Sometimes something will make me rethink my distaste for children. I’ll be watching the episode of “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” where Jacqueline gives birth to baby Nicholas, and I’ll think, “Wow, I’ll bet that one is a lot less ugly than her daughter, Ashley, was.” (Because seriously, all through the episode where Ashley was doing a photoshoot and kept complaining that the photographer wasn’t getting any good shots, I kept waiting for Jacqueline to tell her the problem is actually her face.) But Nicholas, even hours after his birth, was a lot less alien-esque than almost every baby I’ve seen recently, and it made me question whether I was getting soft on children.
And then, a couple of days ago, I was on the downtown 4 on my way to work when someone let one rip. I don’t care how much air they have swirling around the train cars; an enclosed space is an enclosed space, and the space around me filled up with nasty-smelling air that lingered for more than a minute. This happens from time to time, and I desperately want to go around sniffing butts until I figure out who dropped the bomb, but I never have the guts. I want to scream, “I can smell your shame!”, but I’m always unwilling to draw attention to myself.
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Have you never heard the phrase, “She who dealt it…”
j/k… I feel your pain. Reminds me of a story though, as relayed by my brother.
He and his wife and son were on a plane that had just pulled up to the gate. Everyone was standing quietly, waiting for the doors to open. Somewhere, someone dropped a bomb.
My nephew, who was about 4 at the time, said, quite audibly to the entire plane, “Daddy tooted!”
My brother, who assured me that he had not actually “dealt” anything, said he figured that somebody just got a free pass at his expense.
I freely admit to being a breeder-wannabe, but I likewise have no plans to like children besides my own and those of close friends.
(And as long as we’re being totally honest, I don’t always like my friends’ kids.)
I will NOT be that lady who volunteers for Room Mom every year, because I’d kill the little fuckers.
My problem with other peoples’ kids is the whole reason I should have known better than to be a teacher. Nothing is more miserable than being alone in a room with 60 of them. I wonder if it was better to live during the days when kids knew to be “seen and not heard”.
My favorite part is when the mother encourages the kid and looks around the train approvingly. “Everyone’s looking at how adorable my son is! Anyone who is upset is actually jealous.”
My motto used to be “I hate other people’s kids,” and as of today, it still stands. My kids are OK…but they’re mine. Plus, I don’t let them be unruly or obnoxious unless in the confines of my own home.
http://www.amazon.com/I-Hate-Other-Peoples-Kids/dp/1416909885
best book ever.
eww. i despise people who do this. they are waaaay worse than those who ‘fart and dart’, ‘fart and flee’, or toot and scoot’, some of the names ant and i came up with for people who toot in a store and keep walking.
being trapped in a space like a subway takes it to a whole new level.