My Unibrow Baby

I have a nemesis. Only she doesn't know it.

She's one of those nosy Nellies who can't seem to leave well enough alone. She lives in my apartment building and walks around with a pair of scissors in her purse so she can cut down posters and fliers people put up on telephone poles. That's right, scissors in her purse.

And I'm not talking ads for psychics or all-night rave orgies - she's ruthless in her efforts to stop illegal telephone pole posting (which is ruining western civilization?): signs for apartment rentals, free language lessons, lost kittens. This woman has no conscience! But really, who made her telephone pole police?

Until recently, I would secretly seethe over this woman's high and mightiness whenever I saw her. If we both got into the elevator together, I'd smile, but wouldn't say hello. (Man, you don't want to get on my bad side.)

But over the last few weeks things have gotten more complicated. My nemesis has started talking to me. Well, that's being generous - really she's started talking to my son - the most angelic and lovable child to walk the earth, when he isn't screaming "mumee, mumee, mumee - more cackers!" She's really quite pleasant to us (him) so it kind of makes it awkward for me to secretly hate her while happily chit chatting about napping and messy faces.

It's also hard because, as the women who just last weekend threw my hands up in air and made a muffled "ugh!" sound when someone butted in front of me in line for the cash at Old Navy, I KNOW I will become this woman one day - wandering the neighbourhood muttering about how rude people are these days . . .