Friday, November 13, 2009

The Redo

I'm reaching the age now where getting carded for booze and cigarettes is no longer mandatory. It could be because when I shop I usually have my kid with me and even if the clerk suspects I'm under age, he feels I deserve to self medicate. (Who wouldn't feel sorry for me after seeing baby gi-me-dat throwing a monstrous fit at my feet while I'm searching for my debit card.) Or maybe it has something to do with the bags under my eyes and bushel of grey hair I'm sporting on the top of my head . I'm not sure which it is, but I'm hoping it's the damn kid. Whatever the case, I get excited when I'm carded. Sometimes I get ahead of the game and have my drivers license out and on display before it is even required. Most of the time the cashier doesn't even look at it, he or she just continues ringing up my goods, while I stand awkwardly waving my ID in the air like some kind of idiot.

There are a few rare occasions when I get lucky and I'm actually asked to prove my date of birth. (It only happens when I am alone, so I guess that proves my theory that it's the damn kid.) It plays out the same way every time. I smile wildly at the cashier as he looks me up and down. Then with one hand on my hand bag, I wait for him to insist that I show identification for my purchase. Once the call is made, I spring to my wallet and hold my drivers license out like a golden ticket. A golden ticket that may or may not be mine. Though it excites me to get carded, I still haven't learned how to hand it over without looking guilty. I guess that's a habit that formed after years of carrying a fake ID. To this day, I never look the clerk in the eyes when I purchase a pack of smokes. I guess you can't teach an old juvenile delinquent new tricks.

With the back story out of the way, I will now direct you to the point of this story. Though it centers around being carded, it has a lot more to do with the things we can't say until it's too late. Last weekend something happened to me at the gas station and it reminded me that though I call myself the Mouthy Mommy, I am only tough when other people are far from swinging distance. It is true. In real life the Mouthy Mommy can be a real pussy. I like to speak my mind, but I hate getting my ass kicked for doing it. That's why I blog!

Last Sunday my wonderful husband took my son out for the day so I could get some writing done. About an hour after they left, I was hard at work and had burnt through my last cigarette. Unable to function without my filtered inspiration, I quickly changed into my track suit and set off to the gas station. Because it's only a block away, I made it there quickly and grabbed my debit card and ID( just in case) before going inside. On this day, a small Latin woman was working the counter. She looked about 45 and for some reason her hair was a horrific mess. It was really distracting, but honestly, it was none of my business why the gas station attendant chose not to brush her hair. I was there for smokes and nothing more. After briefly considering to enter her into one of those makeover shows, I order up a pack of my favorites and decided to leave before I had the urge to tackle her and run a comb through the mop on her head. Blissfully unaware of my need to fix her, she took my order and waddled back to fetch my cigarettes. As I waited for her to return, I tossed my ID down on the counter by the register. I really hoped that she would want to look at it when she got back and to my surprise she actually did. I was thrilled with her interest, but I noticed her eyes shifting back and forth between me and the card way to many times. For a minute my fear of getting busted for a fake ID returned, but then I realized that I really am 26 and instead of fear I felt sorry for myself. Sulking aside, I was getting concerned as to why the woman was taking so long, but before I could ask her what the problem was, she looked at me and said, "Oh, my. You look so pretty in this picture. It must have been taken a long time ago. You look sooooo different now." I was stunned. The gas attendant had just backhandedly insulted my appearance. The same old ass, gas attendant that looked like she had just walked out of a wind tunnel. I couldn't believe it, but she of all people, was calling me ugly. Briefly incapacitated by shock (And my fear of Latinas. Those girls can fight.), I didn't respond to her insult. I simply paid for the cigarettes and left. I was about half way home when I was ready to fight back, but by that time it was too late. The moment was lost.

There is nothing I hate more that having to redo the confrontation with myself, because I was unable to come up with anything when it mattered. I'm sure you have had one of these moments in your life. Where someone says something to you that is completely out of line and you can't think of anything because your brain has locked up. Yet later on, when you're all alone you're suddenly capable of doling out the comebacks like some kind of humiliation wizard. Think of all the times you should have opened your mouth and instead sat quiet. Times when you were reduced to fighting with yourself in the shower just so you could get the last word. These are the times when you really need a redo. Today I'm offering you that chance...

If you have a redo moment you want to get off your chest, take this chance to let the Mouthy Mommy know. You can share it in the comment section below this blog or post it on the Mouthy Mavens fan page on Facebook. Tell me what happened and what you wanted to say. I promise it will make you feel better and possibly give us all a laugh too!

I'll start the redos by replying to the gas attendant...
Gas Attendant-
"Oh, my. You look so pretty in this picture. It must have been taken a long time ago.You look sooooo different now."

"Actually it was taken last week. I got lucky I guess. It turned out that the DMV photographer use to work for Glamor Shots. Why? Are you trying to say I'm ugly, you old bitch? Have you seen yourself recently? You look like a tornado drove you to work."

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