A few Saturdays ago, I ditched the family and went grocery shopping solo. This is pretty much equal to a vacation to me, being able to study labels and peruse aisles without someone yelling that they want the cereal with the Transformer on the box or announcing when the cart is half full that they need to go potty. I see it as my little corner of Mommy Paradise. Some Mommies get pedicures (I'm not that fancy--I do my own), this Mommy looks forward to choosing what scent laundry detergent she wants to buy without any little people opinions in her ears.
As I put the last few things in my shopping cart and headed to the check-out lines, I noticed that as usual, there were only three lanes open, each with approximately thirty-seven people in each line. Though I am not one who enjoys standing in lines (who is?), I wasn't too distressed--since I was alone I could stand there and flip through a magazine and patiently wait my turn. No big deal. I chose the line that appeared to be the shortest, and settled in for the wait.
The woman directly in front of me was a petite Black woman, dressed in jeans, a furry jacket, and a snazzy hat. ("Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the fur, the whole club was lookin' at her....sorry, I digress.) Girlfriend was wearing more jewelry than I own, and day-glo fuscia lipstick that could have been spotted from the space station. Her arms were filled with random toiletries--toothpaste, shampoo, the biggest bottle of hand sanitizer on the planet, etc. I could tell by her demeanor that she was irritated about something, she was shuffling and tense and muttering underneath her breath. As the minutes passed and the line neglected to move, she finally dumped her armload of stuff onto the floor and whipped her cell phone out of her purse. This caught my attention, because her fingernails were roughly the length of my arm and painted bright orange, with a rhinestone of some sort glued onto each thumbnail. (We all know that flashy never fails to catch my eye. Why have I never had rhinestone nails???) She tapped away at the phone with her nails, then stood waiting for an answer, lips pursed, eyes wild.
This is where it gets good.
The phone was loud enough that I could hear a female voice say "hello." That's when Flashy Nails lost her shit. Seriously, yo. I mean, full-on, psycho bitch, LOST HER SHIT. It went something like this:
"WHORE! FUCKING SKANK-ASS WHORE! WHAT YOU DOIN' ANSWERIN' HIS PHONE, BITCH? WHAT YOU THINK YOU DOIN'? I AM GOING TO KICK YOUR FAT ASS! I WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE, DRAG YOU OUT BY THEM NASTY-ASS EXTENSIONS, AND BEAT YOUR ASS, WHORE! YOU A WHORE! YO MAMA A WHORE! I'M GONNA KICK YOUR MAMA'S ASS TOO, BITCH. I GONNA KICK ALL YO WHORE ASSES!"
(Imagine this being screamed in the middle of the check-out line, please, complete with hand gesticulations and foot-stomping.) I was fascinated.
At this point, the lady on the other end of the conversation must have hung up. Flashy Nails then turned to me. "Can you BELIEVE that bitch? She hung up on me." I chose not to answer. I'm badass, but there's no way in hell I plan on tangling with a mentally unbalanced Black girl who's all riled up about some dude in the middle of the supermarket. There are security cameras there. That's an episode of COPS in the making, and I don't want any of that action, yo. I do not need my 15 minutes of fame.
Luckily, Flashy Nails was too excited to notice my feigned indifference. Chances are, with my unpainted nails and lack of rhinestone adornment, designer labels, or hair extensions I wasn't really worthy of her recognition anyway. Snapping the phone open again, she hit "send," redialing the previous number.
The genius female on the other end answered again. Clearly, she was either a dumbass, or found this whole situation as entertaining as I (secretly) did.
"YOU WHORE! YOU WHORE! YOU DONE ANSWERED AGAIN? HOW STUPID ARE YOU, WHORE? HOW STUPID ARE YOU? YO MAMA'S A WHORE. YO MAMA'S A WHORE. YOU MAMA'S A WHORE."
By now the manager had arrived. Gently, he explained to Flashy Nails that she was causing a disturbance, there were children around who didn't need to be exposed to her language, etc. He had a very soothing voice (you could tell he thought F.N. was as bat-shit crazy as the rest of us did). She agreed to come to Customer Service, where he went behind the counter and immediately rang up her purchases before escorting her out the door and on her way.
I was still standing in line.
Next time I'm in a hurry, I am SO going to fake some sort of crazy so that I can skip the line and get an escort to my car. Hell, if my kids are with me, I won't even have to fake it.