For the record, I fully expect this list/series to have many, many entries:
The Spoiled Kids
aka: The Prostitots
The Bean and I celebrated our 2 year anniversary recently. Part of his gift to me was watching an angry, teething DragonMonkey while I went out to have a pedicure. It’s been almost a year since I had a pedicure. While I still enjoyed the pampering and the end result of my silky smooth feeties and my sexy, red, flower-painted toes, the experience was ruined slightly by the kindergartener wriggling in the giant spa-chair beside me.
“Mommy, I want Blue, not Pink.” She squirmed at the edge of the ridiculously oversized chair, feet dangling in the water, hands picking at the buttons on the remote. The back of the spa chair buckled, groaned, and writhed impotently, all of the massage functions set to the highest settings.
“But Sapphire, blue won’t look good with your dress, sweetie. You need pink.” Mommy-Dearest dropped the trashy magazine slightly, peering at her daughter over the top. “You need your nails and toes to match your dress. That’s why we’re here.”
I buried my face deeper in a trashy magazine of my own, trying not to gape. REALLY?
Sapphire stuck out her lip in a spoiled pout, but subsided into an uneasy agreement. She kicked at the water slightly, accidentally splashing the manicurist who squatted beside her. Mommy Dearest said nothing, probably because she saw nothing. She flipped the pages in the magazine slowly, engrossed.
Ignoring the splashing water to the best of her abilities, the nail lady did her best to distract the petulant child. “The pink will look very pretty!”
Sapphire pursed her lip, and heaved a long-suffering sigh. She wanted blue, and now she was being forced to wear pink. Life was SO unfair.
“It will look so pretty on your hands and toes! Do you want me to draw a flower for you?”
Sapphire sniffed, nodded slightly, but still refused to answer. I peered in horror from around my magazine at the sight of a fifty year old woman crouching subserviently at the feet of the demanding five-year old child, rubbing scented lotion on stick-thin legs. “Your hair looks so pretty! It’s so sparkly!” Sapphire’s fingers reached up to touch her intricately braided hairdo, each individual braid covered in a glittery sparkle that looked like it was desperately trying to rub itself off any every nearby object. “It’s your birthday, right? Are we painting your nails to match your birthday dress?”
“No,” sneered Sapphire in a remarkable impersonation of a seventeen year old, completely at odds with her dimpled child’s hands and baby soft face. “I’m going to a concert tonight, and my nails need to be pretty too.”