"Sent the club a wire stating, PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT ME AS A MEMBER. "Groucho Marx
It’s true. I’m not an immodest woman. As a mater of fact, I single handedly ruined my third grade class picture. Imagine a black and white photograph of all the well-groomed children, in their “picture day” clothes. The little desks are turned around to face the camera. The teacher, Mrs. Fredrickson, is standing in her most parochial fashion near the blackboard. And two-thirds of the class AND Mrs. Fredrickson are staring at something.
Pan left. What are they staring at? There’s Max. She’s holding her hair swept to one side, movie star like. And has an outrageous “come hither” stare on her face. An eight year old girl should not have a “come hither” stare… but I did.
My straightforwardness has often gotten me into trouble. Some people just don’t like direct confrontation. They would rather play silly little games. It’s a form of empowerment for weasily, sniveling little cowards.
They prefer a free-style stab you in your back attack. It’s more fun. And then some will even go as far as dancing on your grave. Tacky AND tasteless.
I don’t care for mean girls. Never have. And I’ve come to the conclusion that girls, or women, who behave that way have rather serious emotional problems. Problems that stem so deep and still hurt them badly enough that they take their rage out on others. Especially on women they perceive as being stronger or smarter than they are. So, sadly, they alienate the women that could help them, if they would be reasonable. But they never are. They never are.
And… Eventide J. The gloaming of the twilight falls is upon us. May I have my work back now. Dealing with you is like sitting down to a triple deck shit sandwich, on pumpernickel toast.
Blowing you kisses,
Maxie
It’s true. I’m not an immodest woman. As a mater of fact, I single handedly ruined my third grade class picture. Imagine a black and white photograph of all the well-groomed children, in their “picture day” clothes. The little desks are turned around to face the camera. The teacher, Mrs. Fredrickson, is standing in her most parochial fashion near the blackboard. And two-thirds of the class AND Mrs. Fredrickson are staring at something.
Pan left. What are they staring at? There’s Max. She’s holding her hair swept to one side, movie star like. And has an outrageous “come hither” stare on her face. An eight year old girl should not have a “come hither” stare… but I did.
My straightforwardness has often gotten me into trouble. Some people just don’t like direct confrontation. They would rather play silly little games. It’s a form of empowerment for weasily, sniveling little cowards.
They prefer a free-style stab you in your back attack. It’s more fun. And then some will even go as far as dancing on your grave. Tacky AND tasteless.
I don’t care for mean girls. Never have. And I’ve come to the conclusion that girls, or women, who behave that way have rather serious emotional problems. Problems that stem so deep and still hurt them badly enough that they take their rage out on others. Especially on women they perceive as being stronger or smarter than they are. So, sadly, they alienate the women that could help them, if they would be reasonable. But they never are. They never are.
And… Eventide J. The gloaming of the twilight falls is upon us. May I have my work back now. Dealing with you is like sitting down to a triple deck shit sandwich, on pumpernickel toast.
Blowing you kisses,
Maxie
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