Here's what you don't know about Miss Hannigan.
You know, the orphanage headmistress in Annie?
See, what you don't know is, when she took that job, she was perfectly sane. I can see her now, sitting across from the Board of Directors during her interview, hair neatly combed, dress clean, shoes shined, purse clenched in her lap, stone-cold sober, saying, "Oh, my yes, I love children. Especially little girls."
And here's the thing. SHE MEANT IT. She did love little girls. In theory. She saw one once, a cute, fluffy little thing with a big pink hair ribbon, walking along sweet as pie in Central Park with her mama and a nanny and a housekeeper and a cook, and Miss Hannigan thought, Aww, and also, that's not so hard. I could do that.
But oh my, look at Miss Hannigan now, a few short years later. A few frogs in her bed later. A few throw-ups in the middle of the night later, a few pick up the same thing five million times in a row later, a few "I'm starving even though you just fixed dinner half an hour ago" later, a few weeks, months, years, of No-you-can't-go-anywhere ever, Because-you-are-responsible-for-these-kids-24/7 later.
The woman's a slobbering wreck. And do we blame the ones who are really responsible? Do we blame the kids? No. We blame her, Miss Hannigan, for not holding it together while taking care of, what, 100 or so little girls all by herself? When does the poor woman even get any sleep? The dang kids sing day and night.
Yet, we continue to side with that whiny Molly, and, most especially, that moppet of a redhead, who wreaks havoc hither and yon and finally, in an act of supreme unfairness, gets to go live with a millionaire.
Miss Hannigan should get another job, you say? She can't, poor dear. Don't you know there's a Depression on? They say things are getting better, but who's going to hire a broken woman who spent the best years of her life tying shoelaces and making Ovaltine?
Where's the justice, that's all I want to know.
