Monday, September 04, 2006


The hormone fairy paid a visit today. Last time she came she left a trail of cystic red acne all over my left shoulder and arm which my husband thought were spider bites, because seriously, who gets zits on their triceps? So, today. Do you remember that movie 28 Days Later - not the Sandra Bullock AA shite but the one in England with all the zombies that were infected with a REALLY ANGRY VIRUS?

That was me, with maybe slightly better table manners. I felt it bubbling on the way to the neighborhood grocery store, the one I've already learned to hate with its mini-carts and claustrophobic yet tiny maze-like feel and cranky cashiers and terrible produce, so I was primed. And then it started. Just minding my own business in the 2 ft wide aisle in front of the oranges when a woman barrels by with her daughter in the cart, offering a snippy EXCUSE ME EXCUSE ME EXCUSE ME as she literally crashes into my cart, squeezes on through and sends my groceries careening into the path of a polite college student. We shared a "Check Out the Crazy Beeotch" smile, and I did my best to shrug it off. And then I made the mistake of shopping for pasta sauce in the same aisle as Her Majesty. The Queen and her entourage sauntered down my aisle and, realizing people headed my way, I moved my cart of their way, which prompted:

HER MAJESTY: Get out of my way. You got to be kidding. Taking up the whole damn aisle with your cart. SHEEE-IT.

ME: ****

Too stunned to respond, I just gaped in shock. Did she just speak like that to me?

They cleared the aisle, and I just stood there. And then molten lava replaced the blood in my veins. I grabbed my cart and raced to the next aisle - bitch was about to get an earful from me, scary IQ- challenged entourage be damned. Every stinging retort, curse word, epithets and putdown raced through my head as I rounded the corner.

But they weren't there. And that was probably a good thing. The kind of woman who grocery shops with an entourage and says things like SHEEEE-IT in conversation probably routinely picks fights and beats little white girls like me to a pulp. And that probably wouldn't be so good for the baby. So I let it go. I was finishing up my shopping when the checkout lanes came into view. There they were, her majesty and the entourage, giving the cashier a hard time over something judging by the loud voices and posturing. And that's when I noticed it.

She was pregnant, too.

In an instant, I got it. And kinda felt sorry for her. And then I fantasized about running her over with my truck.

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