in the face so hard her glasses fell off.
She reprimanded him each time, as far as that went. He didn’t seem to care. The creepiest bit was his lack of emotion while doing all these shitty things. I would rather he been raging, tantruming, showing evidence of having special needs, whatever. As we were leaving the mom called out more apologies and I could not bring myself to do more than fling a quick tight non-smile over my shoulder. That was one angry little We-Need-To-Talk-About-Kevin dude.
**Nora actually eats fine, and I know a lot of people with kids who only eat tan or round things on alternate Thursdays are going to wish they had my “problems.” I suppose she is officially underweight but is also so strong that I never think about it. However, her natural preference for the lowest-fat and -calorie foods kind of cracks me up. Jellybeans over ice cream. The thinnest possible schmear of cream cheese on a “bagel thin” (the regular ones are too “bready”). Water instead of milk or juice. Apples requested for just about every snack.
The other day she asked for the following lunch: two slices of 99% fat-free deli turkey, a plain rice cake, a “light” Babybel cheese (she prefers these over the full-fat kind), and yet another sliced-up apple. Once assembled, it looked like some terrible “diet plate” from the 1980s. I expected Richard Simmons to show up and start sweating to the oldies.
—mimi smartypants thinks that would be terrifying.