You hate me because my Papa taught me that 1) The speed limit is a suggestion, not a law and 2) it’s only illegal if you get caught. Thusly, I speed constantly. As in, if you are not doing AT LEAST the speed limit (preferably higher) I’m in my Jeep, swearing like a sailor at you. I do not make any exceptions unless I’m either in a school zone/residential area, or I have Kidlette in the car. Other than that, put the fucking pedal to the metal and move it. (I absolutely LOATHE you if you’re driving a car I know damn good and well is designed for speed. So, you, in the $89k Porsche Turbo? Fucking use the car the way it was designed to. Jackwagon.)
You hate me for a litany of reasons. For one, I don’t believe in a lot of the new parenting philosophies you’ve decided to use on your little Princess. If Kidlette has been told NO repeatedly, she’s getting a spanking. That’s all there is to it. I don’t believe in praising kids for mediocrity. Bullshit that’s your best effort. One mother at my daycare probably would gut me if she could. Why? Her child went through a biting phase. On my child. My child, consequently, went through a hitting phase. On her child. Notice that the hitting phase stopped at soon as the biting phase did? Hmm. No, I’m not teaching her violence is okay, I’m teaching her to stick up for herself. Also, YES, that is my child screaming in the store, and YES, I’m ignoring her. Why? Because she’s screaming because I won’t give her the Chocolate-coated-sugar-bombs cereal she wants. I’m also sending the message that throwing a tantrum AUTOMATICALLY means you’re not getting shit from me.
You hate me because I do not have a defined “style” and I never have. I have very high-end pieces in my closet (granted, they were presents) and I have things from Goodwill in my closet. Depending on my mood, I’ll look like a complete preppy, like a California surfer girl, a Gossip Girl cast member, or just plain old white tees-shirt and jeans. So, no, there’s not a “definitive style” I’m going for. That WASP sweater will probably get mixed with a second-hand pair of jeans and shoes I’ve had since high school. That punk hoodie? Will be mixed with Abercrombie jeans. Go die of shock now.
You hate me because there is not one set genre of music I only listen to. I’ve got everything from Mozart to Nine Inch Nails on my iPod, and I love them all equally. Something you need to understand is that music is most definitively a salve to my soul. If I’m in a murderous rage, I will first listen to some very angry music because I feel like the artist can relate. Then, once the venom is gone, I’ll most likely switch over to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake to sooth me. I know every word to Crimson & Clover, just as I know every word to A New Argentina. So if you only limit yourself to rap, or pop, or whatever, bite me. You’re missing out on some truly fantastic music, and do NOT lecture me. (Also, most rap is shit. Just saying.)
You hate me because I don’t want to hear your BS excuses. You’ve been here long enough to know what forms I need to process your crap, and what needs to be filled out on said forms. Do not get an attitude with me when I reject your forms and explain to you less-than-patiently why I’m rejecting it. Also, playing dumb with me when you EFFING KNOW BETTER makes my blood boil, and I will not hesitate to boil over on you. Also, if you have a 4WD SUV, snow tires, and chains, you cannot call in saying you can’t make it to work for “road conditions”. I’ve driven to work when the roads were ice & slush, with a rear-wheel drive car with bald tires. If you’re the person who can clearly see I’m busy, do NOT demand something you can get yourself from me RIGHT NOW. AND FOR THE LAST EFFING TIME: IF YOU TAKE THE LAST CUP OF COFFEE MAKE A NEW GODDAMN POT ALREADY! Christ.
If I have no clue what’s wrong with me or Kidlette, I will respectfully bow to your superior knowledge. But if I know damn good and well what the heck is wrong with me because I’ve had this problem before, please just confirm it and write the damn prescription. Look, Doc, no girl likes coming in with a friggin’ UTI, but once you’ve had one, there’s no mistaking what the hell it is that’s making you pee fire every 2 seconds. Please just agree, run the test to cover your end, and write the Rx. Don’t say, “Well, it could be [insert incredibly uncommon condition] here as well.” Dentists, I’m sorry, but the phobia I have of your profession runs deep and I assure you is well-founded. To answer the questions I get asked EVERY SINGLE TIME: yes, I know how to floss. No, I don’t floss. Yes, I know smoking is bad for you and your teeth. No, I don’t plan on stopping. Yes, I was serious when I explained I need 3 syringes of Novocain. It’s call high-bone density which means I need more than most. If you’d throw in some gratis Valium so I don’t have a panic attack in the chair (has happened) we might both be spared the indignity of me pissing my pants.
Kisses, and remember: I hate you, too. At least it’s mutual.