Happy Monday one and all. I worked a 13 hour day yesterday, so I’ve put the kids in daycare, and am kicking back by plucking my chin hairs and lancing my whiteheads. “Ewww”, you say? You haven’t even heard the worst yet. Let’s open up our cerebral cortexes and fire up those neurons. We’re going deep into M.O.M mode. It’s been a while, and you’ve missed it. I know you have.
For a Sunday, Jimmy Carter Blvd was very busy. It had rained the night before and the air was damp and heavy with the scent of exhaust and fumes. I parked my car and surveyed my surroundings nervously. You never knew who might approach you in this neck of the woods. Small gangs of Hispanic and Black kids trolled the parking lot of the gas station I was sitting in. Across the busy street the gaily painted abandoned Taco Shack held my attention while I waited for Douche Bag to show up. He had picked up Nadjah for the weekend, and this Shell was our new rendezvous point. It was 5 pm, and I hoped he wouldn’t be late, as was his habit. I did not like the looks of the burly Mexican man glaring at me from the driver’s side of his taxi. It was hot, and there was only one shady spot under the concrete awning. We both wanted it, and in the end he inched his car forward just enough to let me share the shade. I parked 2 feet behind him, where I could keep him in my direct line of vision.
We were both waiting for someone. My assumption was that he was picking up one of the numerous Hispanic mothers who often mill about that area with a portion of their brood in tow. Unsmiling and pushing their double strollers, they would seem a perfect companion for the frowning brown skinned hulk in a trucker’s hat and tan plaid shirt.
Douche Bag pulled up a few moments later, this time only 3 minutes late. He approached my car and reached into my window and pressed my shoulder blades. I resisted the urge to flinch at the contact.
“My offer to go for a walk still stands,” he said.
“And I still refuse it, thank you,” I retorted.
(He asked me to join him on an amiable walk about two weeks ago to discuss child support, and probably to take a stroll down memory lane. Unfortunately, the scenery in his memory is vastly different from the reality I recall and I will never be in the mood to debate those details with him.)
As Nadjah buckled herself in the car, the taxi driver’s fare walked out of the gas station and approached his trunk. He got out to open it. Douche Bag was still carrying on out how we would be friends one day, but I was only halfway listening. My attention was drawn to the woman approaching the vehicle. I could not take my eyes off her.
She stood at a confident 5’3”, and had to weight about 250 lbs. It was difficult to tell exactly how old she was based on the way she was dressed. With her wig askew – styled in a coal black asymmetric bob -she sauntered up to the waiting vehicle, dragging her feet lazily with every step. Unemployed and underemployed women in their early twenties all seem to have this trait in common, so she may have been about 26. She was wearing a tight polyester t-shirt, and her massive breasts and belly strained against the bronze and gold fabric revealing every blubbery bump and ripple that cascaded her compact body. The sound of her sandals making a sucking sound against the concrete drew my attention to her feet, which were beefy and not pedicured. One of the rules of summer in the South is that if you going to wear sandals, you must have a pedicure. It’s just common courtesy. I noticed she was wearing a black skirt, which might have been the most appropriate item of clothing in her ensemble. It was pleated with an elastic band and came to just above her knee. It put me in the mind of a ballerina’s tutu.
I wracked my brains in an effort to recall a ballet about the moon. It would serve as a pleasant distraction from the hot mess I was looking at; but I before I could conjure up a title, the Rotund Lady presented me with hers.
Yes, that’s right. She mooned me.
Carrying two small bags, she bent over into the trunk of the taxi and laid them down. As she did so, the bottoms of her butt cheeks dropped from beneath the hem of her too-short black skirt, like sweaty brown low hanging fruit. Horror washed over my face. It looked like a cruel demi-god had thrown gobs of mashed sweet potatoes at her backside and asked it to serve as an a**.
Douche Bag had said his goodbyes to Nadjah at this point, and was retreating towards his vehicle. His eyes followed my affrighted gaze to the dimpled glistening mass that was this unknown woman’s booty. Catching his glance, she bent over slightly more seductively and gave him a suggestive look.
You want some of this, her eyes said, it’s hot and fonky just for you…
I drove off before I could throw up.
See? This is why I hate summer in the South. Why Lawd…why?!?