Who's Your Mama?

The following is a paid advertisement from Sit On Your Fat Ass Productions and does not necessarily represent the views of Mrs. Hyde, A Bitch Called Mom, or The Well-Fed Spirit.

Just kidding. The last time I had ads on my blog, I only had about 20 followers. Took the ads off, now almost 200. So...the ads stay gone.

What I really want to do is tell you about a conversation I had yesterday in a parking lot.

Apparently, I have a face that says, "Please bore me with your mindless, personal bullshit" because strangers are always coming up to me and telling me all their personal business. Once a lady, in the same parking lot now that I think of it, just started telling me about her illnesses and all the medication she had to take but couldn't afford. She started crying, bawling actually, and people were looking at me like I had done something to her. I would have given her a hug, but...I didn't know that bitch. I didn't know what kind of germs and shit she had. I mean, she said she was sick, right? So I gave her two dollars to put toward her next crack hit and hightailed it the fuck outta there.

In our area we have what might be called a super shopping center. Nobody really calls it that. I'm just making this shit up as I go along, but roll with it. In this super shopping center there is a Walmart/Sam's Club/Home Depot Complex, several smaller stores and restaurants, and my favorite store Aldi. Directly on the backside of this complex, the ass if you will, there are even more stores including, Giant, Marshall's, Dollar Tree, etc. I count at least 24 additional businesses that I haven't named. Needless to say, I live in this shopping center.

Back to the conversation. Let me set the scene for you:

Approximately 1:00 PM on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. The temperature was about 60 degrees, but as it was not that warm when I initially left the house, I was wearing a whole sheep heavy cardigan sweater.

I had just left Sam's Club and was in the parking lot placing my 17-pack of bread in the trunk of my van. The minuscule amount of exercise it took for me to walk from the store to my van with all that bread was enough to encourage a hot flash. I opened the driver's side door and proceeded to remove the five pounds of sheep's ass from my back and toss it into the passenger seat.

As I did this, a young man, a baby really, happened by. And so the following insane conversation ensued.

Man Baby: Damn! Who knew you were hiding all that under that sweater?
Me: Are you calling me fat?
Man baby: Naw, Ma. I'm saying, you looking good. (the preceding comma was not a mistake. 'I'm saying' is an expression all its own)
Me: Do I look like your mama?
Man Baby (laughing his ass off at the hot old lady): You damn sure don't look like my mama. That's just something young guys say to women who look good to them. Like 'baby,' but less offensive.
Me: You think it's less offensive to call me 'Ma' than it is to call me 'baby?' Of all the things I need, one more person calling me 'Ma' ain't one of them.
MB: I thought older women didn't like to be called 'baby.'
Me: So now I'm old?
MB (fidgeting nervously and wishing he had just admired my ass and boobs from a distance): No, um, you're not old, just older than me. A little. I think. Look, I was just trying to give you a compliment. I saw you standing there and when you took off your sweater, I saw your body and I was like 'wow.' I just wanted to tell you how good you looked.
Me: Actually, you were like 'damn', but whatever. What do you like about it?
MB: Huh?
Me: My body. What do you like about it?
MB: Um, your um...the whole thing.
Me: Do you like my ass?
MB (sweating bullets): Yeah. It's...it's nice.
Me: Good. I was wondering if the injections were working or not.
MB: Injections?
Me: Yeah. I get chicken hormones injected into my ass once a week.
MB: Why the hell you do that, Ma?
Me (giving him the evil eye): Because not all black women were born with Beyonce booties. Besides, have you seen the asses on those Purdue chickens?
MB: .......
Me: What? You never heard of that? How do you think Kim Kardashian's ass got so big? The only downside is that you have to keep getting the injections because the hormones don't last long. Think about it: every time you see Kim K, her ass is a different size. That's cause she's in various stages of chicken ass withdrawal.
MB: ......
Me: What I really hate are the side effects. You see this? (I show him a gray hair on my chin) It looks like a hair, but it's really a feather. They grow everywhere that hair grows. EVERYWHERE.
MB: Yeah...I'ma...um...it was nice...yeah. (He starts walking real fast toward Walmart)
Me: Hey! Are you all right? You don't look so good. Watch out for that truck!

That'll teach him to call me an old fat mama.

What?

I'm was merely preparing the lad for his future relationships. Because when you accost women in the parking lot of the Walmart/Sam's/Home Depot complex, all you'll get is crazy.

