The Brattiest Brat to Ever Brat

This morning, I got up and headed to WalMart for a quick grocery run. I was low on some essentials, and it was about to be a bad situation.

I do my shopping and head out to my car to load it all up. Parked beside me is a woman, also loading groceries, and her daughter, probably ten years old and blonde, and wearing a shirt with a rather trampy-looking poodle which reads, "Sweetie." Shirts like that bug me - show me, don't tell me. Girls in "sweetie" and "princess" shirts generally tend to be the opposite of that label.

I pop the trunk and start moving bags. Out of nowhere, the little girl goes, "Me Gles? Megg Les? I don't understand." After a minute, I realize she's trying to sound out my license plate: Meggles, an old nickname of mine that, seeing as it's on my license plate, I can't quite shake. Gotta get a new plate. This one destroys my credibility.

So Sweetie keeps trying to sound out "Meggles" to get a response out of me. I just tune her out. Suddenly, she looks right at me and says, "What a stupid license plate. Why would anyone put something so dumb on their car?" as if I can't hear her.

She then moves on to my clothes. "Why would someone wear black on a sunny day?" she postulates to the air. "People like that are so depressing." I look down at my black-and-gold camisole and cropped black jacket and think, bitch!

This little critic goes on to pick at my car (who drive a blue car?), my groceries (is all that for just one person?) and my makeup (black around people's eyes makes them look like raccoons). That last one stung - I know my face is awfully delicate for black eyeliner, but I think it's a good look for something different! Plus it gives me sex appeal: something a ten-year-old little stick knows nothing about.

This girl just kept going and going. I was just waiting for the little brat to go into more personal details, like, "Fight Club is not a funny movie! Arrested Development was canceled for a reason! Your antiquated Christian ideals are laughable!"

On top of all that, her mother was right there! And Mrs. Sweetie didn't have a word to say. Either she was ignoring her precocious little darling, or she didn't realize the person her daughter was lampooning was all of three feet away, listening to every word. No, Mrs. Sweetie just kept loading her groceries in a slow, defeated way without a word.

What I really wanted to do was roll up a magazine, pop Sweetie on the nose like a disobedient dog, and tell the mom to retrain her puppy. Instead, I opted for a little psychological warfare.

I got into my car, cracked the windows, and delved into my iPod. I turned on the most obnoxious rap song in my iPod's arsenal, the one that makes my whole car vibrate with the bass. You know the one I mean. While I could still see Sweetie's lips moving, I could no longer hear her at least. Quiet, sweetie - Kanye's talking.

I backed slowly out, keeping tabs on Little Miss Thang without ever looking directly at her. The music's still pumping, Mrs. Sweetie's still oblivious, and Sweetie is turning like a little radar dish to keep an eye on me. Right before I drive away, I suddenly snap my head around and lock eyes with the little brat. I point to my eyes, then point to her - got my eeeeeeyes on you, baby. The kid's eyes get HUGE and she yells something that can only be "Moooooooooom!!" But Mama Sweetie is still preoccupied with the groceries,so she is left to wail alone as I race out of the WalMart lot all gangbusters.

Someone's gonna be looking over her shoulder for a few days now. Sorry, Sweetie! But a little childhood trauma is said to do wonders for one's disposition.