Catfights And Crazies

Me, on Saturday to a friend: “I never run into weirdos or have altercations with people in public anymore. Remember how often I used to do both?”

Friend: “Yes, you did have a knack for that.”

Me: “I guess I’m more ‘normal’ now. How boring!”

Sunday afternoon, out shopping: I go to an ice cream van to get a can of Dr Pepper so I can join Paul and the babe for an impromptu picnic after buying some much-needed jeans from Gap. There is one person in front of me. While that person is paying, three teenage girls who look like they walked straight off the set of The OC come up beside me and start barking orders at the ice cream man, practically pushing me out of the way. I loudly say “Excuse me, I was here first” and elbow past the one who elbowed me and put my arms up on the counter, blocking them from approaching the van further. The little bitches glance at me, snort, and continue ordering over my head. Furious, I look up at the vendor for recognition of my position as first in line but he starts making their cones, completely ignoring me too. I wave my hands in his face and try to draw myself up to my full height, all 5′4 of me, and say “I was here first,” but the man has the gall to say “Well, you should have spoken up.”

This, my friends, is customer service in Britain. Screw the customer, just do whatever is easiest and causes the least amount of trouble, even if it’s wrong.

I slapped my pound down on the counter and glared at him with a look that would melt the Terminator’s motherboard beyond any capabilities of resurrection and a sequel, and left the change on the counter, suggesting that he insert the coins somewhere in his nether regions or use them for lessons in manners. As I turned to leave, I shoved two of the OC wannabes out of my way, causing one of them to teeter on her first pair of wedges, her bubblegum pink toenails clenching to the edge for dear life. As I marched away with my can of The Doctor, I felt so old. I am officially That Crotchety Woman Who Younger Girls Laugh At. But I like her, I haven’t seen her for awhile. It was nice to see her rear her head.

To complete the eerie return of both altercations and run-ins with weirdos, I had the great fortune to come upon this freak on the bus:

Him, smiling at Amelia (with four front teeth missing, mind you): “Aww, isn’t she beuatiful?”

Me, smiling back: “Aw, thanks. She loves riding the bus. So many people to see.”

Toothless Guy: “It’s hard to believe we were all that innocent once.”

Me: “Yep.”

Toothless Guy: “You know, if you love France you’re called a Francophile. If you love England you’re called an Anglophile. I love kids. Does that make me a pedophile?”

*silence, mouth open, averting eyes, watching woman sitting beside him clutch her bag and look at me in terror*

Me: “Umm, I certainly hope not.”

At this point I turn away and hold Amelia a lot closer to me and glance up at Paul, who is trying to be nonchalant about the comment and act like it wasn’t hanging there in the air like a curry fart.

Toothless Guy: “Well, you know what I mean. There’s different kinds of love and the words get mixed up. For instance, I sleep in bed with my father but we’re not sleeping together in that sense, you see. Err, umm, *cough*”

Could that hole he was digging get any bigger? I almost felt sorry for him — the man had just announced on a public bus, after admiring my child’s beauty and innocence, that he was a pedophile. I should have been disgusted, terrified, ready to put him in touch with the vigilante parent groups that constitute the Pervert Police. But inwardly all I was thinking is “The weirdos are back. Oh yeah!”

I’ve still got it.