I don’t often enter into chick fights. In fact, I tend to avoid altercations altogether if I can at all help it. I’m a people pleaser in that way, and it totally blows. That said, there have been a few times I’ve had my rankles up, talked some smack and got ready to rumble. One of those times was in a South Chicago bar, circa 1988. I won’t go into it. But let’s just say that enormous hair was pulled and fringe leather jackets were tugged. Another time was at Legoland with a be-Bebe’d mombo and her goombah husband. In that instance, rhinestone sunglasses were involved, and pricey strollers.
Still, it takes a lot for me to seek conflict. (Unless it’s with The Rock, and for the record, he says, THAT blows.)
But today, today, I chick fought the heck out of it. Oh I attempted to stay out of it, I really did. But there’s just those cases where you can’t, you know? Like if someone cuts in front of you at Cold Stone?
THIS was one of those times.
There’s this mean mom, see. For a visual, she looks like Christine Baranski if Christine Baranski were a crack whore.
Oh my God. Total resemblance.
At any rate, she drives her freaking minivan down our suburban cul de sac street every day to pick up her child at a home daycare and she FLOORS. IT. I’m talking 40mph in a kids-are-playing-zone.
She’s been nicely asked several times to please slow down. Her answer? You should put more “kids are playing” signs up. What I’m thinking? You can see the kids playing, butt nut, take your crack-whorey Christine Baranski foot off the accelerator.
But still, she speeds, literally speeds, down our one-way street. With kids on it. Every day. She obviously is trying to prove a point. But her point? You can’t tell me what to do. Our point? Please don’t kill our children. Kinda trumps her Christine Baranski crack whore point.
Today, my neighbors and I were talking about oh I don’t know, banana bread and Jagermeister (oh! the suburbs.) and we heard, rather than saw, the Christine Baranski whore rounding the corner (the blind corner may I add) and continued to stare aghast as she sped to the end of the cul de sac, narrowly missing three-year-olds and a tetherball.
Well, this was it. My neighbor, who had spoken to this lady many times about the lead foot deal, asked me to speak up today. And instead of stepping up, my stomach roiled and my sense of propriety peaked. Why, I couldn’t! Christine Baranski whore might not like me! What? Save innocent childrens’ lives? What if I don’t have any friends as a result of doing so?
I’m a real insecure number.
BUT. BUT. This lady comes back around on her departure, and as my neighbor flags her down, Baranski flashes this tight, purse-lipped, judgmental bloodless smile and I knew we had a chick fight coming. I cannot stand stick-up-your-ass sorts. Know-it-alls. PTA moms with superiority complexes. Bloodless Christine Baranski whore smiles. It was so, so ON.
And what happened next? Raised my rankles in such a way that I approached the car with purpose, with verve, with CHICK FIGHTINESS, and I’m still breathing hard.
So this lady says? THIS. LADY. SAYS. “Don’t you have backyards? Why don’t you put your children in the backyard?” AND. THEN. “I’m going the speed limit. The rest is up to you. Get your kids out of the street.” AND. ALSO. “I don’t let my kid play in the street and you shouldn’t either.” And it was there, right there, that I strode to the car and said, “IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU ARE GOING THE SPEED LIMIT IF IT IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THE CONDITIONS, I.E. KIDS PLAYING IN THE STREET, SLOW THE HELL DOWN. and “YOU HAVE BEEN ASKED MANY TIMES TO SLOW DOWN ON THIS STREET AND SO ARE AWARE THAT IT IS AN ISSUE AND SO SLOW THE HELL DOWN,” and “YOUR CHILD IS 6 MONTHS OLD. WAIT UNTIL SHE IS 3 AND TRY TO KEEP HER IN THE BACKYARD, AND MEANWHILE SLOW THE HELL DOWN” and “WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE A CHRISTINE BARANSKI WHORE, YOU CHRISTINE BARANSKI WHORE?” and “THIS IS A CUL DE SAC SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF SUBURBIA, AND THERE WILL BE KIDS PLAYING IN IT AND IF YOU ARE THE SORT TO KEEP YOUR KIDS IN A WHITE-CARPETED STERILE BORING SILENT HOME AND REFUSE TO LET THEM PLAY OUTSIDE THEN PITY THE CHILDREN WHO GROW UP WITH YOUR TIGHT-LIPPED ASS,” and “SLOW THE HELL DOWN.”
Right, So that was my chick fight.
Christine Baranski strode on in her minivan with her 6-month-old sure-to-be-like-Reese-Witherspoon-in-Election and I stood in the middle of the street with my mouth agape, dying to put on my fringe leather jacket and rumble like it was 1988.
And in all seriousness, how would you handle this? My more assertive neighbor wants to buy a crapload of “Kids At Play” yellow signs and place them in an obstacle-course-like configuration so Christine Baranski has to slalom her way through our street. I say we put up road blocks and charge her a “bitch toll” to pass through. Either way, I’m thinking I’m about to rip her pursed lips right off, which wouldn’t be very suburban of me.