Mama Needs a Cosmo

You may want to label me a racist after this post. You might want to call me names or share this with your friends and call me a bitch for even bringing it up. I don’t care what you do with this information, as long as your talking about it. Because what I’m writing about today really needs to stop.

I’ve been sitting on this post for A VERY LONG TIME. I wrote the first draft in anger. And then every so often, I would go back and massage the text a little. I’ve actually toned it down quite a bit.

The LOML did not want me to publish this post, but I felt that I had to put it out there. Even if it meant pissing some people off. So, here it goes . . .

I’m sure we’ve all observed someone being so obnoxious about getting their way that the person on the receiving end of the tirade eventually gives in to the jerk just to get them out of their face. I’ve seen it a number of times myself, which is why I created the “L.O.U.D.S.” section of my blog.

When I created the “L.O.U.D.S.” section of my blog, I was trying to be politically correct. I threw in some pictures of white trash (because people of all ethnicities can be assholes, white people included) so I wouldn’t be judged. But most (if not all) of you knew which ethnic group in particular I was referring to. Your emails and comments confirmed it, and I never denied it.

Black women were pissing me off.

Yes, you read that right.

It wasn’t an Asian woman who held up the drive-thru line at McDonald’s here or here or here. It wasn’t a Mexican woman who was annoyingly screaming into her cell phone and bumping her cart into my ankles while behind me in line at the grocery store. And it sure as hell wasn’t an East Indian woman who confronted me about the using the term “two blacks and a color” while on the phone at Jamba Juice.

It was Sha-Ne-Ne.

Remember Sha-Ne-Ne? She was the irritatingly loud black neighbor on Martin Lawrence’s show “Martin.”

[Letters from the NAACP and death threats to begin in three . . . two . . . one . . .]

And what’s sent me off into this rant is the fact that a two months ago, Sha-Ne-Ne and a friend showed up at Starbuck’s and were so obnoxious, EVEN THE POLICE OFFICERS WHO WERE IN THE STORE DIDN’T DO A THING ABOUT IT.

So here I am, committing blog (and perhaps, career) suicide, writing about what other people are thinking when it comes to race. But I *KNOW* I can’t be the only one who is pissed off by the fact that this kind of behavior has become acceptable. When is enough “enough”? When did it become okay to exploit the fact that people will give you what you want if you scream and threaten them enough and taking a stand isn’t worth it? And I’m not talking about sending something back at a restaurant because it was chicken when you asked for beef, or threatening to cancel service because your cell phone or cable bill has increased beyond control.

I’m talking about adult bullies. And I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to clarify that these bullies in particular are black women. LOUD black women. (Hereinafter referred to as “L.O.U.D.S”)

Here’s what happened.

The LOML and I were sharing a rare evening alone together when we decided to stop for coffee. And, since we were alone, we decided to go INSIDE instead of using the drive thru. We NEVER go inside. Because we usually have the boys with us when we stop for coffee, and going inside would mean that Benny would have the place torn down in a matter of seconds. But I digress.

Anyway, there we were, in a really long line, observing the obviously understaffed crew trying to handle an 11-car long drive-thru line plus the rest of us in the store with only two functioning cappuccino machines. Directly in line ahead of us were two L.O.U.D.S, who were being quite vocal about how long it was taking and making the rest of the folks in line uncomfortable. I tried to ease the tension a little bit by remarking that it must suck to have to try and satisfy so many people when the equipment wasn’t working correctly. And brought up that it didn’t look like the store had a full crew. But the L.O.U.D.S. weren’t having any of it.

About 5 minutes later, one of the staff members strolled through the line with samples of coffee cake and muffins. A second or two after that, the L.O.U.D.S ordered their coffees.

After they received their orders, L.O.U.D #1 took a sip of her beverage and yelled, “Oh. UH-UH. This ain’t what I ordered. This taste like regular milk. Is this regular milk? I can’t be drinking no regular milk!” She then pushed the cup toward to the employee, who apologized for the mistake and stated that she would quickly re-make the beverage. “Hell YEAH you’ll re-make it.”

