>Channeling My Inner Veruca
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Wanna hear a dirty secret? No? Too bad.
I have an inner brat.
I realized this two weekends ago, when Hubs and I were invited to a swank executive suite for an NFL game. After several rounds of “Where do we park?” and “How the hell do we get to the executive suites?”, we arrived at the party only to find that all of the viewing seats were taken. We were forced to mill around the buffet in the back of the room, out of sight of the field and alongside our who-are-you-again? host and hostess.
Fortunately, one of the men in the back row soon offered up his seat, giving me a nice view of the action. I was saved from awkward mingling for a full 45 minutes.
But when I got up at half time for a quick bathroom run, my seat was stolen by some bitch.
As the third quarter began, I stood fuming behind her. Damn it, I had been enjoying that game! And now as I strained my neck and peered around the heads in front of me, I could see maybe 20 yards of the entire football field.
I felt my face turn a little red. I wanted to stamp my feet. I wanted to say something really rude to the bitch in my chair. I wanted to… I wanted to… cry. I bit my lip to keep from pouting.
What is wrong with you? I asked myself sternly. It’s a freakin’ football game. You don’t even like football. What are you, eight years old?
It was no use. I had channeled my inner Veruca and she would not be quieted.
You know who I’m talking about, right? Veruca Salt was the little brat who went down the bad egg chute at Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory after demanding that her father buy her a golden-egg-laying goose of her own. As a kid, I could relate. But as an adult, I relate even more.
It doesn’t matter that I’m now a mother, a stepmother, a carpooler, a cook and a general unpaid-servant-to-five-less-than-tidy family members. I want what I want and I want it NOW!!
“It” might be a Starbucks vanilla latte, a sushi dinner, a date night or a two-hour nap from Baby… If I don’t get it (or at least the promise of it), I’m prone to lip quivering, brow-furrowing, tantrum-throwing brattiness. On the inside, anyway. On the outside, I think I just look kinda mean.
I guess when I was a kid, I thought I’d outgrow my occasional Verucaness. But, um, no. Apparently, once a brat, always a brat. I’ve simply gotten better at hiding my histrionic urges, purely out of necessity. After all, it’s hard to think of an occasion in which hurling myself down, crying and beating my arms and legs on the ground would be appropriate.
Of course, my inner brat still surfaces from time to time. Both of my stepdaughters do a wonderful imitation of the smiling mask I attempt to wear when I feel the brat in me making an appearance. And my uncontrollable pout is legendary among both friends and family members.
But I’ve more or less hidden my brattiness from the rest of the world. I think.
>i think we all have that voice inside our heads at times.
>Hehe. My Veruca and your Veruca could be fast, bratty friends. 😉
>You’re lucky. I have an inner 13 year old boy who is even less appropriate.
>I’ve bit people for less.Great story! It reminds me: My parents had 6 kids and only 7 chairs in the den, so when everyone was watching a show someone was on the floor. If you wanted to keep your seat when you needed to get up, you had to say, while you were still seated, “My seat is saved.” Otherwise, someone would jump in it.
>What sort of sky box doesn’t have enough seats for everybody. That was rude on the behalf of the party thrower. I would have drinken all their liquor in retaliation.
>The sad thing about growing up though is that we go from being “bratty” to “bitchy.” Ah well, bitchy is much more sophisticated. I guess I’ll take it.
>My favorite part of this little story is that your stepdaughters imitate you. I love how kids aren’t afraid to mock us and keep us humble. And it shows what an awesome relationship you have with them.
>I’m sorry. I had no idea that was your seat. I wish you had said something. I thought maybe the shrimp was bad.
>I turn my back to go care for the folks for a couple days and you get all FIESTY!You’ve been delightfully bratty, not just at the game, but for a few days now. I’m laughing and laughing.Okay- can you take this? I saw the picture of the cake before I read the post and I thought I’m sure that tastes better than it looks…ah, well, meow and who isn’t a snipe? I know you’re a good hearted snipe and that’s what counts.I wonder what you would get if you crossed Northwest Airlines “blonde and African American” flight attendant dolls (Available at the World Perks Mall) with the USPS gingerbread boys?
>oh my, I’ve always known about my inner brat. LOL! (loved the Leonardette comment!)
>Uh……..not now. But it is funny, nonetheless.
>Ahhh…yes, sometimes I get lost in a Veruca moment too. I didn’t see the new version of Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, but how could ANYONE nail that role like the original little girl did?The only thing that gives me hope is that I don’t have Veruca moments THAT often, at least not as much as several close family members, so I think I have her harnessed most days.”I want it now! And if I don’t get it…I’lllllll scream!”
>Ahm the inner brat . . . if only mine were so “inner.”
>There may be no appropriate occasion in which to hurl yourself down flailing and screaming, but DAMN I bet it would be fun to watch…
>Sitting on the couch has given me a chance to catch up with you. I ran out of fruit cakes (gave’m all away and forgot to save one). So I picked up a cake at Costco. People think I made it and have asked to buy one :-/ What to do?!?!?!?! I never said I made it they just assume that I did because I made all of the other cakes. LOL How bitchy would it be to buy another fruit cake and wrap it in my kitchen and send it off to someone who wants it?
>After many years of being the eldest daughter of a less than nurturing family, having to take it for the team, being thrown out at 18 to go on welfare in order to finish highschool (we go for a long time here in Ontario) and put myself through University while hooking up with an increasingly mean string of boyfriends, after I met my husband, who treated me like his own personal goddess, I learned, for the first time in my life, that if I wanted something, from tea to sex, if I didn’t get it when I wanted it, I was gonna pout for it. I’ve cried, I’ve punched the couch and I’ve generally been petty and demanding. But after so many years of being denied what I want, I deserve it, dammit! (OK, maybe I don’t throw tantrums all that often, and when I do, I know I shouldn’t. I’ll be a better wifey now)
>Ah yes. My inner brat. She is quite the bitch, I must admit. Don’t worry. We all have one.
>My lip doesn’t quiver, but I get a twitch on my lower left eyelid. Rage does manifest itself in some strange places. As far as the football game? I’d be remiss if I didn’t accidentally spill half a glass of chianti on your “move your feet/steel your seat” nemesis.
>Uh, yeah. Me too. Except I don’t always hold it in so well. Not too long ago I threw an all out tantrum at work because I wanted mashed potatoes for lunch and I was told I couldn’t have them. I got them.
>Oh Vicki, sorry I sound so feisty. The dessert queen really is a good friend. I just like to talk trash about her cooking skills.And the woman who stole my seat really was a bitch. Her husband was the one who’d offered his seat to me. Her seat next to his also was stolen, so she in turn stole mine. And then she wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the game. A confession of guilt if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll try to be nicer though. I promise. 🙂