Sorry, everybody, but I've decided to make my home in a Starbucks on the Gilbert/Mesa border. Things are weird here, and I think I need to stay forever.
I've been locked in a "you say hi first" stare with a baby for a few minutes now, and I want it to break before I do. It's obvious that it's judging me as a less-than woman since I've never made one of it. It's babbling at me now, rubbing its little fist back and forth wildly over its open mouth in some sort of sign of primal aggression. I'm not scared, baby. Babble away. Shake your fist at me. I've seen worse.
Oh wow, now it's put its own pacifier back in its mouth as if to say, "I'm gonna be quiet now before I tell you what I really think of you." That's cool, baby. Trust me; I've heard worse.
Oh shit, now it's pulling its pacifier out and violently swinging it at me like its holding the combat line, just waiting for the commander's signal to attack. I'm not sure when this will end, but it's obvious that our interaction is escalating. Maybe once its mother starts paying attention to it again, the madness will stop. But right now, she's too busy talking to her friend and feeling her friend's belly to apparently feel the baby inside of it kick, to notice that her own baby is coming at me like this.
Maybe that belly-baby is kicking because it wants a piece of me too. That's cool, belly-baby. Bring it on. I'm not scared of either of you.
I can wear Old Navy too, baby. I can suck on a bottle. You're not so cute. One day, you'll grow up and find yourself projecting issues on an innocent one of you in the middle of a Starbucks far outside your home territory while, apparently, the entire discography of U2 plays overhead, and you'll wonder how the hell you got there. And you'll yearn for your belly days again. And some consistent sanity. And some more caffeine so you can feel at least a little something every now and then.
But in the meantime, go ahead and take your sweet time not saying hi, baby. I've got all the time in the world. It's a three-day weekend, and I don't have to go to work tomorrow. I know you'll break before I do. I know you're just about ready to say hi. Just wait until I start throwing some of my mad peek-a-boo game* in your direction. It's almost pathetic how much you don't stand a chance . . .
*I'm using "mad" and "game" because I'm in the East Valley, and that lexicon seems appropriate.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.