Nice and Ugly

"Daddy, there are a lot of ugly people in the airport."

My Jessie has a point. There are, in fact, a lot of ugly people at this airport. There are a lot of people, and so there are lots of all kinds, but an inordinate number of them seem to be ugly. Terrible haircuts, terrible sweaters, terrible makeup. Terrible blank stares, terrible turtlenecks, what I assume is a terrible high school girls' soccer team. Terrible children, the ghastliest children, with the most horrid blonde parents. Terrible camouflage, which are probably spritzed with the blood of some young animal or family of animals. Terrible plastic cups filled with beer, being carried around, like a cheap frat party.

But what can I say? "You're roghy, honey, look at all the ugly people." People would perceive me as insensitive. When really all I'm doing in encouraging my daughter's honesty. I wasn't the one who turned ugly into an insult, and it sure wasn't Jessie. Should she be punished? I'm sure these are all perfectly nice people. All perfectly, perfectly fine. I'm sure they think I'm ugly, too. "Honey, that's nlt a nice thing to say." Is that what I do? Nice. Please. Nice gets you nothing.

"Daddy, can I have ice cream?"

"Thank god," I tell her. "Yes."