There I was, pushing my grocery cart filled with delicious cheese, bread and avocados down the personal hygiene aisle, when from my left I heard it: the only thing that pissed me off today.
"Hey, why you gotta look so mean?"
Well, excuse me. This sort of thing happens a lot to me, and I am capable of ignoring it, of being "nice" and "polite," and all that other stuff that doesn't involved loud harangues and the throwing of cans of soup. But this fucker called me mean. Now, the Tart is a lot of things. But I spend about twelve hours a day making goo-goo eyes and squeak noises at a baby and a four-year-old. I am not fucking mean.
Me: "Excuse me?
Him: "You look so mad! Smile!"
Me: "And what exactly would I smile at? Should I just stare into space and smile at nothing?"
Him: "Anything- the world is a wonderful place!"
Me: "You know what would be wonderful? If I could go one day without someone saying something unwelcome to me. There's plenty to be unhappy about. And if I want to walk around not smiling that's my business."
Him: "You're right. I'm sorry, ma'am."
Me: "Okay then."
Sigh. Feminism is a full-time job, ain't it?
The camembert was delicious, by the way.