I'm back from a writing hiatus and ready to resume the flibbertigibbetry. Apologies for the long absence - or for the return, depending on how you view things.
I love that the Wee Z. (she of Hardly A Toddler Any Longer classification) is still at a
relatively innocent age. Take, for instance, her feeble attempts at trash talking. At this point, the most heinous insult she can think to lob at someone is to call them a "werewolf." (My Netflix viewing habits are probably at least partly to blame for this....in which case, it's a good thing I'm not a fan of Guy Ritchie or the Jackass franchise......) Beyond "werewolf," the second most vitriolic insult she can conjure is to christen someone a "baby." (Because, you see, she is a big girl now herself. To be called a "baby" is the lowest of the lows.)
So the other day, as we're weaving in and out of some particularly heinous L.A. traffic, a fellow motorist decided to cut us off. Z. spent a good ten seconds sputtering in indignation before shouting, "Werewolf! He's a werewolf!" Then her eyes got all squinty a la Clint Eastwood. (If she'd had a cigarette dangling from her lips, the resemblance would have been uncanny.) An eerie and almost dead calm came over her wee face, and in a voice dripping with scathing contempt, she corrected herself. "He's a baby werewolf," she sneered.
I withheld my instinctive reaction, which was to say, "That's it? That's the best you've got?" (One of my goals is to hone Z.'s verbal sparring skills to a sharp, needle-fine point, after all.)
But I decided to let it slide. Because one day....... a day all too soon in coming, I realize......I will yearn for such verbal impotence. Particularly when it's aimed in my general direction......
