Anger Management

For the past four weeks I’ve had the sheer pleasure of attending a sleep-away camp for anger management. Yes, I was packed off into the woods by a bunch of smelly hippies who were trying to help me get in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker.”

I can tell you why I’m not in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker” on a regular basis. Because people are idiots. They are stupid, rude and they have no sense of personal space. The worst offenders are people with young children. They don’t train their children properly and their hateful spawn are taking over the country. To add insult to injury these “parents” all have dogs. And they don’t clean up after their dogs. In general, these people are tremendous assholes.

(Yes. I’m using curse words. I’ll throw a fiver in the curse jar so the swearword police don’t come after me.)

My offending incident involved asking for a plastic bag at the Whole Foods in Tribeca. I know plastic is bad. I get it. Really. I really do. I usually bring my own bag, I recycle and reuse, all that. But one rainy day in New York City I dashed into Whole Foods and purchased some produce. I don’t travel with my grocery bag at every moment in my existence and I wanted to take my vinegar, lemons and arugula home in a bag that could withstand the rain –- with full plans to use the bag in the future to scoop cat poop into. But while checking out, the cashier at Whole Foods (which should be called Whole Paycheck because it’s so stupidly expensive) asked me, “Paper or plastic?” and I replied, “Plastic.”

A hush descended upon the checkout line as if I had asked for a baby-skin lampshade.

Uber-wealthy, Tribeca, fifty-year-old mommies with toddlers in strollers gasped. Their devil-spawn, designer twins pointed at me in contempt as they drooled onto their five-hundred-dollar matching hemp bibs. I was immediately branded “The Bad Lady Who Wanted Plastic.”

And you know what I did? I told everyone to fuck off. Yes. I know. I violated my parole and my own resolution to curb my use of offensive and aggressive language. But I did it anyway.

I went on a rant about the carbon footprint of designer invitro babies. I did it. I went there.

Did you know that no matter how teensy-tiny your own carbon footprint is your child’s carbon footprint is SIX TIMES BIGGER?! And that’s just one child, not the two you get for the price of one when you let your doctor play GOD.

So fuck you all you rich bitches who are having Five-Hundred-Thousand dollar TWINS while I use my plastic bag for cat shit.

I said all this out loud. And for this public expression of contempt and TRUTH I got a fine from the police for creating a public disturbance.

What about the disturbance of your double wide baby stroller and the shit from your Labradoodle that you don’t pick up?! What about that? No fine for that? WELL, THERE SHOULD BE.

No, Sandra O’Day was the one who had to spend four weeks with stinky hippies in an anger management camp where I had to eat tofu “hot dogs” that tasted like crayons.

Fuck you Tribeca Mommies. I hate you and I want to punch your toddlers in the face. And I’m not alone.