Mama Needs a Cosmo

View of L.O.U.D.'s Mouth, Actual Size

For those of you who are new to my lovely little slice of heaven on the internet, you can click here to find out what a “L.O.U.D.” is.

Last night I was tweeting with my friend Jodi about how “ghetto” a few of our area’s WalMarts were. Then she commented about how funny she thought my L.O.U.D. posts were. In hindsight, I would call that “foreshadowing.”

Because this morning I was almost attacked by a L.O.U.D. A big one. And for me to say she was big takes on a lot of meaning, considering these are my current weights and measurements. She also had a couple of friends with her, and now that I think about it, if they had been wearing dresses and makeup, they could have passed for the Weather Girls.

Anyway, I was standing in line at Jamba Juice when one of my friends called me from Staples.

Friend: “Okay. So, I was going to call you anyway because I’m at Staples and I was going to ask if you needed anything, then I realized that I’m standing here in this stupid ink section and I forgot my frickin’ cartridges and I can’t remember what the numbers are.”

Me: “Oh! Hey! I hate when that happens . . .”

Friend: “I know, right? So, what’re you doing? You’re off today, right?”

Me: “Yep! But I’m being swallowed up by the slowest line in Jamba Juice history. It totally reminds me of McDonald’s — no one EVER knows what they want, but they still stand in line. Then they get to the counter and they’re all ‘uhh . . . what’s an energy boost?’”

Friend: “Soo stoopit”

Me: “I love that non-word . . . stoopit!”

Friend: “Hey, so anyway, do you still have the same printer as me? HP-something-or-other . . . multi-function fax . . . yadda yadda. We bought them together at Thanksgiving . . .”

Me: “Still got it.”

Friend: “Sweet!! PLEASE tell me you know your cartridge numbers. Black is . . .”

Me: “Black.”

Friend: “Ha. Ha. Seriously. Why am I thinking 74?”

Me: “That’s the one.”

Friend: “So, that makes color . . .”

Me: “Colored.”

Friend: “I am so gonna hang up on you. Is color 75?”

Me: “Yep.”

Friend: “Sweet! How can you be such a lifesaver and a total bitch at the same time? Oh, look! They’re on sale!”

Me: “Really? Bitches like me love sales!”

Friend: “Yep!! Two black and one color cartridge for forty-five bucks.”

Me: “Score!”

Friend: “Cool. Okay, so do you need anything? Ink?”

Me: “Yes! Two blacks and a color. Same as . . .”

And it was at this moment that one of the L.O.U.D.S.  in front of me thought it a good idea to whip her head around and say, “Ex-CUSE ME?!”

And I was like, what the f-ck is her problem? So, I turned around to see if she was talking to someone behind me. But there was no one there. Then I got scared.

So, I furrowed my brow and cocked my head a little and said, “Ex-cuse me . . . what?”

And my friend on the phone said, “What? You want one of these packs?”

Then the L.O.U.D. said, “Who are you calling two blacks and a colored?”

And I did the stupidest thing in reaction to her ignorance.

I laughed.

Friend on the phone: “You still there?”

Me: “Yep. I need to call you right back, though.”

L.O.U.D.: “What. You think this is funny?”

Me: “No, I think it’s sad, actually.”

L.O.U.D., getting a little too close to me: “Sad? You think calling black people ‘colored’ is sad?”

Me, getting about one foot from her face and clinching my jaw: “No. I think your ignorance is sad. You have absolutely NO clue what I was talking about. I was talking about INK . . .” And then I had to catch myself because I almost ended the sentence with “dumbass!”

Freaked out teen at the counter: “Uh, can I get something started for the next person in line?”

[Uh, YEAH. How 'bout getting this fat bitch a brain?]

Me: “INNNK. Two black. One color. HP 74 and 75. Anything else?”

Startled, she then tried to absolve herself and still remain accusatory by clicking her tongue, snorting, and with skepticism in her voice saying to her friends: “Ink. Right.”

So I, now totally pissed off and feeling like a badass because I can get through one whole Jillian Michaels workout, said: “Yes. INK. It rhymes with THINK.”

Then I said to the kid behind the counter, “They were next.” And left. I have no idea what I would have done if any of them followed me out. But they didn’t.

It took me ALL DAY to calm down after that. Then, a mini-L.O.U.D. went and f’d everything up again. More on THAT tomorrow.

I know that yesterday was “‘What Into The Hell’ Wednesday,” but I’ve got another tick and a funny story about how I picked it off, and I couldn’t wait until next Wednesday to tell it.

My biggest pet peeve is with people who pop their gum. I’d rather eat foil and scratch my fingers down a blackboard at the same time than listen to someone pop their gum–suffice to say that it’s a sound that I loathe.

My second biggest pet peeve is with people who don’t respect my personal space. I don’t do well in the presence of a “close talker,” and don’t get me started on close-talking spitters.

Last night at the grocery store, I encountered someone who did both.

Sometimes when I’m grocery shopping without the boys, I choose to stand in the longest line for checking out. This gives me time to enjoy the opportunity of thumbing through the tabloids at a leisurely pace, without having to scream “put that down!” or “get back here!” or “I said no candy!”

But my choice to do this last night came with a price.

The woman who got in line behind me had been somewhat of a line jumper. She was in a hurry–not a good thing when most grocery stores are packed with the “after work” crowd at 6:00pm. And she picked MY line to stand and fidget and do her grumbling.

And pop her gum.

I tried to ignore it by diving into the George Clooney vs. Fabio updates, but I found myself reading the intro sentence over and over, with no retention.

Pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . And then came the cell phone call.

And while she was balancing her phone in one hand and doing whatever with the other, she managed to bump me with her basket. Hard. Four times.

OH. It was SOOO on.

The first couple of times, I used my butt to push the cart backwards. The third time, I looked back at her, but she was so engrossed in her cell phone conversation that she didn’t even see me. The last time, I gently moved the basket backwards, then stepped out from between my basket and hers, entering the “people go on this side” space and exiting the “baskets stay on that side” space. As I did this, I grabbed my purse, which also happened to be doubling as a tote bag and was filled with a bunch of items that I’d brought home from work. (I’ve got two words for you: LOADED and HEAVY.)

And as I waited for the diva behind me to get so close to me that I could feel her breath on my neck, I whipped my bag around onto my shoulder, and its forward motion knocked into her arm and forced the phone from her hand and onto the ground.

CosmoMama: 1           Gum-popping-space-invader: 0

As she gasped at me, I turned around, and with an unapologetic look on my face, I said, “Oh. I didn’t realize you were THAT close to me.”

Oohhh! Was she pissed!! But the folks behind her didn’t seem to mind my antics.

Right after my planned attack, it was my turn to check out, and by then she’d collected her phone and told whoever was on the other end that she was not very pleased with what I’d done. (Obscenities removed.)

I had to contain myself until I was inside of my car, and by then I was laughing so hysterically that I almost didn’t realize I’d put the car in reverse.

Like the title of my blog notes: I’m “trying” to take the high road, but I don’t necessarily do it all the time.

*Evil snicker*