Not a girl, not yet a soccer mom:
We went to the planetarium Saturday. I love planetariums. You know how on MTV Cribs the nouveau riche stars do crazy things like build bowling alleys and parking garages in their homes? If I suddenly became crazy rich, I’d build my very own planetarium. And I’d sleep there, in a big rotating circle bed like in The Jerk. You know you’d want to come over and try it out.
Anyway: the planetarium. It was a sparse 4:00 show, but a row of 8-10 year olds sat behind us. They whispered, very loudly—those screaming whispers people used at elementary school slumber parties. (You GUYS! If we wake up my MOM we are going to be in BIG TROUBLE!) This was fine with me when I could hear them oohing and ahhing at the heavens, but it was constant, and finally, when I caught a snippet that ended with “...and then it came out his butt!”, followed by guffaws, I turned around, summoned a reserve of angry bitter adult I didn’t know I possessed and went SSSSSSSHHHHH!!!!, spitting all over them, with the meanest face ever.
Then I hated myself. I had become Mean Lady, the lady you are embarrassed your mother might be at your slumber party. So I sat there, lamenting my sudden old age, wondering when I’d crossed the line out of Narnia and into mortgages, out of wonderment and into efficiency.
Then the kids left and we made out like bandits. Evidently I’m not that old yet.