you're wrong, mr. worf!

It occurred to me late Friday, when my level of irritation peaked. I'm not used to being second-guessed. Oh sure, it happens, but it's a couple times a day as opposed to 10x per hour.

Remember how on Star Trek: the Next Generation, the writers would bring Worf into a scene only so he could say something that Picard would immediately beat down?

"The fetus must be aborted."

"You're wrong, Mr. Worf!" Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!

piranhasThat was me this weekend. Lynn and Sue can doubt me on any topic. Their degree of familiarity with said topic has no bearing whatsoever on their certainty. They simply must correct me. Whatever the subject matter—ferries, physics, my love life, plants they haven't seen, people they've never met—they are instant and infallible experts. And they are piranhas. When one second-guesses me, the other gleefully joins the feeding frenzy.
"Explain to me again why the plants are cooler in direct sun than they were where I had 'em, in the shade?" I said.

"They just are," said Lynn.

"Yes!" assented Sue, with an exclamation point, so you know it must be true.

They're gone. I'm glad. That nonsense is tiresome.

("No it's not," I hear in my head.)