All y’all are gunna need to g’won and take a sit for this’un.
Translation: Sit down, people.
Not everyone in the South is nice. In fact I met the Wicked Witch of the South last week. She works at Harris Teeter on Eastchester in High Point bless her heart.
Bless her PEA PICKIN’ HEART [is that correct usage, Steph?]
Translation: I wanted to punch her in the throat.
As you know, Anna decided she was going to attend the Father-Daughter dance at school [sorry, my keyboard won’t type DADDY-daughter. Blech. More on that in another post]. She notified Paul of this on Wednesday before the dance. Well, she knew before that, but Paul finally acknowledged his defeat and lack of a way out of this tween spectacle.
Anna would be leaving from her mom’s house so I was not going to have much say in her look (or so I thought—more on that in another post. Man, I have a lot to say), but I really wanted to participate somehow. So I decided to order a corsage for Anna. Well, I call it a corsage, not sure what You People call it. I have heard it referred to quite a bit as a “wristlet.” Really? That sounds more like a little piece of bone that you nibble on during cocktail hour. After some research (i.e. texting my uber-aware friend Ruthan) I went to the local grocery store on Thursday during lunch to order the corsage/niblett wristlet.
So I walk in and wander to the fragrant section of produce. A high school aged boy was leaning over the counter unpacking boxes. He was straight as they come so I knew there was no way he would be able to help me with my riblet wristlet. Luckily right at that moment it clouded over and a freezing blast of air ripped through the flower corner. Homeboy straightened right up and told me Brunehilda would be able to help me, she was the Head Florist (which I think it Southern for Only Mean Florist in Nawth Ca’lina).
I assumed my demur posture, tucking my tail between my legs and avoiding eye contact and inquired, “what kind of lead time do you require for a corsage?”
“When do you need it?” she countered. I could see the sun glinting off her canine teeth. My knees started shaking.
“Tomorrow?” I apologized. Homeboy cringed, knowing it was about to get colder up in there.
“……………..S I G H…………..,” as the Wicked Witch of the Rose reached into her pocket. My heart was hammering out of my chest. I was about to die right there in the middle of smelly flowers. Would I be able to get the flowers I bled on to travel with me to the funeral home? Was this one stop shopping for the funeral home? Wait, what in the world? She was going to kill me with a pen? Beat me with a notepad?
She was going to take my order! Little did I know it was only about to get worse. I could not have disappointed This Woman more.
What flowers did I want
Um, live ones?
What color flowers did I want?
What do you have?
What color is her dress?
No idea. I’m the…wait for it…. wait for it….step mom.
This seemed to connect with her on a visceral level. Like she was identifying with me: evil to evil.
What is your name?
Finally! Something I can answer! I gave her the information and then remembered Anna loves
purple. So I told Her, “She likes purple.”
Remember that part of the movie “Dirty Dancing” when Jennifer Grey’s character Baby goes to the party
with the cool kids and says, “I carried a watermelon.” Yep, that’s what I did with the purple comment.
“She likes purple.”
Awkward silence… Crickets chirping in the background…. “See you and your $20 tomorrow at 5pm.”
Bless her pea picking heart, indeed.
Bitch.
