Ten-piece nugget meal, no sauce, two double cheeseburgers, a Jr. chicken, and a chocolate milkshake.
"Plato, honey, what you you having?" I thought, looking in the rear-view mirror.
The Little Bastard and I were in the McDonald's drive thru, having a discussion about moral virtues. In a nutshell: how he had them and I didn't.
"You suffered an injustice." I said. "Why aren't you angry?"
I wanted to rip someone's face off. I was pissed. I was menopausal Carrie.
He just shrugged his shoulders and said, "What's the point? There's nothing I can do."
"Yes.... Yes there is something you can do!" I bleated. "You can get mad. You can spew bile-laced fire. You can do donuts in their rose garden. You can slam your fists against the wall of gross unfairness. You can phone and hang up a million times." I roared. "You're like Pa on Little House on the fucking Prairie! How can you be so accepting and kind, when you just got the shit end of the stick?" I continued, spittle landing on the steering wheel. "I'm so bloody mad I ate a block of cheese and an entire row of Candy Cane Oreos, before shoving the other row down the garburator." I would have lost my hand going in after them, had reason not stepped in.
Then out it came.
"That's because you're a hostile person." the Little Bastard said, calmly, under the glow of the golden arches.
The elephant in the room jumped into the backseat with Plato.
"You're goddamned right I'm a hostile person." I said, only I pronounced it hosTILE. "I come from a long line of hosTILE women."
"It's /ˈhästl/ not /ˈhäs-tīl/." He corrected, dipping his nugget in the milkshake.
"Oh my god how can you EAT THAT?" I screamed, ignoring his Grammar School wisdom as he plopped the chocolate covered grease ball into his mouth.
And with that, the subject was changed.
Had I not been mortally hungover in Philosophy 101, I would have argued Plato's "He who commits injustice is ever made more wretched than he who suffers it" as complete and utter bullshit. Plato was never a mother. Mothering bears account for the majority of injuries and fatalities in North America.
I just sent my cub on the road to Cape Breton. I need a break from hockey, and he needs a break from me. I have the weekend papers and and a filthy house. Both will get dealt with over the next 32 hours, but in the meantime, I have plans. It's I HEART HFX Local's Small Biz Saturday, so I'm going to throw my money around an independent business or two, with hopes of winning a shopping spree. I also have an appointment at Flaunt. I'm tired of my Movember moustache, and they have a new Registered Massage Therapist. Lord knows I could use some therapy.
One day, my grandmother's neighbour was out waxing his car, and in the course of a brief conversation, he called my grandmother a wing nut. I let it go. I was young, and decidedly less hosTILE – choosing instead to take the high road. I chalked up his comment to small town ignorance – and, truth be told – my grandmother was a bit of a wing nut.
Later that night, after walking her dog (and nipping at the Courvoisier she kept in her nightstand) I took a sharp turn off the high road and scratched my wretched morals into the left rear quadrant of his shiny car.
Justice had been served. On a sesame seed bun.
Make an appointment with Lindsay at Flaunt by calling 425.0020.