The Bitch is Baaaack

About four or five waffle irons into the narrowing down process, I am down to two I can choose from. Price is right, features are good. The deciding factor turns out to be one of storage. In my teensy, tiny kitchen, I may need to unload something to wedge this thing into a cabinet. Based on HxWxD measurements, one waffle iron moves ahead of the pack. Unless some equally storable, fabulously versatile waffle iron materializes between me and the end of the aisle, I have my winner.

And Endorra is still pivoting aimlessly and unsteadily at the intersection between the George Foreman Grills, the Fry Babies, and the remaining runner up waffle irons.

Hello, 911? Silver alert in the local Kohls. Dangerously slow-witted elderly woman has come unharnessed from her caregivers and is terrorizing the small kitchen appliance section weilding a cane. Rescue personnel should consider her armed and dangerous. Bring riot gear.

I actually hesitate for a moment. Not that I am afraid to walk past her...hell, I'd sashay past her whistling "The Bitch is Back" if I didn't think it would offend the other little old lady in the section who appears to be trying to buy her granddaughter a Whoopee Pie Maker (It's a banner year for nearly useless appliances, evidently)

But Endorra is diabolical. Truly she is. And it isn't like I haven't poked Mama Bear a few times in the last few years. Hurled a few irretractible insults. Shamed her first born. (He did deserve it, have no doubt!) Verbally bitch slapped her only daughter (again, deserved) and blew off the only grandchild's wedding she will be of sound enough mind to remember. Her hatred toward me has been festering for some time now. Some people forgive and forget. Some people carry a grudge to the grave (the big square grave, as it will likely be).

I would not put it past her, even if I gave her a wide berth as I passed, to throw her large gelatinous body on the ground, wailing and moaning, and shrieking that I pushed her. Claiming I attacked her.

Not that the idea didn't once hold quite a lot of appeal. I just don't care anymore. Even hurling a little verbal jab has no appeal. She is insignificant. A bug on my windshield.

But I'm kind of trapped. My only other escape route from this poorly designed section of Kohls is currently blocked by a flatbed cart loaded with patio umbrellas, and a man on a motorized cart who is struggling with a 3-point turn, a la Austin Powers in the first movie.

I can stand there a while longer and let it be obvious that I am avoiding the brush with Satan. Or I can buck up and take the risk.

I am not about to be caught sweating this out.

First, I check my appearance in one of the low-budget art-deco mirror things popular in dormitories and first apartments. I am indeed looking fabulous. Great outfit, hair and makeup are casual perfection.

I go for it. I'll bet on Kohls having surveillance cameras to refute any claims of violence (no matter how deserved they would be!). So I tuck my waffle iron under my arm, sling my high-end purse over my shoulder, smile with satisfaction, and stride confidently in the direction of the end of the aisle, currently monopolized by the ever-pivoting, disoriented Endorra.

I am whistling "The Bitch Is Back" ...but only in my head. I am indeed, above the fray.