High (butt)Holy Days

I don't know what was going on today in Hillmomba, but some people were just downright rumpus-holes.

While waiting in line at Orb K to cash in a scratch-off winner, the girl behind me crept so close that if I had turned suddenly, I daresay her chin would have severed my jugular vein. She was probably early 20s. A young Millennial. I guess they don't understand the concept of personal space, having been raised where everybody gets a trophy, everybody gets an award at the end of the school year, and the class has 10 valedictorians.

I'm no spring chicken. I'm a young Baby Boomer. I value my space. My space is hard-earned. I carved out that space for myself, and by cracky, I'm not willing to give it away just because somebody else thinks they should get a portion of it.

I was trying to lean back and see the display of lottery tickets on a board on the floor leaned up against the counter. Let the record show that I was merely trying to lean back. Not take a step. Not try a trust fall. Just a crane of my neck to get a better view. I swear Young Mil was breathing in my ear. I could have posed as a cartoon model for a two-headed monster for a MAD magazine cover. If she'd been any closer, we might have been mistaken for conjoined twins.

So close was Young Mil that I actually said, "Excuse me," as I limbo-swayed to get a look at those tickets. I rarely say excuse me. I usually make do with a huff and the stinkeye. That's my time-trusted repertoire. It's been working for me until today. Never underestimate the entitledness of the young Millennials.

From there, I proceeded to Country Mart, where I (and the truck in front of me) had trouble turning in from the side road by the Dairy Queen and Hardee's, due to a rumpus-hole who had to make a WIDE right turn onto our street. And by WIDE, I mean from our lane.

As I was shopping, I was rushed a couple of times by a dude pushing a wide, metal-wheeled supply cart. Like he thought maybe I wanted to play chicken, him having a wood-and-metal cart, and me having flesh-and-bone shins. What a rumpus-hole! As I was leaving, he followed me out the door and onto the sidewalk and across the parking lot, to where he was parked a space away from me. Okay. That's on ME, because his truck was already there when I parked. But I wanted to say, "Don't follow me so close with your squeaky wheel, and why don't you give it some grease!"

I put my groceries (broccoli, chicken, hoisen sauce, Bugles) in the back of T-Hoe, and wrote the store initials on the back of my lottery ticket. And another rumpus-hole pulled in right beside me! Between me and the squeaky cart dude's grocery truck. Seriously. He had a choice of approximately 90 other parking spaces (74 if you don't count the handicap spaces), only six of which were taken, and none in the area where we were parked. I'm pretty sure he was a young Millennial.

As I was pulling into the Casey's parking lot, a woman in a red Caravan came in the upper entrance and decided to drive on through, out the lower entrance. Where I was coming in! I guess she expected me to ram the car at the gas pumps out of the way to let her pass. I'm pretty sure she huffed and gave me the stinkeye, and I most certainly did not hear, "Excuse me."

Then, on my way out of town to rush home to my newly-retired Farmer H...a maroon pickup truck appeared in T-Hoe's mirror. I have no idea where it would have come from, since a check of the mirror a nanosecond earlier had shown that T-Hoe's rear was clear of any other traffic. It was a dually truck, wide mirrors. I despise a tailgater. I was driving the speed limit. It's not like I was my mom, going 15 miles under. I drive that road every single day. At speed limit.

I signaled my turn well ahead of time, while I was on the bridge just before my road. I slowed to turn as normal. I'm not sloshing my 44 oz Diet Coke for no good reason. Can you believe that Truckster ROARED his engine as I got off the road?

He may or may not have seen a little birdie flying inside T-Hoe's driver's compartment. That's Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's farewell to rumpus-holes.