Okay, this didn't really happen. When he doled out his initial 'compliment,' I grinned politely, got in my van, and drove away.

But now you understand the craziness that goes on in my head.

I told you it was scary.

Some Of My Best Friends Are White

Well, it's the holiday season. That means I'm about to be busier than a toothless hooker on pay day. As soon as November 1st rolled around, the cake, pie, and banana pudding orders started pouring in. Oh, I'm not complaining because I sure as shit appreciate the money. The banana pudding recipe I use is an easy, no-cook recipe that I got from the Food Network. I tell people this and still they would rather pay me $25 to make one for them than just pay $10 for the ingredients and make it themselves. Who the fuck am I to stop them from giving me their money?

Anyway, I didn't come on here to talk about dessert; I just wanted you to know why my posts may or may not be few and far between for the next two months.

What I really want to talk about is something that happened to me at the grocery store yesterday. That's a bit melodramatic; nothing happened to me. I just had a curious encounter with a bitch at a market.

Are you familiar with Aldi? 
It's a discount grocery store with franchises all over the world. If you shop for more than two items at a time, it will be necessary for you to "rent" a shopping cart for twenty-five cents. After your shopping is done and your bags are loaded safely in your car, you return the cart to the corral, stick the little chain thingy in the slot on the handle, and your quarter is returned to you. If, upon returning my cart, I notice another shopper about to enter the store, I'll offer them the one I have and they'll give me their quarter.

I'm bored to tears, too, but I had to make sure you knew what I was talking about before I told you the story. Okay, so I saw this family of three about to get a cart as I was returning mine. I offered them my cart and they took it. The husband thanked me and offered me a big smile. The kid even gave me an appreciative grin. The mother, who neither smiled nor thanked me, positioned the quarter about a foot away from my hand and dropped it into my palm. She then raised her hand even higher and moved her whole arm in a backward arc (away from me) before dropping her arm to her side. She took painstaking care in making sure she did not touch my hand. Then she pursed her lips, wrapped her jacket tightly around her bosom, and walked into the store.

When I go grocery shopping, I try to dress as comfortably as possible. I am buying food for a family of six at several different stores and that shit can take forever. So I'll be damned if I'm going in there in my Sunday best only to smell like a mixture of seafood and laundry detergent by the time I leave. But there is no way I looked like the kind of person that you wouldn't want to touch.

The first thing I thought was, "No, bitch, the black doesn't rub off." Then I thought that was a little unfair. Having that thought made me realize that I can be overly sensitive, thinking that white people are judging me all the time. Logically, I know that's not true. My head knows that most people, regardless of race, have way too much shit to deal with everyday to bother themselves with my weave, or lack thereof, my parenting skills, or my grammar. But my heart worries about it just the same. I know, it's sad. I didn't even realize how much the opinions of Caucasians mattered to me until now. And here I was thinking I was evolved.

When I was a little girl, my mother could take a lot of our crap, but she would kill us if we embarrassed her in front of white people. One of her favorite things to say was, "Child, if you embarrass me in front of these white people, so help me God, I will beat the black off you." And she wasn't bullshitting either, so we sat our asses down and acted like we 'had some sense.' Parents sometimes don't realize how much impact their words and actions have on their children. I'm damned near forty (don't EVER tell anybody I told you that) and I'm still afraid to embarrass my dead mother in front of the white people.

I understand that this probably makes some of you uncomfortable, but if we don't talk about our differences, we'll always be afraid of them. Where the hell has that fear gotten us so far? I don't know about you, but I can't fucking stand being afraid.

Now back to my new best friend. I've come up with some (semi) PC reasons why this uptight woman didn't dare graze my hand with hers:

1. She doesn't know my ass. I'm not too keen on touching strangers either, so how the hell can I be mad at her?
2. She's a crazy germaphobe. You know those people who are afraid to even leave the house because of all the potential germs they might meet. She did seem awful pristine for the grocery store.
3. She thought I was evil. You think maybe I scared her with the huge gothic cross I sometimes wear around my neck? You know, you can't be too leery of people who don't wear 'normal' religious paraphernalia.
4. She was overwhelmed by my sexy. And who the fuck isn't?
5. Maybe, and I am leaning toward this one, she thought, "Eek! There's a big, sexy black bitch I don't know wearing the goddamn mother of gothic crosses! Think of all the fucking germs she must have!"

Feel free to post any reasons you might come up with. I don't offend easily, so have the fuck at it. Afterwards, we'll hold hands and sing, "We Are The World."