the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Dear Cranky Old Bitch Who Cut in Front of Me at Canter’s Deli

I am supposed to write and tell you that I am sorry for calling you a “rude old crag” in front of the ten people you so casually jumped in front of while waiting in line at Canter’s Deli last evening.

I’ve been told I should apologize for the way I called attention to your wretched violation, for wrinkling up my face in mock expression of yours as you told me that I had a big mouth and that I should just shut up already.

Am I sorry that I shoved you out of my way as I reclaimed my rightful spot in line? That as you formed a crow-like shape with your hand and said, “Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!” I could only prove to you and everyone else that my hands were bigger, that I could make a squawk more ferocious and stylistically realistic?

Should I apologize for foiling your sick and ill-conceived scheme? For hearing you say to your spineless, beer-gutted bag of a son that you didn’t want to wait, shouldn’t have to wait, that you would just cut in front of everyone else as if the world — my world, America’s world, the world of those ten innocent tax-paying civilians waiting their turn in line — owes you a single fucking molecule of pity?

I don’t care that you’re only four foot nine inches tall, or that you can’t apply lipstick in a straight line or choose a hair color the average person should be able to see without the aid of polarized sunglasses.

I don’t care that your pantyhose roll into doughnuts around your ankles, or that your purse requires it’s own seat in the House of Representatives.

I think you should apologize to every other elderly patron who waits at the back of the line with courteous respect for protocol. You should be ashamed for playing the little-old-lady card and preying on everyone else’s notion of sympathy and decency, you miserable wilting git.

In conclusion, Cranky Old Bitch, I advise you to shut up and wait your turn. Did you really need that chocolate chip cheesecake a whole four minutes faster? I may have a big mouth, but you’ve got a big ass.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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