I don’t know if it’s the newest rage in hormone replacement therapy, but I have encountered some nutbar old women in the last few weeks who seem to be working out their hot flashes on my mojo. Now don’t get me wrong– I love the old ladies. I hope to be one myself someday. But get a load of this crap:

The Gym

So, every Wednesday, I bust my ass to make it to the 9:15 workout class after dropping off Funk at preschool at 9. I walk in to the gym  at 9:12, drop Squeak like a hot potato at child care, and bust it to the class. There was space for just one more person.

We get through warm up, and all of the sudden an older woman (who has been a shithead to me before) sidles up not a foot and a half away. This is a DANCE workout class, yo. I am preparing to flail around in the name of cardiac health.

I ask her to move. She has noise-canceling headphones on. I guess her commitment to health ends at listening to Usher.

I just keep working out. And I’ll admit, I am really mature. I turn up the flail a little.

She’s not the most coordinated soul, god love her, (probably because she can’t hear the music) so each time I flail left, I clip her flailing right. She whacks me repeatedly. Finally, I ask her again to scoot over. She doesn’t hear me. I tap her on the shoulder, and ask again. “There’s nowhere to go!” she says. “I know,” I say. “But I was here first and I don’t have any room.”

“Tough shit,” gramma says.

Well WTH am I supposed to do?

Yes, I turned up the flail. I got a really good cardio workout that day.

The Fabric Store

I mentioned that I’ve been sewing a bit? So that means that on any given day I am probably going to the fabric store. On this particular day, I am beside myself to discover that a lot of the the thicker, decorator fabric I like to use for my purses for TWO DOLLARS. WAHOOO! Clearance rocks my socks!

So I start bringing rolls of fabric up to the cutting table, asking her to cut one yard of each. While I am walking back to the fabric bins for more rolls, an angry older woman walks up to the cutting table, grabs one of the rolls I put on the table, and says, “I will take all of this.”

The worker at the cutting table looks over at me uncomfortably, uneasy about what she should do. She hasn’t cut my yard yet.

“Sweet,” I say to the woman, “I’m only taking a yard.”

“Oh, no.” She says, “I need all of it.”

Ok. All I want is a yard. I pulled it off the rack. I was there, I got it, I put it on the table. And also? ONE. YARD. So I make a joke about how it’s only one yard, and resist the urge to tell the employee to give ME the rest of the roll. (I’m really quite mature.)

“No,” says angry old woman, “I don’t think you understand. I was in here earlier, I bought seven and a half yards of this fabric. And I have since decided that I need the rest. I can’t get any more at this price. I need the rest of the roll.”

“Oh!” I say, knowing the answer before I ask, “was it being held?”

“Well… no,” she admits, “but I need it. I HAVE TO HAVE IT.”

Let me back up. Did I mention that this was the fabric?

Yes. Bright motherfucking neon green canvas.

What the hell.

The employee starts to cut my one, singular, yard of fabric. THREE FEET.

Angry old neon green fabric lady starts to foam at the mouth.

“I cannot believe this. I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!!! Why are you cutting that?! That’s my fabric!”

Well, what am I supposed to do? I mean, other than ask for the rest of the roll out of sheer immature cruelty. (Which took a LOT of self control, btw.) I just stand here, like Wrinklestiltskin isn’t about to stomp her way through the floor at Hancock’s over 92 square inches of 1988′s signature color. Of course, by this point, other shoppers are noticing her, noticing us. She beseeches them to take her side in the Revolucion de Canvas. No one really knows what to say.

I mean, seriously! SERIOUSLY!