Critical of the Masses

I remember being a small child and listening to my sisters and Aldo (my oder brother was nicer and didn't do this) constantly criticize people - even themselves. I assume that this behavior, which might have been normal for teenagers and those in their early twenties like my siblings were, was what led to to a life of cynicism.
I was in Sweden with my parents when I was about ten and I remember my mother being ebarassed by me cutting up virtually every famous American brought up by my relatives there. I couldn't understand why my relatives seemed to think that every famous person was either beautiful or handsome. To me, almost everyone was ugly and stupid. I was critical of every aspect of faces, bodies, cothes, hair, personality, acting ability, athletic skill, intelligence, morality, personality disorders - you name it. And who was I to criticize? I still don't know.
My cousin was a fan of Marylou Retton who had just gotten 10's at the Olympics. I recall saying she was ugly and a little fat. My mother nudged me in the side. One of my cousins complimented her on her incredible athletic ability. I suggested the judging was fixed. My mother nudged me harder. My cousin reminded us how proud we must be as Americans, to have this great athletic hero and I responded with a "not really" and a "who cares about stupid girl's gymastics". My mother wanted to pound me into the floor at that point.

I also had a big mouth and annoyed her in other ways on that trip.
My sister Jaqui, who had always kept company with the fancier set, had gone to a fundraising sale at a public school in Bronxville. (Bronxville is one of the richest towns in America, for those not in the know.) At this particular sale, there were unused-used children's clothes being sold and Jaqui picked up about five Lacoste aligator golf shirts in various colors for her favorite little brother. (That'd be me.)
Guess what they cost?
One freekin' dollar! Amazing. OK, this was more than 20 years ago, but it was still amazing.
Anyway, I had no idea what these things cost in retail, but I knew that Jaqui had picked them up for a buck a piece because she quickly got reimbursed by my mother - Jaqui was no fool when it came to money.

So, in Sweden, my cousins commented on my "rich" wardrobe as Lacoste must have been hot there at the time. I remember my mother's face as I said this. She looked so irritated - like she wanted to kill me. I asked with surprise, "This thing? You know what this cost? A dollar. It's no big whoop."

My mother almost knocked me off the table when she pinched my leg under the table.
My cousins, noting her embarrassment lauhed it off. "You're so funny. The United States is not that cheap!"

When I was just five, I remember having a birthday party with my relatives in New York and my mother's sister, Pasquelina, gave me a bag of colored briefs. I remember opening it and not even waiting a second before I said, "Underwear? This is not a birthday present."
My mother turned the color of my crimson Crayola. Secretly, I felt her pain, but I didn't care too much. I genuinely couldn't fathom, in my five-year-old brain, why aunt Pasqui would give me underwear for a huge event like my fifth birthday. I started forming ideas in my head about how she must have thought my parent's weren't doing well and that they couldn't afford to buy me underwear, which I would get on any old day without having to reach some milestone, lose a tooth or achieve some level of pre-school success. (Imagine if the tooth fairy left you briefs instead of money!)
What was wrong with Aunt Pasquelina? Why would she think that was appropriate? OK, I embarrassed my mom by negating the value of Pasqui's gift, but Pasquelina embarrassed me in front of my friends and family by giving me, not only intimate apparrel, but COLORED BRIEFS, for God's sake! I mean, what did I look like? A friggin' Turkish sailor? Julio Iglesias? A forty-year-old guy who hangs out it single's bars and brings whores back to his disco-balled bedroom to make whoopie on his vibrating heart-shaped bed?
No, I was not the type to wear such things, even at five.
I remember Underoos were a fashion trend and I wanted nothing to do with. Wearing spider-man shooting his web over my wee wee wasn't for me. What kind of message does that imply? Think about it, America!
To add insult to injury, my mother forced me to use the colored undies and I recall getting a humiliating infection in my pee-hole from the yellow ones.
(Secretly - and ironically, I liked the convenience of those yellow ones as they didn't show the pee stains at all.)
You see, my rudeness and prejudice is often just God looking out for me. He knew those underwear were bad news and he sent me that message when I opened them up.
That's why, I have decided, it's OK to be critical sometimes.