There are friends, and then there are friends. Friends who will bring you ice cream if they happen to be nearby at the yogurt shop, and friends who will help you bury a body without ever asking a question except, “Where do you want to eat after this because I brought a good bottle of wine…”
Everyone needs at least one “Bury-The-Body Friend”, as Brene Brown lovingly refers to them. I am lucky enough that I have several, one of whom moved away last year. Her son and my son were best friends. And I don’t mean they were best friends in the sense that their mommies sat around on Thursday afternoons drinking white wine and eating take-out from the container while the children stuck their fingers in electrical sockets. I mean all of that except the children actually played with each other and loved it and I can’t remember a single time either of them was electrocuted.
At any rate, they came to visit this week and Abe and I were over-the-moon. We spent every waking minute together playing with toys, going to the park, riding on the golf cart, eating sushi, going to the park again, having a picnic, and finally weepy goodbyes. While we sat at the park (for the second time) watching the boys play, we saw a third little boy approach them. He appeared to be about their age and the three seemed to get along swimmingly.
Until the little boy’s big sister walked over. We’ll just call her Snotty Pants McStupidFace.
The little girl, probably 7, began ordering the three boys around. Seeing as how our boys don’t have siblings, they immediately complied. “Oh, we’re supposed to sit down now? Right here? Where she’s pointing? Well, ok then. Good enough.”
After a few more barky order, though, the boys got hip to Snotty Pants McStupidFace. They decided they wouldn’t be following her, now clearly made-up, rules about sitting ONLY under the slide until she said they could get up.
“Is it weird that I want to kick that little girl right at her center of gravity and watch her fall?” I asked my friend.
“No. Not at all,” she replied before swishing a sip of sparkling water in her mouth, because we’re fancy.
It seemed once the boys decided to damn the man, Snotty Pants McStupidFace chose another method: showing off. She started climbing parts of the playground that were NOT meant for climbing, inciting three 3-year-olds to try scaling the underside of a bridge upsided-own and backwards.
“Abe! That’s dangerous, son. Please don’t do that. It’s not meant for climbing,” I said.
“Ok!” he shouted back sweetly because he’s the best child on the planet unlike Snotty Pants McStupidFace.
“Where is her freaking mother?” my friend asked.
We scanned the park area and both zeroed in on a young women seated on a bench, perfectly blown-out long hair, some sort of high-fashion outfit that looked to me like a jumper I wore in 5th grade, a venti Starbucks, a People magazine, and her cell phone perched atop the magazine because what if she missed a text while learning about what Reese Witherspoon buys for lunch?
“The nanny,” we both muttered simultaneously.
Just then, Snotty Pants McStupidFace was at it again. She began ordering the boys around again, only this time it was clear the boys didn’t like it. “No!” they said in protest of her playground dictatorship.
“Good, boys! Say no!” I said quietly.
“Is it wrong that I just want to cut that pony tail off her head?” my friend asked.
“No. Not at all,” I replied before swishing a sip of sparkling water in my mouth, because we’re fancy.
Her son suddenly ran up to Snotty Pants McStupidFace, straightened his “Spidey Arm” in front of him, aimed, and shot while yelling, “YOU’RE WEBBED!”
Abe, not knowing Spiderman very well, followed suit, only he just pointed at her and shouted, “Yeah! You’re a WEB!”
“You tell her, boys,” I whispered.
“And now,” her son shouted, “I’m Dash and I’m running so fast!” He ran off and Abe ran after him, both of them singing individual theme songs. I was so proud in that moment that they became super heroes and ran away from the bully.
“You’re not Dash,” Snot Pants yelled. “You’re not fast enough to be Dash.”
“Oh yes I am!” my friend’s son shot back.
“If you’re Dash, then you should be able to run faster than me,” she snarked with a hand on her skinny little hip.
We watched as the boys stared at her, considering their options. It was pretty clear that neither of them were going to outrun this gangly little know-it-all. Should they try running and hope for a Rudy moment? Should they ignore her? Or should they…
“BAM! YOU’RE WEBBED!” they shouted.
“Yeah!” I whispered.
And then, Snot Pants McStupidFace made a bad choice. She said, “You can’t web me…because I’ll just kill you.”
Go ahead. Gasp. Gasp the way we both did. And then picture me standing up, one finger flailing in the air, neck wagging, eyes wide saying, “Ooooh no. Not even. Nope. That’s not what’s up here.”
“I think it’s time to go, boys!” my friend said, sensing things were getting a little too tense to even try to play peacefully on opposite sides of the playground.
We gathered them up and not a word was ever spoken again about Snotty Pants McStupidFace or her death threats ever again.
My point is, there are few people I can secretly share my desire to kick a small child with, nor their desire to cut off said small child’s hair. When you find those kind of people, you don’t let them go. Not for anything in the world. If you have one of these friends and they do ever ask you to come help them hide the body, please bring red wine. If you get caught you can just toss Merlot all over your shirt and tell the officer it was Happy Hour.