I don’t like children. As a child, I did not like them. Adults thought I was shy, and there was a part of me that was. But mainly, I just didn’t like the dumbness of little kids I had to play with.
The kids I became friends with were the smart kids but even their immaturity would bother me. The biggest trouble I got into at school was for gossiping and turning all my friends against each other. It was pre-teen mean-girl behavior that I found fascinating because I couldn’t believe how easy it was to say words and have them believed. Or better yet, politely tell the truth in such a way that hurt someone. It was a grand manipulation that bothers me now. As an adult, I couldn’t imagine treating people so poorly. What the hell was wrong with little-girl-me? Psycho.
Somehow, I still managed to have friends and be the teacher’s pet. The teacher’s pet thing wasn’t a manipulation because I really liked all my teachers because they had something to teach me. To this day, I’ll tolerate a lousy human as long as they can teach me something.
Most humans can teach me something.
Anyway, I bring up the children thing because some lousy kids keep ringing my doorbell. Ah, the old ding-dong ditch. I’m honestly glad that kids still run around being annoying. I figured most children were just glued to electronic devices these days but I guess that’s just me… and their parents. Also, I wasn’t necessarily surprised by the aggressive doorbell ringing. I’d already gotten complaints from neighbors about kids doing it. What surprises me is that I yell (jokingly) at most kids I pass by just for standing in my way so I’m surprised anyone would think it’s a good idea to bother me. What upsets me though is that it bothers Coppola.
Coppola doesn’t like to be bothered in the evenings when I’m around. I’ve watched him on the doggie cam when he’s alone and if someone rings the doorbell or knocks, he just walks to the door and sniffs it. Then he returns to his nap or gets a drink of water. But when I’m here, I think he’s trying to protect my peace. Which he protects with loud and raucous barking. The joke is on everyone because I won’t even answer the door if someone rings it more than twice. I’ll even make it known that I’m home and just purposely not answering the door, I don’t care. If they can ring the door once like a proper human, that’ll summon me from whatever state of “whatever” I’m in and I’ll make movement toward the door to greet whatever unwelcome visitor is there.
I say unwelcome because there are a handful of people I’m always happy to see but they wouldn’t ring my bell. Those people have the code for my door to just walk in whenever they want. Coppola also already loves them.
Coppola doesn’t like children.
There are of course exceptions. My friends happen to create the best little humans. Sometimes I stare at them in awe, fascinated by the strange ideas they have. Or I laugh deeply and joyously when the sassy teen gives my friend sassy lip. Worse yet, I’ll defend their snotty child to protect them from my parent-friend’s wrath.
“So what you caught her smoking? When you were 14 you were on meth, dude. Give her a break, buy her some menthols – those things are like ten bucks now!”
My supplemental parenting is rarely welcome or effective.
Every night before bed, Coppola and I play. He gets all jazzed up, so then I get all jazzed up, and we’ll play fight. He does the funniest fake-bite that cracks me up every time he does it. First of all, he’s missing half his teeth. If he ever did try to bite anyone, he’ll probably lose the other half. But his play-bites chomp down so lightly, its almost like he just wants to hold my finger in his mouth. One day, he tried to play-bite my nose. This brought me extreme joy. So I pretended to fake bite his shoulder. Just as my mouth touched his fur, he let out a loud exaggerated yelp and pounced away from me. He startled me even though I knew there was no way I could’ve hurt him. But then he pounced toward me, wagging his tail. So, I imagine he was just playing out the rest of the fake-bite game where you pretend you’re fake-hurt.
I wonder what he’ll do if I fake-yelp next time he fake-bites?
I went on a date with this guy a few weeks ago. He was kind enough but didn’t know the difference between green tea and black tea. The conversation was decent except for the subtle homophobic jokes sprinkled throughout. I wondered if I should show him the group chat photo of me and my best gay friends. My one gay friend who can put on lipstick way better than me. My lesbian friend who is starting her own business while wading through a painful break-up with her ex-girlfriend. My other gay friend that I regularly snuggle into at meetings because he’s a harmless giant and a fantastic baker and will tell me a bunch of hilariously morbid thoughts he had as the person at the meeting shared.
Coppola didn’t care for this gentleman very much at all. He had no interest in being pet by him which I found strange. But he also didn’t bark at him,
So, to sum it all up, Coppola and I seem to have a similar attitude toward men we aren’t interested in.
After five years of living in San Diego, my parents finally visited me yesterday outside the walls of a hospital, jail, or rehab. It was really nice! I bought them pizza, salad, wings, and gelato. They brought me cream puffs. When we sat down to eat, I noticed my dad had just grabbed a slice and had it hovering over the palm of his other hand.
“What are you doing?” I said. “Get a plate!”
“Oh! You have plates?” he asked.
Your parents really have a low bar set when they’re impressed that you have plates and kitchen utensils. Then I recalled my first apartment in Riverside. It was next to a Motel 6, in a part of town that attracted drugs and prostitutes. It was an old ratty apartment that had vomit stains (mine) in the carpet, a sink full of trash, and upstairs neighbors that were in perpetual stomping mode.
I ended up living in that Motel 6 a few months later.
“Yes, I have plates. And they’re pink… and made of bamboo,” I said. Proudly handing him my World Market plates and showing my mom the stacks of Golden Butterfly plates I had.
“Oh, I’m just so impressed by your kitchen,” my mom said in Spanish, eyeing the granite countertops and updated cabinets.
“Really? Yeah, it’s nice, it’s one of the more updated units,” I said.
“No, it’s just clean,” she said. I nodded. Also impressed.
Later as we were eating, my mom spilled some food on my table.
“Hey! Don’t make a mess on my table,” I said to her, jokingly.
“She’s getting you back for all those years you made a mess of her things,” my dad said, a look of satisfaction as he took a bite of his pizza.
I looked at my mom, who’s half-laughing face gave me a solid Yeah, he’s got a point, I wouldn’t be wrong to…
“Sorry I was why we couldn’t have nice things,” I said.
And anyway, who gives a five-year-old a ton of paint and super glue and excepts them to be responsible with it?