Scent of a Short Woman

To the short woman waiting for your little smoothie at Bachue early this evening:
“Short” does not automatically translate into “cute”. You are not Sally Field circa Gidget or The Girl With Something Extra. You are not even Sally Field circa Forrest Gump. Although your nails, painted a sophisticated dark shade that is in vogue ’round these parts, indicate you are an adult, your hyperactive reaction to a tiny smoothie leads me to believe your nanny neglected to slip the Ritalin into your Sunny D sip-it box this afternoon. I suggest you pipe down, calm down, and stop flailing around so wildly, not only for the sake of appearing like the adult you are, but because the motion is stirring up the spleen-churning odor of insecticide and Teaberry gum that has attached itself to your coat. (And please oh please stop looking back at me, waiting at the counter just behind you, as if I should think you and your little smoothie and histrionics are darling. I assure you neither is.)
Googoo and go go already. My yumyum is ready and my tumtum is growling! And it’s close to your beddy-bye time!