POSTY POSTY POSTY!

Welcome, Gentle Reader, the wonderful world of the Irascible Platypus.

Got yourself a nice stiff drink handy? Sitting all nice and comfy in a cozy chair? Good. Booze will probably make my nonsensical maunderings a bit more palatable (or maybe just a bit less boring, but I'm not holding my breath on that one).

Today's nonsense involved someone bringing a wee tiny infant along with them for their massage. As in, had the poor kid strapped into the Ginormous Stroller Of Soccer Parent Doom and toted it right on into the massage room where they apparently intended for the wee tiny childthing to stay parked throughout the duration of their receiving a massage. I'm not entirely sure why it was apparently impossible for Mr/Ms My-Precious-Baybeee-Is-The-Center-Of-My-Existence to find a friend or family member with whom they could have left the kid for an hour. I suppose there could be some sort of medical reason why this individual absolutely could not be parted from their child for any length of time whatsoever. Damned if I know what it is, though.

Now, as you will no doubt figure out through further reading of my blithering idiocy (when I post more entries and whatnot), I do not care for children. I don't think I liked them even when I was a child. Something about their shrill little voices just makes me break out in hives, and then I fall down on the floor and froth at the mouth whilst flailing about. It isn't pretty, and it no doubt scares the kids (which may or may not be the entire point to the exercise). For some reason, though, I could not bring myself to tell The Parent that I did not feel comfortable doing the massage with The Baby in the room. Essentially, I gave the best massage I could while glancing over at The Baby and thinking, "Kid, if you start crying, I will buy you a pony. And a box of Legos." and seething with rage. Shockingly, I managed to neither flail nor froth (at least where the clients could see). I endured the hour, pasted a smile on my face, and wished The Parent a lovely afternoon as they trundled on out the door.

I'm still horked off about the whole thing. I'm horked off because my boss didn't so much as say a word to The Parent about the inappropriateness of the choice to bring a small infant to a massage studio; rather, Boss just came back to the breakroom and told me to "look surprised" when I saw the Enormous Stroller That Resembles An SUV. I feel like I was put on the spot, and it just burns my biscuits.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm being a whiny little poop and need to suck it up and deal. I dunno. I just...gaah. It angers me. Greatly.

And hey, if you don't like it, you can quite merrily navigate away from my blog and find more entertaining reading. I strongly suggest Mommy Wants Vodka, because Aunt Becky is made of hilarity.

Perhaps in a little while, I will wax poetic about my new sneakers (comfy like WHOA) or the wonders of celery dipped in roasted red pepper hummus (tasty, tasty, tasty). For now, I am going to go futz around with the settings and whatnot on here.