Regression

I hate to admit this but my mother told on me.

I was sitting here tonight, after the whole foot turning blue incident, and I was fairly miserable and so I decided to unwrap my foot and allow a little flow of blood to the poor deprived sausage-like toes that are dangling out there. As soon as I started, my mother scurried out of the room to get my husband.

This pissed me off.

But then he came in, asking if I'd ever seen the movie The Black Stallion. Well, yes, I had. In fact, I saw it 46,000 times as a child. It's one of my all time favorite movies.

"The one directed by Francis Ford Coppola."

"Yeah, I know."

"He directed the Godfather and all those movies and then he made The Black Stallion."

"The one about the horse. Right. We HAVE that movie. I BOUGHT that movie for the girls when I joined that damn lame DVD club."

"Not Black Beauty. The Black Stallion."

"It WASN'T Black Beauty. It was the Black Stallion."

At this point, I've rewrapped my damn foot and am on my crutches, headed for the shelf where we keep the DVDs so that I can prove I not only KNOW the movie but I BOUGHT the movie.

"You bought Black Beauty."

I give a look of intense irritation. "No, I did not buy Black Beauty. I bought the Black Stallion."

I start looking. He says, "Why did you just give me that look?"

"Because you are incredibly irritating. I know the difference between Black Beauty and the Black Stallion."

"But that look. Why not save that look for when you are RIGHT? Why give me that look? Why was that necessary."

At this point, I didn't want to say that I had a whole arsenal of OTHER looks I could give him when I am proven right. Like Smugness. Like in-your-face, football touchdown dance, you are so lame, how do you like THEM apples, I told you so, VICTORY kinds of looks.

And of course, I could not find the DVD so I didn't get to give any of those looks, either.

But I still know I'm right.

In seventh grade, maybe. But right.