I’d like to give a piece of my mind to a handful of people.
Usually, when I’m confused/enraged (is conraged a word?) by someone’s behavior, my natural instinct is to recede into silence, followed by slowly walking away from the offender while flashing my well-trained “you’ve crossed a boundary…I would tell you which one, but my communication skills have been stifled due to living in a society where women are trained to act polite 100% of the time regardless of the shit treatment endured, so please stop talking” smile.
Depending on the severity of the situation (and the offender’s inability to pick up my GET AWAY FROM ME body language), I’ve been known to add some fancy footwork along the way. A little “Conflict Conga” can shut down the offender almost immediately. All I have to do is jump to the left, and then step to the right, with my hands on my hips, bring my knees in tight… wait, that’s the Time Warp! No wonder everyone clears the room.
Also, there’s a chance that my dancing might be mistaken for an upright seizure — dancing is NOT my forte. But when faced with a conraging situation (it’s a word now!), my only concern is escape.
But do you know what is my forte? Being petty. I’m so gifted at pettiness that I keep a list of people I’d like to give a piece of my mind to:
#1 Donald Trump
I don’t understand why you do the things that you do. I see you on television and I can barely follow your train of thought, even if I’m two bottles of wine in. News reporters consistently comment on your low IQ and the concerning state of your mental health. It occurs to me that maybe you are in desperate need of a brain transplant.
What’s more disturbing is that you don’t seem the least bit concerned about the well-being of others. I would ask how you sleep at night, but I fear the answer would be “Great! My gold sheets work better than a weighted blanket.”
Perhaps no one has done the heroic act of offering up their own brain in order to assist you in understanding basic human rights and the concept of consent. So, I shall offer up 15% of my brain to you. Please accept this literal piece of my mind on behalf of the American people.
#2 Yvonne the Café Cashier
Look Yvonne – I’ve always been fat and this look is here to stay. I don’t need to defend my food consumption, so stop commenting on the size of my salads.
I understand that society hates fat people, and maybe you’ve jumped on the hate train. But come on Yvonne! I am eating SALAD! I am performing FAT PERSON EATING HEALTHY. Please accept this wilted lettuce leaf as a symbolic piece of my mind, and please stop dramatically lifting up my salad bowl, widening your eyes, and saying “OH WOW.”
Unless you want my HUGE salad to be hurled at your face, cool it Yvonne! Let’s just exchange our meaningless hellos and get on with our day.
#3 Rob from the Taco Hut
Each Saturday we engage ourselves in this awkward back and forth. I order my burrito, and as customary, you ask if I want red hot sauce or green hot sauce. As always, I reply that I would like both red and green sauce, please. As if confused, as if this request has never occurred before, you say very loudly and with a judgmental lilt “Ooh!!!”
Rob, we’ve been doing this hot sauce dance for a year now. You remember other customers’ preferences and grant them without comment. What have I done to you? I’m not aware of the profit loss associated with my dual hot sauce request, but I am open to negotiations. Please accept this packet of mustard from another fast food restaurant that shall remain nameless as a symbolic piece of my mind and tell me what you want! I’ll even pay an extra $.50 for hot sauce a long as I never hear “Oooh!!!” again.
#4 Underwear Lady from the Mall
Look, I’m a 30 year-old woman and I’m perfectly capable of picking out underwear all by myself. I realize that I neglected to wash my hair this morning, so that on top of my recent case of insomnia has left me looking a tad unkempt and twitchy. I assume that you’ve pinned me as a shoplifter, which explains why you’ve hurried to my side three times.
My white privilege has made this flavor of store surveillance a rarity, but perhaps this is where classism comes to play? My fashion sense growing up was inspired by a very influential clothing line – Below Federal Poverty.
But really, Underwear Lady? You’re just gonna assume my lack of couture equates to stealing? Your face attempts to exude neutrality, but I can see the enraged lines accumulating around your glaring eyes. I’m not buying your customary “May I help you with anything?” What I am buying is the store’s merchandise! Or at least I was until you popped out from behind the fake ficus next to the thongs.
Please accept this sweaty and crumpled $20 I’ve had stashed between my boobs as symbolic piece of my mind, so as to soothe your obvious paranoia. I know you’ve probably reported me to mall security. But you know what, Underwear Lady? If they want to search my things, go ahead! I’ve got an impressive stash of tampons and half-melted chocolate in my purse. And I’m starved for physical contact anyway, so bring on the guards!