This Is Not The Bitch You Are Looking For

by Venomous Kate

Earlier this afternoon I realized I’d been on the computer far longer than planned, which meant I’d yet to accomplish several of the things I’d intended to do this morning. One of those things happened to have involved taking a shower. Another was filling up my gas tank because the empty light came on yesterday but I have, as you may have noticed, a habit of putting off certain necessary tasks.

A half-hour before I’m supposed to pick my son up from school I realized that if I didn’t get gas before getting my kid the chances were pretty high we’d get stranded on the way home and, well, that would totally undo the hours I’ve spent nagging him to take care of his responsibilities.

So, after a quick change out of my pajamas (see, I put off getting dressed, too) and a couple swipes of pit stick, I threw on my biggest black sunglasses and dashed off to the gas station. According to the clock I had plenty of time to fill up before a visit to the drive-thru liquor store (an errand I never, ever forget to take care of). As I stood there pumping gas, a rather wild-haired, angry-looking and tall woman thundered up to me.

Y’all, I am not a small person, horizontally speaking, but I am short. As in, one of the reasons I don’t go to amusement parks is because it’s always iffy whether I’ll be tall enough to get on any rides outside of the children’s area. I kid you not.

Anyway, this unmistakably angry female giant stomped her size 14 shoes until she was all of three inches from my face — or would if her face wasn’t actually a good foot higher than mine. Really, what she did was walk up until we were maybe a hand’s width apart and curled her snarling, blood-reddened face down until it hovered uncomfortably near mine.

I, meanwhile, am doing my best Jedi Knight mind work as I first try to make myself invisible or, failing that, to make her think I’m just as scary as she is. In case you’re curious, these things apparently cancel each other out. And, as anyone who knows my temper can tell you, that’s right about the point where I go into small-dog mode and start acting a bit scary myself. I do NOT like taller people thinking they can walk all over me, proverbially or otherwise.

Just as I’m peeling myself from the side of the van I’d been trying to melt into just a fraction of a second before, she began ranting. It was a bit hard to hear her over the thundering in my temples, but it went something like this:

YOU NO GOOD, MAN-GRABBING HUSSY! (I pretty certain I’m cleaning her language up here.) BAD ENOUGH I CAN’T KEEP MY JACKASS OF A HUSBAND OUT OF BARS, MUCH LESS SOBER ON A SUNDAY, BUT FINDING OUT HE WAS DOWN THERE TO SWILL BOOZE AND PLAY PATSY FINGERS WITH YOU? I’M GONNA SLAP YOU SILLY, YOU BITCH!”

Remember what I said about how I seldom procrastinate when it comes to the drive-thru liquor store? Yeah, that’s because I stopped meeting friends at bars twice a week for drinks. I mean, weekday mornings are hard enough. Throw a hangover into the works and, well, I’m too old for that shit. My alcohol consumption now mirrors my sex life: once a week, and only if it works out with my husband’s schedule. Also, I don’t play patsy fingers with anyone but my husband. (See previous comment about if it works out with his schedule.)

I was just about to explain this very fact, but the woman’s spit was splattered all over my big, black sunglasses. So, forgetting how very crappy I looked, I slid them up onto my forehead and opened my mouth to tell the tall, scary woman off. (It’s that whole small-dog syndrome and I’m kind of crazy like that. Just ask my formerly favorite bartender.)

But the tall, scary woman opened her mouth first.

“YOU AIN’T ANGELA!” she said, backing away from me faster than I thought a woman her size could actually move. “OH, MY GOD. I’M SO SORRY!” She promptly turned on her heel, hurried off to her crappy car, and sped away while I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

So a word of warning, to Angela in Leavenworth, whoever you are: keep your eyes peeled, because there’s a very tall, wild-haired, angry woman who is hunting you down, and it sounds very much like you deserve it. Also, a short, horizontally-challenged woman who nearly took an undeserved ass-whipping for you is on the lookout for you down now, too, and I assure you that you don’t have the Jedi Knight mind skills to handle either of us.

9 Comments to “This Is Not The Bitch You Are Looking For”

  1. Now that’s something that is. Wow. What a story! Glad you didn’t get anything but a great blog post as a result.

  2. Hey, me, too! (And, thanks!!!!)

  3. Reminds me of the time I was at the antique mall and I came up behind my wife and slapped her on the fanny and said “Hi Babe” She turned around and said ‘WHAT?” I said ohhhhhh, I’m sooooo sorry I thought,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

  4. Poor Angela. Now she’s got TWO shitstorms coming her way.

  5. So, you and Angela need to get together and compare notes. You have no idea what else in your town is being done by your evil twin.

  6. Twoma, you’re lucky that woman didn’t now jujitsu!

  7. Oracle & Rammer, I’m personally hoping I never run into Angela or one of us will leave wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. I don’t look good in orange.

  8. Being built low to the ground myself, I understand all of your comments. You had me laughing out loud! Thanks

  9. But Cathy, it’s not that we are “low to the ground”. The ground is too damn high in comparison to us!