Thursday, May 21, 2009
Nita is sitting across from me, giving me the evil eye.
She just came downstairs in a pair of wrinkled, stained, dirty pants, which she intended to wear to her school concert.
I nixed that idea, and she is now upset that I want her to look nice.
Why is it that these children think their evil eye can intimidate me?
Puh-leez. My father could blister paint on an off day, and my mother was known for her ability to level a gaze that, clear across a school gym, could bring a ten year old boy to a dead halt.
I not only got the gene, I got the years of osmosis.
So I just now stopped typing and glanced at her. "Fine," she said. "Make me look like a loser. You hate me. I know you hate me. Why do I have to live in this family? No one else has such a mean mom."
I still need to tweak this ability and get it streamlined. Somehow I get a lot of talk first and then action.