Save me the whiny comments about my prominent use of the word bitch, in this context, it fits.
Feminists would have you believe that the moment you ladies are out of the room, all men can do is call you a bitch and discuss rape as a sport.
That would be like all women waiting until the men leave the room and then talking about how people you don’t know are at their core.
Oh, wait, thats what goes on now. My bad.
Live your life, believe what you want, just try not to be an idiot about it.
Now that thats out of the way, let me describe Dale to you.
Dale is a piece of work, is what she is.
She is an artist of sorts, working in anger and shittiness the way another artist might work in clay or stone.
She was on the phone outside of Starbucks when I got there.
As I passed by, I heard the semi-crappy comment being said almost in a whisper.
“I realize that I promised to help with the planning, but I am not a fan of family parties to begin with.”
Maybe I am just over-reacting to one of my own pet peeves. I come from a really close family that, if you ask for help, it will be provided. Its what family does.
Back to Dale.
Just before the door closed, her suddenly too loud voice yelled into her phone.
“Fuck you, Mary!”
I have no idea who Mary is or what crime she committed.
I figure she has had the shitty karmic luck to be related to this circus side show, but sister/cousin/niece? Who knows.
She finished soon after and came in, getting into line right behind me.
I happened to look back and made the fatal mistake of eye contact.
She seemed to recognize that she had spun every head in the place with her outburst.
“Sorry, you know how family are.” With a shrug.
I do know how family are, I have one of my own, and even as in your face and out of hand as we get there is a base respect and the understanding that you don’t shit on them by phone in public for asking for help with a family party.
But thats just me.
How it is in whatever passs for her dysfunctional trainwreck of a clan is anybodies guess.
And, as the line progresses, Dale is one of those people that talks to herself.
She is looking at the shelves of coffees and knick-knacks as we walk and commenting as we go.
I hate her even more, now.
Top 3 Dale comments:
- “$15 for a bag of coffee beans? I don’t want to have sex with them, just coffee.” (I don’t know what sort of Craig’s List male whore she is hooking up with, but I hope wore a couple of condoms. You don’t want a lingering gift with this little honey.)
- “Chocolate covered coffee beans? Ugh.” (Its a fucking coffee house! What is she expecting?)
- “You could hold a gun to my head and I wouldn’t buy this.” (Don’t tease me.)
And then we got to the cashier.
Her coffee drink is a long, convoluted throw together of conflicting statements and half jokes that make no sense but makes her laugh.
She could have had a root canal in front of the register and it would have been less awkward.
And then the cherry on the Sunday of the order.
“My name is Dale. Dale. D-A-L-E. Dale.”
How could we ever forget?
She waits for her coffee like a mangled cat staking out a mouse hole.
When her coffee comes, she looks at it like someone took a shit on it.
She makes no move to reach for it, but she begins to question the barrista about each ingredient with a pissy scowl on her face.
The only question she did not ask, and maybe should have, was “Did you spit in this?” (And with her attitude, she should ask that question a LOT.)
A few minutes later she reluctantly takes her coffee.
The last thing I heard as I walked out the door was her on the phone with, presumably, poor Mary.
“No, I wasn’t upset at all, I just want you to understand that this is not a priority in my life. Dad and I have never gotten along well.”
Sorry, but even serious Daddy issues do not explain, excuse or exorcise this evil spirit.
It was less than a 10 minute encounter, but I will hear that voice in my nightmares.
“dale. Dale. DALE. D-A-L-E.”
May God have mercy on the world.