Hands up if you have you ever had a public hissy fit? Not a garden variety, standard spit, but a real cracker, one where you went right off your Barry Crocker?
I‘ll go first….
A lifetime ago, Man and I used to shop in the city for his business suits. Suit expeditions meant a chance to drop some serious, pre-kids cash. Suits for him always meant something new for me too. So one Saturday, with good moods intact, we headed to a specific store he knew about – Italian suits at reasonable prices.
It wasn’t hard to notice that service was not the forte of the staff in the store. The salesmen, (no women), were pushy, to the point of arrogant. Their priority seemed to be getting your size and getting you out the door. They were greasy yes, but we played along – the prices were too good not to.
As Man tried on his suits, I people-watched a Russian couple beside me. The man was trying on a distinct looking, pale grey suit and with his impractical colour choice, I assumed it would be his suit for their wedding.
My Man motioned to me that he didn’t particularly like his suits and he passed them out, over the door.
Upon seeing me holding an armful of clothes, Greasy Salesman reappeared. I thanked him and explained politely that we would look around. He pulled the suits away from me, a little too quickly, then mumbled something, too quietly for me to decipher.
While I waited for Man to get changed, I followed Greasy Salesman with my gaze and watched him engage rudely with every interaction. This shark was hungry for sales.
In the meantime, Russian Bride was dejectedly adjusting Russian Groom’s grey suit. The fabric was quite noticeably, puckering on the shoulder.
Enter Greasy Salesman.
He too adjusted Russian Groom and assured Russian Bride that there was nothing wrong. She kept pointing to the area and explained in limited terms, that it was poorly sewn.
Enter Back-up Greasy Salesman.
Together, they performed a chorus of, No, no, no! It’s good quality!
But Russian Bride, rightfully, was unrelenting.
Before I go on, I need to tell you that one of my many talents is knowing a veritable UN of curse words and insults.
Robo can say ‘hello’, ‘I love you’ and ‘get fucked’ in a number of foreign tongues.
Arabic being one of them.
Back-up Greasy conversed directly with Original Greasy in Arabic and what happened next remains one of the foulest acts of hate I personally witnessed.
Original Greasy pointed to his watch, then pointed towards Russian Bride, and loudly and clearly said the Arabic word for slut.
Disgusting. Little. Man.
So Robo stepped in.
I spoke directly to Original Greasy.
What did you say?
What did you call her?
Original Greasy was dumb struck. He didn’t say a word.
Did you call this woman a slut?
The store went silent. I was using my clearest, loudest teacher voice.
I turned to Russian Bride.
He called you a slut, you know?
Then back to Original Greasy.
How dare you?!
You’re a PIG!
People from across the store held their items of clothing and stared at me.
I didn’t care. I was so far beyond angry that my voice quivered and my body trembled.
Man finally emerged from the fitting room, (God knows what took him so long) and steered me out of the store with both hands on my shoulders.
Original Greasy followed us out. I could tell he wanted to hurl abuse but he used his better judgement.
Maybe I could’ve handled things differently.
Perhaps I should’ve written a letter of complaint, but I think I made my point.
I hope that misogynistic piece of shit learnt that disrespecting women in ANY language is NOT ON.
Man’s expensive Italian suit days are over but I remember my dummy spit with pride.
Did Original Greasy get into any trouble?
Did Russian Bride or Groom understand what I was saying?
I hope they did.
Did people think I was a crazy lady?
They probably did but non mi importa!
That’s Italiano for I couldn’t give a faaark!
My Man, by the way, said, Good on you… But you really went off at him…
Have you seen a misogynistic pig in action?
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The Lizards are looking forward to reading your cringeworthy tantrums in our link-up this week.
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