My Vagina's Better Than Yours

Your little darlings are lovely. Really. They are.

And I'm certain that the womb they marinated in is a treasure beyond all measure.

So, it's no surprise that you feel entitled to park your giant SUV head out, in opposition to all the cars surrounding it, including mine. And to prop your rear door open against my car while you prepare your little ones for a trip into the store. As you studiously avoid acknowledging my presence, I wait for you to lift the barricade and allow me to enter my car. And I take this moment to thank the gods that you have given the world the mighty gift of replicating yourself.

My prayer of gratitude completed,  I say, "Excuse me, I'd like to get into my car." I choose not to address the issue of your door rubbing the bejeesus out of my paint job. I've learned to pick my battles carefully. I know this one's a no-win.

Somehow you find the time and energy to heave a huge sigh and move your door exactly 2 inches. I do a silent count to 10. Dammit, my adoration for children takes the day. They shouldn't be subjected to the torrent of inappropriate language I am itching to unleash upon your sorry ass.

Speaking of which, I have to give credit where credit is due. You are definitely in shape. Which leads me to wonder why you didn't choose to park 20 feet away, where the empty spaces all around would have given you plenty of room to stretch out . Hell, you could have opened all of your doors at once and set up a picnic on the blacktop without hindering anyone else's access to their own cars.

Maybe the extra 15 seconds of walking would have been too much for you? I guess it only counts as a "workout" if you're in a gym and paying loads of your husband's money to a trainer to pour his undivided attention down the bottomless caldera of your self-importance.