Can you help what the {bratty} heart wants?

Short answer? Nope, you can't. Plain and simple, you can't tell a nine year old she can't have something and expect it to be all hunky-dory.

Long answer? Sometimes nine year olds want a new pet, and sometimes you have to tell them no, and sometimes they hate your answer, and sometimes they hate it so much they stomp their feet, and sometimes this whole scenario happens in public, and sometimes it'll be the most embarrassed you've ever {and the most pissed your nine year old's ever been}, and then sometimes you'll laugh about it when your nine year old turns into a twenty-three year old.

Luckily, this is how my story went. If my mom wasn't so cool, there's honestly a chance she'd still be mad at me, because at one time, I committed the ultimate act of Brat and well could've been the spawn of Satan.

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If you've been reading Southern Living, Our Way for more than a minute, it's possible you know I have a pet. A dog named Holly who is kind of my pride and joy. And is also kind of A-FREAKING-DORABLE.

It's OK to be jealous that I get to smother that face and those ears in kisses every single day.

And I grew up with these two fluffnuggets, now known as The Old Ladies.

There have been some cats in the mix, too, and the one time I brought home the 4th grade class hamster, Scooty, for the night because I thought he was sweet and cuddly.

FYI ~ I was wrong. Hamsacks bite and they're mean as snot and it's not acceptable to throw them across the room to detach them from your finger. Lesson learned.

And you should also know that if I could, I'd pack up all my suburban belongings and move to the country, spread out on a farm, and rescue every dog, cat, pig, horse, and goat in this world. {Basically anything except winged animals. Particularly chickens, because chickens are assholes and they smell like wet feathers and urine. But, thanks for the omelette, ma'am.}

So, you'd think with the animals that I had hangin' out in my young life, I'd be satisfied, right? We had two super sweet dogs, dogs that I'd begged for for YEARS and finally got, just one year apart, and still weaseled my way out of taking care of, leaving the poop-scoopin' and kibble-feedin' to my poor mom.

Unfortunately, Hell hath no fury like a nine year old under-petted.

{That sounds even creepier than having a dad nicknamed Sugar Bear rootin' around your house. But I hope you get my point.}

Ya see, I had this friend who not only had a dog, but she also had the most glorious of glorious pets my little heart could imagine. It was hers only, and it got to sleep in her room with her and she fed it and she played with it and it was just all hers and that was amazing! 

{Though I haven't seen this friend in ten years, I know she reads my blog, so hey girl heyyy!}

Yes, y'all, my friend had A HERMIT CRAB.

And damnit if I didn't want one, too.

Basically, the shells were pretty. And somehow, though I'm still not sure the logistics, these shells got onto the crab and you had yourself a Lady Gaga stylista pet that made you the talk a' the town. I mean come on, who doesn't want a pet that looks like a misshapen Magic 8 Ball and hangs out in a plastic box all day with a sponge?

As far as I was concerned, there's no kid that wouldn't crave such excitement in their life. So one year when we were on our annual beach vacation in Hilton Head, SC, we went to a popular {read: crowded} shopping plaza for the day and ducked in and out of the kitschy tourist shops. And wouldn't ya know it, one of these little shops sold hermit crabs and all of their beautiful accessories, sure to enhance your life with hours of play every day!

Except my life wasn't going to be enhanced that particular day. Oh, no sirree. Apparently, a pet hermit crab wasn't of as much importance to my parents as it was to me, and they promptly told me "No," as they'd done the dozen other times I'd begged for a sea creature. But ain't nobody got time for that; "No" just didn't fly with me.

So, I did what any {bratty} kid with a wish would do when told no... 

I. PITCHED. A. FIT. 

I stomped. I screamed. I cried. I flailed. I stomped some more. And when those brilliant tactics didn't work, I made a million promises that I'd never, ever, EVER ask for anything ever again in my entire life, if only I could have a crustacean of my very own! It was the meltdown of all meltdowns and, I kid you not, the Alexa tantrum my mom most remembers to this day. {Trust me, there are plenty to choose from.}

I wouldn't be writing this story if any of that shit had actually worked and I'd gotten a purple-shelled bestie. Alas, The Old Ladies were the only {and of course best} pets I had growing up. But good luck talking any sense into a nine year old with an attitude bigger than Kimye's.

And here's a fun nugget of Wednesday wisdom: Even if you desperately want a hermit crab when you're nine years old, by the time you're twenty-three, you'll be freaked out to even look at pictures of them on Google and the memory of their shells click click click-ing in their terrarium will make your skin crawl. So, that's fun.

And did you catch the sexiest Super Bowl commercial of all time? I'm sure you did, but in case you wanna see it again, hop on over to my favorite Faux-Yogi's blog today and see what a few of us are wondering "What the ?" about!