I’m a polite girl. I would never say the things to anyone, that others say to me. I’ve come to think mouths should come with a permit.
If you had two heads, the most I’d say is hello, twice, never commenting nor spewing advice you never asked for.
I’m in the check-out line at the all night deli buying milk. It’s late, a last minute errand before bed, so no, I didn’t powder my nose, that now is so out of joint I look like a boxer.
A woman I had not seen in quite a while runs in while her driver, viewed from the window, double parks.
She pounces like a puma.
“I’m in such a hurry, could you save my place in line?”
What place. She never got in line.
I watch her grab cookies, yogurt, a bar of overpriced dark chocolate like it was the Cuban Missile Crisis, before hopping in front of me.
Yes, the puma has balls the size of grapefruits.
Me and my fat free milk are too tired to spar with a Kardashian wannabe, especially caught off guard.
She looks at me like a jeweler examining a stone.
“I’m lookin’ at your face honey. You could use a little work. Why don’t you do somethin’ about it.”
You mean like smack you?
If this woman stabbed me, it would have hurt less.
I wouldn’t have said that to my mother who would have deserved it, or even Trump, who’s aging like bad cheese.
So I have a choice, to rise above it like a better aroma, or go for her Gucci jugular. Then I realize, she’s drunk.
When she starts to weave a little as if those Mallomars weigh 50 pounds, it hits me. So no, I didn’t say, better than looking like a dinner plate, but instead, as she’s headed out the door, holler…if I were you madam, I’d put that plug, back in the jug.
I know, not exactly a slam dunk, but it’s all I had.