I can be a biatch when I deal with a son of a biatch. Or who let the dogs out?

Example to follow below the cut. 🙂

This morning, my turn at the cash register at Costco. After the usual greetings, the gentleman behind the counter wrongfully notices out loud:

–       I see you brought your husband with you today.

First of all, I don’t know the Cashier guy, I am not a regular shopper at Costco, and when I shop there once in a blue moon, I usually don’t bring my male harem with me followed by paparazzi, so this guy would be entitled to pretend he knows me from somewhere. Second of all, I didn’t know who was standing behind me, but after a sudden and confused look (which became a terrified one after the revelation), he could have been my grand daddy and somehow my worst nightmare (you’ll see why). Before I regained my brains to make sense of this bizarre incident and chose to ignore it, thinking that the guy confounded me with someone else, swipe my card, and move on, the second genius of the day come on the stage to apply for the clownery of the male kind award (yeah, I know, I feel my biatchness coming upon me now). So, the guy standing behind me and who was attributed the otherwise he would never dare claiming merit, starts forming vowels and consonants with his xstrlgndhdgbtsf lips, bless his soul:

–       Oh noooo, I already have a wife at home and I don’t need two! Are you kidding me? I’ve got enough nagging and yelp yelp (here, he gesticulates and makes a doggy face), no no no.

Then he backed off literarily raising his hands toward me, as if I was Medusa, the monster from Alien movie, and his in laws, all in the same time, in this way increasing the insults tenfold.

In that moment I almost forgot I do love men, in general, and how I think they are great poets and builders of the world, in general. It came into my blood only the ancient memories of my female ancestors who had to put up with these mutants’ manners and bad characters for thousands of years, in general. I wanted to have all of the women’s voices one with mine, so I can tell this beep beep specimen what a worthless piece of xxxx a baboon grand grand progenitor he is, in general.

Does he remember who picked up his mammoth fur from the cave floor because he couldn’t be bothered with the task, million years ago? Did he remember the endless days and nights his ancient wife spent marinating the deer meat, slice it, store it, keep the best bites for him, so he would not have to do it when he would come back to the cave every few months? Is his heart capable to recall what a dangerous and courageous enterprise all of his past wives who still live in his wife’s blood did when each and one of them would have used a razor made out of sharpened cow teeth to shave her legs, so his furry hand would find a place to rest after his many battles with the world and with himself? For God’s sake, his atavist wife used dog grease to style her hair or even leaches, arsenic, and lead to make herself beautiful for the I don’t name it, the beast.

Speaking of generalization.

No, I didn’t retaliate the way I felt it would have been fair, manly, eye for eye type of a battle. I feel how the Amazons in my blood are enraged and the first women who fought for the right to vote are deeply disappointed with me today for I have kept my bra on, my motherly smile carved into my face, and answered gently, the same way I pick up the toys after a playdate: “I already have a child at home and I don’t need another grown up to act like one. Happy holidays to your wife, Sir”.