It was about that time when I realized the LOML had put his hand on my shoulder, readying it to cover my mouth in an instant. When I started to say something, he turned his head to my face and whispered, “NO.” Pretty much the equivalent to smacking a dog on its nose to prevent it from being bad.

L.O.U.D #2 rhad no complaints about her drink. Yet.

A few moments later, two Sacramento Police officers entered the store and stood in the back of the line. But the line was so long that it curved around to the front counter, which put them in the perfect position for viewing the show.

When L.O.U.D #1’s drink was done, she tested the contents of the cup and nodded her head. “Shoulda done that the FIRST time.”

I tried once more to say something, but the LOML smacked me on the nose again.

I wanted to scream, “Could you be ANY MORE of a BITCH? REALLY? Because I’ve seen some bitches before. Hell, even I’M a bitch. But REALLY? Over COFFEE?”

Then L.O.U.D #1 turned to leave and I thought the story would end there. It should have ended there. I wanted it to end there. Because all she really had to say was, “This doesn’t taste right. Can you re-make it?” But she didn’t, and I had enough for a blog post after observing her and her friend being rude in every way while waiting for the 2nd drink.

But “Hell NO,” the story continues because L.O.U.D #2 decided to up the drama by saying:

“I think you need to give me another drink because I drank all of this one waiting for hers to get fixed.”

No. JOKE. Let me repeat that:

“I think you need to give me another drink because I drank all of this one waiting for hers to get fixed.”

‘You need to give me . . .’

Entitlement. That’s what it was all about.

‘You need to give me . . .’

And with those words, the LOML let me loose. I looked around, and even the police seemed to be thinking that someone had to say something. WHY DIDN’T THEY SAY ANYTHING? So I got involved. For a one second, anyway.

ME: “WHAT?!”

The people who were still in line laughed. L.O.U.D #2 turned around for a second and then returned her attention to the employee. L.O.U.D #1 furrowed her eyebrows at me but I didn’t care. I looked away and locked eyes with the employee, as if to say “Don’t do it. DON’T. DO. IT.” But, he shook his head at me and said to L.O.U.D #2:

“You want me to what?”

“I SA-ID [two syllables] I THINK you need to make me another one ‘cause I drank all of THIS ONE waiting for you to fix HERS.”

She was not going to back down. She thought that she was entitled to another drink, and she was going to make LOTS of noise until she got her way. Because even the police weren’t saying anything about it, so why would the employees argue?

And maybe thinking that the police should get involved was a little naïve of me. I at least thought they’d go up, make their presence known, and ask if everything was okay. I’ve seen cops do that before and the asshole in question usually backed off.

A voice from the drive-thru station yelled, “Just give her the drink.”

Defeated, the employee shook his head, punched a few keys, and said, “It’ll be a few minutes.”

But that wasn’t enough of a victory. She HAD to have the last word, and got it by saying, “That’s what I thought.”

She joined L.O.U.D #1 in the corner, and for another few minutes, everyone got to have a good stare before they left. They weren’t even completely out of the store when I said to the employee, “Are you kidding me with that?” And he replied with, “We just wanted them out of here.”

Why is this acceptable?

And trust me, I am NOT the only one who feels this way. Do you want to know how I know this is a fact? Because one of my favorite bloggers found that when she typed the words “why are” into a Google search box, the search box automatically tried to populate the rest of the sentence with “Why are black people so loud?” No. Joke. Go read it for yourself!

This made me laugh, because it tied in to the “L.O.U.D.S.” section of the blog so nicely. I chose that word as the acronym for a reason. And Google nailed it.

I just don’t get WHY.

Why, Sha-Ne-Ne? Why do you have to be so obnoxious? I’m not asking you to act like Claire Huxtable. But shit, girl, give it a rest and civilize yourself.

