...for me to be bahumbuggy and overly sentimental. 'Tis the season for my seasonal affective disorder to kick in and send me on a quest for sunlight and warm weather. 'Tis the season for me to get over one
illness and start right in on another. 'Tis the SEASON for me to start wondering where Santa Claus is going to find the time and the money to make Christmas happen.. And 'tis the season for the public to start acting in a very un-Christmasy manner. Case in point, the lady who pepper-sprayed her fellow shoppers on Black Friday, the crowds that stampeded for $50 Blu-Ray players, and the shoplifting grandpa who cried foul when he was taken down by police. Add to that list the family of ne'er-do-wells that ruined my annual Christmas parade experience. A family that makes the Herdmans in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever look like angels.
I'm trying, trying, trying to take the high road on this one. It was obvious that the family came from limited means, both financially and...intellectually. But it's hard for me to excuse bad behavior that so blatantly infringes on my enjoyment and well-being. And when the "matriarch" of the family insists on blowing smoke around my head while she cusses about the "damn antique cars that don't belong in the damn parade," I sort of lose my tolerance for any shortcomings they might have to start with. Clearly their kids would have been better off being raised by wolves, because at least a mama wolf will grab her cub by the scruff of the neck and jerk his little tail back into line.
The smallest member of the family, a little boy of about four years old, was trying desperately to see the parade. I can sympathize with that. But, people, we were here two hours ahead of time to set up chairs on the curb so that MY son could have a good view as well. There were plenty of other spots to stand with your brood, and that doesn't include allowing the little guy to squeeze between the armrests of of our bag chairs, when they were overlapping each other. And it doesn't mean your little hooligan can punch the bottom of our coffee cup out of the drinkholder, spilling lukewarm coffee all over the hubby's pants leg.
It also doesn't mean that you allow your ragamuffins to scramble over my head for candy canes and other little goodies being handed out by those in the parade. You would have thought a small bag of local potato chips were made of gold, the way this lady shrieked at her kids to "Put your hand out, grab some!" into my ear.
It certainly doesn't mean that I put my chair there for you to LEAN on during the entire parade. Again, we were there early to avoid that very thing. Plan ahead, come earlier, and get out of MY SPACE!
It definitely doesn't meant that you irritate me to the point where I'm ready to say STRONG words to you, but don't because of worrying about making a scene with the Hoos from Whitetrashville. And "lady," it CERTAINLY doesn't mean that you can push me to the brink of a brawl and make me leave before Santa Claus comes at the end of the parade!
Yes, we took the high road and packed up our chairs, and they had the NERVE to glare at us for getting in their way as we vacated the curb. I might have stood my ground a little bit longer, but it was raining pretty steadily at that point, and it just wasn't worth it to be miserable and risk losing my cool and making the front page of the paper.
So, we might try again Friday night when our "other" local city has their parade, complete with the Marching Royal Dukes of JMU. It can only get better, or so I would hope. And if I make the paper this time, at least I'll be able to say, "I tried."