Childless Bitch: There they were. Drunk children. No, not on Pom martinis or Pabst -- drunk with power. Supplied quicker than a flask by their official parental units.
Target. The best place ever, right? Where else can you score Mizrahi and mouthwash? So what could sully my bull's-eye afternoon of bliss?
First, I could hear them. In fact, the entire store could hear them. From the pharmacy on the opposite end of the building, then as I rounded cleaning supplies, and finally as I came upon them -- in women's shoes. How harmless would it be to check out some cute new summer flip-flops? I thought.
And there they were. Drunk children. No, not on Pom martinis or Pabst -- drunk with power. Supplied quicker than a flask by their official parental units.
Three children approximately 3-5 years old (hey, I was a camp counselor and teacher's aide -- I know my gromits) who turned this aisle into their own personal pack 'n' play.
I should not have to be the party to wait for you to notice me, as I am compelled by human decency to say "excuse me" through your children's imaginary fort in the middle of the women's shoe aisle while they are screaming at one another. Don't look at me, wondering why I am in your way. Oh, I'm sorry -- what was I thinking? I am an XX chromosome and have two feet. You're right, why in the hell would I be in the women's shoe section!?
Surprisingly, the three tots were accompanied by the all-hailed standard of two parents. The mother was clearly tuned out, browsing in boxes, and only after I walked behind her did she shout at her husband, "Handle it!!" Oh good, this should go well.
So Father of the Year proceeded to pick up a big, rubber, bouncy ball and throw it into the imaginary fort to be tossed around like a body surfer in the pit at a rock concert. Awesome.
OK, here's the real deal.
Don't tell me I can't comment on this behavior because I do not check the dependent box on my W2. Surprise -- I did not arrive 30 years old on this planet. I started as a kid, so that helps. I come from a family, so that helps. I had one parent, who clearly did the job of two better than these knuckleheads. Because if I so much as stepped away from my mom in line at the bank or began talking too loudly in the supermarket, I would fear for my life ... or rather, the ability to play Super Mario Brothers or stay up and watch the Disney movie of the week.
So sober up your kids, people! Rehab. It's not just for spoiled celebrities anymore. It's for your spoiled children. Take back your power!
Because everyone can agree on inside voices and forts ... in the backyard.