A Spit in the Face is Worth a Thousand Words

In case you haven't noticed from previous When I Was Little posts, I was a brat as a kid. I have one (or two) cousins who called me a monster. That might be going a little far, but...maybe not.

I spent a ton of time at my paternal grandma's house when I was a kid. We were super close because when I was born my dad was in Vietnam. I didn't see him until I was 11 months old, and my mom spent most of her (our) time at my grandma's.

During one weekend I spent there when I was five, she bought me my first bike. My Uncle Joey (who I thought was incredibly old, but was more like 22) offered to put plastic flourescent straw-like things on my spokes.

I was going to look so cool.

If I could have just kept my mouth shut.

I'm not sure what took him so long, but I'm sure I didn't help any. I asked him over and over when he was going to finish. He obviously got sick of me asking and finally told me to shut up.

I told him, "You shut up!" and I spit right in his face.

We both glared at each other for a split second. Him, probably not believing a five year old just spit in his face. And me, afraid of what he was about to do. With good cause.

He whacked me across the face. Hard.

I ran crying to my grandma who was in the kitchen. "Uncle Joey slapped me!"

"What did you do?"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything, he just hit me!"

I don't remember what happened after that, but I'm sure I got into some sort of trouble.

Maybe. I was pretty spoiled by her.

I do know I'm lucky he finished the bike at all. Even I would have slapped me.
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Monday

A Spit in the Face is Worth a Thousand Words

In case you haven't noticed from previous When I Was Little posts, I was a brat as a kid. I have one (or two) cousins who called me a monster. That might be going a little far, but...maybe not.

I spent a ton of time at my paternal grandma's house when I was a kid. We were super close because when I was born my dad was in Vietnam. I didn't see him until I was 11 months old, and my mom spent most of her (our) time at my grandma's.

During one weekend I spent there when I was five, she bought me my first bike. My Uncle Joey (who I thought was incredibly old, but was more like 22) offered to put plastic flourescent straw-like things on my spokes.

I was going to look so cool.

If I could have just kept my mouth shut.

I'm not sure what took him so long, but I'm sure I didn't help any. I asked him over and over when he was going to finish. He obviously got sick of me asking and finally told me to shut up.

I told him, "You shut up!" and I spit right in his face.

We both glared at each other for a split second. Him, probably not believing a five year old just spit in his face. And me, afraid of what he was about to do. With good cause.

He whacked me across the face. Hard.

I ran crying to my grandma who was in the kitchen. "Uncle Joey slapped me!"

"What did you do?"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything, he just hit me!"

I don't remember what happened after that, but I'm sure I got into some sort of trouble.

Maybe. I was pretty spoiled by her.

I do know I'm lucky he finished the bike at all. Even I would have slapped me.
Post a Comment