You Have GOT to be Kidding Me

Look, I know I was raised in the South. In a town the size of Mayberry. I have relatives who live in Manchester and I have fed cows on their dairy farm (feel free to pick yourself up off the floor anytime now).

However? I have a sense of decorum. Manners. Etiquette, if you will.

And so, it BLOWS MY MIND when I'm in a public place and people act like they were raised in a barn.

The Setting: Target in Murfreesboro (if Target were a person, I would cook it steak every night and tell it bedtime stories and make it cookies with the special heart-shaped cookie-cutter. That's how much I love it.)

Myself and Dawson, fully strapped in his newly wiped-down, antibacterialized buggy, are be-bopping our way down the light-bulb aisle when I hear,

"You know? Maybe we'uns should git a price check on that there kitty litter. That's too ----- expensive for ----- kitty litter."

Since this is a G-Rated blog, I'll let you imagine the adjectives the fine gentleman used. In a public place.

As my brain cells start to die, I peek down the aisle to see what I can only describe as Boss Hogg and Daisy shopping together for pet supplies.

There are cut-off jean shorts involved. I'll leave it at that.

Daisy is carrying a keg-sized Slurpee from the fine snack bar located at the front of the store; Boss is pushing the buggy that's currently loaded down with tire cleaner and a yoga mat. A yoga mat.

Yes, I looked.

If I had been driving a car instead of a buggy? You would've heard those squealing sounds as my tires burned rubber.

But wait. It gets better.

After I'd finished my shopping and stuffed my baby's ears with cotton balls, I headed to the check-out lanes to scout out one with a short wait. I'm making my way to said lane when I hear from about 2 yards behind me,

"Oooh, hurry, baby! Git in that one before that fancy lady gits there!"

FANCY LADY???????

ARE YOU SERIOUS?????

Yes, they were talking about me. Apparently, I am fancy because I am wearing clothes that fit and I've washed my hair.

You better believe I pushed my buggy into that lane like a bat out of hay-ell. Dawson looked windblown by the time we came to a stop.

I proceeded to unload my buggy, with nary a comment from the Redneck Peanut Gallery. What I hadn't noticed before in the pet-supply aisle was that they had their daughter with them. She looked about six or seven and was actually wearing size-and- age-appropriate clothing.

They followed me out to the parking lot, and as they were parked a few spaces beyond me, they had to pass me in order to get to their car.

Boss started running toward their car..I mean, pick-up truck, and was taunting his daughter to catch him. Cute, I thought. At least what he lacks in manners he makes up for in fatherly fun.

My hope for his daughter was restored when, upon being pestered to chase him said,

"Awww, Diddy...stop it. I cain't run in a skurt."

My fancy-lady self hopped into my car and pulled away from Target, thankful that I was taught manners and personal hygeine.

By the way? They bought the kitty litter. The jumbo-sized bag.