Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, and I am a bitch
Girl-child cannot go one day without the words “Hannah Montana” escaping her lips.
Okay, yes, it’s our fault for being media whores and insisting on cable television. And it’s Disney’s fault for creating formulaic programming dependent upon quick gags, faux angst, and supposed teen stars. It’s Edison’s fault for creating our modern electrical grid, feeding make-believe through our veins. And it’s…it’s…well, it’s normal, I guess. When I was her age, every day after school, I’d watch the Flintstones, or the Jetsons, or a local show called “Alley Cat”, which had a cat puppet behind a fence and reruns of classic cartoons. At some point, I was also convinced I’d marry Davy Jones of the Monkees. (I sort of still AM convinced of it, albeit the younger, smoother-skinned Davy Jones, and not the wrinkled prune-ish guy who claims to be Davy Jones on those VH1 “Where are they now” shows.)
The other night, Girl-child and I were watching tv after dinner, and she said, as “Hannah Montana” took a commercial break, “I would SO love to see a Hannah Montana concert! That would be so awesome!” Her eyes sparkled and she shook her head in that wistful way young girls do, full of hopes and longings, and then she sighed. Haaaahhhh.
It was then I realized…oh sweet niblets…Girl-child had her first girl-crush. They grow up so fast, don’t they?
The Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is CRUSH. Not just that heart-twisting-longing feeling, but whatever CRUSH you like…crushed velvet, crushed potato chips on your bologna sandwich, the crush of work when you realize…oh, snap!...the boss is gonna be in any minute and you’re still writing your Poetry Friday Word post! Feel free to use it tomorrow in your post, in whatever tasty two-bite amuse bouche you choose…poem, story, photo, recollection, record collection, interjection, affection….
Some guy called me a bitch yesterday. Which doesn’t happen a lot (thankfully), but which left me sort of tingling and ready to fight, or at least shake my finger in his face and trump up with, “Oh no you dinint!” I had just picked up the kids from camp and was driving down a narrow street, beset on both sides with parked cars, leaving just enough room between for one vehicle to comfortably make it down. A big black Hummer was in the middle of the street, coming the other way, his turn signal on, just sitting there, waiting to turn into a parking lot.
I stopped my car. Behind the hummer was some jackass in a silver something, who had obviously just turned around from some precarious parking situation, and was sitting crosswise in the street, bumping up against cars in front and behind, trying to pull behind the Hummer. He looked stupid, and he knew it. I waited for the Hummer to move. I motion with my hand. Go ahead. GO. AHEAD. But Hummer would have none of it. He just sat there, reflective sunglasses on, waving his hand at me. The silver something was pulling out and back…out and back…trying to get a good position. I could see Hummer wasn’t moving and, as it was four times bigger than my car, I inched ahead to let Hummer pass behind me. There were several empty parking spaces on that side, so I was able to avoid scraping the paint off my car as I crept forward. Hummer rolled slowly ahead to complete his turn.
I waited as asshat in the silver something straightened out his behind and pulled in behind the Hummer. Then, for some reason known only to him and his drug dealer, silver something pilot pulled his car ahead and yelled out his window at me. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying…”…mmmmbmbmm…space!...mmmmmbmb…mine!...mmmmbmbm…big enough!...mmmbmbm…BIIIIITCH!!!”
Guess I’ve been told.
My flight-or-fight response kicked in, and I decided what that guy needed was for me to jump outta my car, pound on his precious silver whatever until it looked like a piece of swiss cheese, pull him outta his seat, and pummel him til he cried like a scared little girl. But. I remembered my kids were in the back seat, and I should be the ‘good example’, and I really didn’t feel like spending any time in jail for assault, even if he did deserve it, and even though my wonderful attorney husband could claim I was under duress from my recent hormone shot.
So I just stewed for a minute, and let the tingling subside.
Karma will get him. Karma will ensure that next time he decides to be King Bitchy-Pants, it’s to a cop with a short fuse and a big billy club.