I am the type of woman whose throat physically hurts if there is something I wish to say, but don’t. When I am not just merely miffed but genuinely angry, I pace, fragile things spontaneously break with the slightest graze of my fingertips, and the top of my head tingles as my hair literally stands on end. I become an impossible, immovable force and when I have finally had enough, you will know it. I ought to wear a sign across my chest that says, Do Not Reach Inside the Animal’s Cage, or Don’t Fuck With the Mama Tiger.
Cut to early this weekend. Telephone. Living room. Mother-in-law. Pregnant woman who had not yet eaten breakfast. You see where this is going… I shall not re-enact the torrent of fury unleashed that morning, but I think its quake may have postponed the Big One in Los Angeles for at least another few years.
Confused, silenced and stunned, I do believe my mother-in-law is now beginning to understand how serious this Mama Tiger really is. So a bit of advice to all the accomodating and polite ones out there, sweetly operating under the pretense that whatever must be said can be communicated kindly:
“Kind” only works if the party you are dealing with is SANE. Don’t squeeze another compromised moment’s worth of sweetness from your body. Pounce. Hard. Show your fangs and watch the unheard points you’d been offering with honey for a year suddenly received in an instant.
And sleep like a baby.
