Scientists now say that the emotion they term ‘Resting Bitch Face’ is real. This is where “subtle facial expressions like a slightly pulled-back lip or squinting eyes are read as contempt …” – Stumble Upon Web Content Search Engine )
Hey, Bitch Face:
I bet you thought I’d never notice when you sulked.
Hey, Bitch Face:
Did you really expect I’d just shrug off your every infuriating smirk?
You think you’re so superior.
The way you wouldn’t do your extra shift when you came back from your Cost-a-Packet romp and refused to do overtime just because your ol’ man had the mother of all hangovers and made you go supermarket shopping by yourself.
Haven’t you heard of 24/7 shopping and night-time taxis? Or are they just for little, ugly folk like me?
Why marry a guy like that, then say when I complained about the boss, “but you put up with him”.
Jimminy-Jeez, you know how to push my buttons!
Yes. I have to ‘put up’ with him as he pays my wages. But I don’t have to ‘put up’ with you and your scheming lies a moment more.
Like when you said you didn’t know the geezer I mentioned who’d been had up for rape, then stage-whispered to Mrs Know-All that in your teens you’d dated him for almost two years!
You must have been able to tell the police something they’d have loved to know.
But not you! You had to save your big, fat burger-stuffed face, not thinking for one semi-second what you had behind.
Or the years you invited everyone but me to your Christmas parties; said you weren’t going to the works’ annual hop just because you didn’t want to sit with me; told everyone else when you became pregnant but then expected my sympathy when you miscarried.
Oh, for crying out loud.
Yes, that was what you were doing.
It was I who found you, rang the emergency services and tried to clean and comfort you as you lay splay-legged, howling in rage, drenched in bloodied despair under the sinks in the middle of the women’s toilets.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!”, you moaned. “Why can’t I have just one kid? You’re the mother of three great boys. All I’ve got is a bloke who acts like a brat with the terrible twos. It’s not fair!”
“Yes,” I said, attempting to staunch the flow of previous failure. “I understand. This is not the best way to celebrate Mothers’ Day”.
But as you began to form your customary slow, sly, exasperating grin, the paramedics walked in.
So I didn’t lose my cool and slipped off to find a mop and make a cup of tea.
I have some uses after all.
(© Natalie Irene Wood – 06 March 2015)