Some days you tread with quiet, assured footsteps. Other days, you decorate your grill with five toes. Today’s of the latter variety. Sigh.
~The Tart on Twitter, 8:10 PST, May 6, 2010
It’s the height of arrogance to quote yourself — in third person-speak, no less — but some things deserve a date and time stamp. How else can one know when to celebrate an anniversary?
The occasion? A new personal record on a message board, when I managed to annoy at least five people in rapid succession. I say “at least,” because while five individuals spoke up, there were likely several more who seethed in silence.
I realize that’s not much of an accomplishment. It certainly does not stand up to comparison with, say, capping a spewing oil well, or putting dinner on the table on time — both feats that appear beyond me most days of the week. Then again, perhaps I should feed you context.
In fiction, pretty much the worst descriptor a woman can earn from another is “nice.” That’s code for as exciting as beige and as imposing as a marshmallow. Guess who’s been on the receiving end of that label for as long as she’s been alive? Yes, me. Moi. The Tart, the woman no one in their right mind would ever have called the Janinator.
In part that’s due to my belief in the Golden Rule. Also, between my family of origin and time as a family doc, I got pretty good at reading other people’s body language, and knowing when I approached uncomfortable territory. The ability to appear objective has served me well. Apparently we’re in a new era. 😉
Excellent, I say. Bring it. See, I need practice at pissing off people and recovering when they get mad. After all, it’s impossible to write anything of significance and not eventually butt heads with people who hold the opposite point of view, some of whom will be vocal in their dissent.
Do I want to spend my life as a colorless mom, a pastel blogger, an innocuous romance writer? *fist pump* Hell to the no. I want gritty, bold. I want a life filled with zest.
So beware, one and all. Unless you are in a masochistic mood, do not try to persuade me to resume my career as a diplomat. I will cut you down to size.
For instance, if one of you were to clothe yourself in a sexy camisole, like the woman to the right; if you were to put on some stripper-appropriate music, and begin your pole routine in front of a grade two class in the gymnasium, the new improved Tart would do the following:
She would march over to the audio system and cut the sound with a visible glare. She would take determined steps to you and extend a stern hand. (To help you rise. There’s no point in your spraining an ankle while you take your sorry ass out of the building in your four-inch-high Lucite heels.)
You may use the hairbrush taken from her purse — so you can see to drive your erring self away in your automobile-of-sin — but the Tart would spritz the pole with Windex in brisk motions as you restore order to your tresses. She would talk soothingly to the children while rubbing your fingerprints from the metal, as if to erase your very existence from their impressionable minds. What’s more? If you cried enough to have your nose made raw from her Kleenex, she would not care. She would not arrange an appointment with a career counsellor when it’s convenient for your schedule. More than once.
That’s what you’re up against if you want to be a douchebag 9000 in my hood, ya feel me? *dusts hands* And yes, I might have read a few pages of an urban fantasy where everybody talks like they live in a ghetto. *works her cobra head* Wanna make something of it?
Now, if I haven’t intimidated you to the point where your fingers can no longer keyboard, and IF you are up to the challenge, name me a time when you tapped into a deep well of feistiness, and when it felt good.
Or not. I’m cool with that too.