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.

Seriously. The drive-thru is NOT rocket science.

Sorry about my tone lately. It’s been a “heavy flow” week. I promise to be funny tomorrow, dammit.

Now, on to today’s post. It’s an open letter to a L.O.U.D. that got what she had coming. Too bad it came at the expense of an innocent driver while her kids were in the car with her.

Dear Woman of Neutral Ethnic Origin (so I won’t be labeled a racist) Driving Her Escalade Full of Kids Through the McDonald’s Drive Thru:

Hey there. It’s me. The, uh, “girl” from yesterday. I know you’re probably still recovering from being colossally bitch-slapped by karma, but I felt there was a real need share how your ignorant behavior affected me and the rest of the people in the drive-thru line prior to your “accident.”

First of all, I was at the drive-thru on my lunch break. The difference between a lunch break and a lunch hour is 30 minutes. So, in almost the same amount of time that it took you to enter and exit, I could have gone to the bank, gone to the post office to mail some letters, and then picked up my dry cleaning. On those kinds of days, when I’ve got more things to do in 30 minutes than you probably do all day, I use the drive-thru and eat while running errands or chow down on my way back to work.

Yesterday, I’d already used up most of my lunch break and had planned on using what little time I had left to eat while driving back to the office. However, because you took your time ordering at the speaker, and then added on to your order at the cashier window, I was forced to use the rest of my lunch break watching your kids fight, listening to you yell at them, and then avoiding their gazes as they all began flipping me the bird. I got a good picture of them, and briefly thought about including the photo with this commentary, but then I had to remind myself that I don’t post images of underage kids not wearing their seat belts without their parents’ permission.

I’d also like to bring to your attention that, after you decided to stop and park your SUV in front of the trash can at the drive-thru’s exit to gather up straw wrappers, french fry containers, and empty ketchup packets, me and the rest of the people that you blocked in gathered together to plan an assault that involved a blow torch, ice pick, and a man named “Tiny.”

AND, do you think that maybe you could have cleaned your hands of french fry grease (and perhaps ate them one at a time instead of grabbing a fistful and cramming them down your throat) BEFORE you decided to answer your skinny razor phone? Because MAYBE (and, I’m just speculating here) the combination of the oil on your hand and your two-inch nails could have been what caused you to drop your phone. (Lest we forget that it’s actually ILLEGAL to talk on the phone without a hands-free device. But I digress.)

NOW. Instead of just letting the phone fall because you were pulling out of the parking lot, you decided to slam on on the brakes halfway between the sidewalk and oncoming traffic in order to retrieve it! What kind of idiot does this, especially with kids in the car?

YOU did.

And the guy driving in your direction had no choice but to slam his little white truck into your pimped-out ride.

Have you ever seen what someone looks like after their airbag deploys? It’s not pretty. But you weren’t concerned about that. Instead, you asked me why I had called 911. As if the chaos you’d caused could have been cleared up with a few apologies and an exchange of insurance information.

Oh! And sorry that I decided to stay around until the police arrived. I wanted to be sure that someone gave the authorities a proper account of what transpired prior to your being hit. So, making all your kids put their seat belts on was a serious waste of time. At least they were all okay.

And, I’m also sorry that you weren’t able to carry out your threat of writing down my license plate number so you could “look me up” after I wouldn’t give you one of my cards. Being parked the way I was, only the front of my car was exposed to you. And my front license plate had just fallen off the day before.

Too bad Mr. Chippie didn’t see that. I might have gotten a ticket!

Anyway, I hope reading this helps you do less harm to innocent drivers, your children, and yourself next time you’re on the road — pending the repair of your Escalade’s crumpled front quarter-panel, of course.

Sincerely,

Kathleen B. Lancaster
A.K.A. The “Stupid Bitch That Didn’t Know What She Was Talking About” from yesterday.