Public Tantrum

I'm at the Bistro Market, a hip downtown Price Cutter owned everything place on a bustling corner. Free WiFi, a long and attractive buffet, a complete fish market and grocery store, a trendy bar and the most incredible olive assortment on planet Earth. I'm talkin' olives the size of your grandpa's thumb and tangy as a green tangerine.
 I'm sitting by the door at nearly nine on a Friday night. The place in hopping. In walks this beautiful blonde suburbanesque housewife and her matching beautiful blonde housewife friend, their two daughters in tow, something around five years old each. They sit at the bistro chairs and eat at the long table running the length of the plate glass forming the front of the building.
 Within moments, one girl is pitching a fit. I mean, a hissy style selfish mad-on. Her little boots and leggings match mommy's, and she's cute as heck, but rotten to the core.
 She leaves her perch and crosses her arms, showing utter contempt for soccer mom's wishes. The blonde mom pleads, then tries a firm approach. Finally, after an awkward standoff five feet from my table, mommy dearest picks up the youngster, who cranks up the rotten meter. Kicking, twisting, and whimpering as if her mom has just decided to lock her in a smelly closet for no reason.
Now the scene has become too distracting to ignore, so I watch openly. The little one is forced into a lap sitting session, which lasts all of 18.5 seconds. The squirming proves too much for mega mom, so she delivers the ultimatum in the naughty girls' ear, "All right, you'd better shape up in 5, 4, 3... she slows her counting as the squirming continues, hoping for victory, but fearing the worst, which of course, comes. She continues, half heartedly, 2, 1... Nothing happens. The kid stops for a micro second, as if on cue, and is gently placed on the floor, her desired destination. The little puss in boots assumes full rights to her crown now, enjoying the submissive status her tantrum has placed her mom. To secure her royal reign, little miss insists-she-be-right squares off for another standoff, her phony bellows not even close to a real distress signal. It's a well rehearsed show, achieving all the desired results the young girl has grown so accustomed to.
 Mom has a piece of food in her hand, holding it up like a prize. Puss in boots backs up with each attempt by mom to coax her into tasting it. The food item is held up like a Scooby snack, but the kiddo won't buy it. She backs up again, nearly knocking into a college age girl.
 Mom is clearly embarrassed. The other mom and daughter look on in dismay. I want to strangle the kid. But, more than that, I wanna strangle the mom who has created this manipulation mistress.She's the kind of girl who will grow to torment boys the age of my sons about ten years from now. The drama princess balks as helpless mom's pleas are again ignored. Threats and idle promises of rewards are equally ignored. Mom finally picks her up and the coddled cutie cuddles close, enjoying the power with a contented smile as she peers down at her more obedient friend. The foursome soon go to the frappaccino counter for some more sweet tooth rewards, of which the little lady is also privileged to partake.
 Return trip to the table. Perhaps dessert will calm the brat down. Nope. The new treat won't suit miss fancy boots. She refuses all offers of ice cream, and returns to mom's willing arms again. The kid is so big, she looks ridiculous throwing her tantrum, but mom is more than willing to oblige and hoist her not-so-small child into her arms once again.
 After a brief, unfulfilling conversation between the moms, the little miss muffets are bundled up and escorted out. The untouched ice cream beckons me from their vacated table.  If little brat won't enjoy it, at least I will.