Fat! Fat! Fat!

Today, I decided it was a good idea to ring up $140 worth of groceries at the self check out at the grocery store. I know, bad idea.
This woman came to the check out behind me with her two children. Her son was pretending to do karate and her daughter was in the grocery cart. I looked at her and smiled, loving her little Afro puff.
"Hello," I said to the little girl.
She replied by pointing at me and saying, "Fat, fat, fat!"
I look to the mother who was not paying attention. She was apparently searching for gold in her purse.
"That isn't a nice thing to say," I said to the little girl.
"I'm sorry," she said, then went on to say, "Fat! Fat! Fat! Big!"
I stared at this girl blankly. She had to have been about 5; too old to be in the buggy and too old to be calling me fat.
I got way too close to her and said with a smile, "That really isn't nice." I was trying to communicate with my eyes, What? Are you retarded you little dumb bitch?! I said you are being an asshole!
Getting uncomfortably close to the cart got her mom's attention.
"What's going on?" she asked.
The little boy stopped fighting with the air to inform the mother of the situation.
"Do you think that that's cute?" The mom asked the little girl.
"You are a pretty little girl," I said, walking away, flicking her off. "You really shouldn't say ugly things."
"Right!" said the mom, not looking at me to see my festive hand language.
Karate man saw it though. He thought it was funny.

Embarrassed

P said some out of line shizzle to me not too long ago. I would tell you what he said, but I would be too ashamed, frankly.
Any way, I called him and talked to him about it yesterday after not talking to him for two weeks, and he told me that what he said was meant to be "light-hearted" and "if I took offense to it then that was just me."
I was numb. I didn't say anything...but this: "I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at me for letting you get so comfortable with disrespecting me. If you ever say something to me like that again, we will not be cool, we will not be friends."
His response, "I don't respond to ultimatums."
Oh, so it's an ultimatum to show me some respect?!
After a friend called him and called him on it, he sent me a text, apologizing right before he brought up some off-hand example of me offending him. I personally don't believe that because I don't believe he can be offended.
The moral of the story: I am so embarrassed. I am embarrassed that I am hurt by the words of a man that doesn't give a shit, clearly. I am embarrassed that I am his friend after 19 years of watching my mother get disrespected. I am embarrassed that I am trying to justify his out-of-line words after seeing my friends and the women around me get disrespected. I am embarrassed that after 25 years of being stern on not disrespecting myself, I did so by letting him do it for me. I am embarrassed that I am even taking time to vent about this while he is probably going along with his day, not concerned.
Am I hurt? Yes. Hurt and confused. I don't get how I am thrown cruelty daily be strangers but somehow, his words always shatter the glass.
Brownie said let it burn and my girl said his friendship to me is poisonous. All I can say is, either way, I don't want to be my mom. Period.

Sins of the Mother

It would take too many posts to catch you up on the Sorta situation. I know, I know, I said that he was out of the picture posts ago and he should be. What can I say to defend my stupidity other than I like him?
We were supposed to meet up in New Orleans during my visit. He got the days off work and everything. We were supposed to chill. Long story short, he stood me up, claiming that he got sick after eating something on Canal Street. Two things: of course you got sick eating something on Canal Street and I'm not sure I believe him. I want to because he has been honest in the past, I think, and again, because I like him and the hassle of finding a new beau is just overwhelming!
Fast forward to yesterday. The doorbell rang and my mother ran to get the door. This is odd, seeing that my mom is 45 with the knees of Father Time and the back of a field hand. So yes, seeing her run up the stairs aroused my suspicions. Who was at the door? Why it was Al. Yay.
For lack of a better term, I call him my stepfather, for there really isn't a phrase to define a man who never married your mother yet fathered her other children while reigning Hell on your childhood. I'm being kind when I call him pathetic. But I will leave the treasure that is Al for another post. He is not the point of the story. The point of the story is how my mother runs to this negro, still, after years of him shitting on her and her children.
Watching this grotesque display got me to thinking about Sorta. How many times do I have to be slapped before I realize that I am being mistreated? My mom is still getting slapped. Brownie told me I deserve better. I agree. What happened to my mom that she didn't care to look for someone better? Did she just get tired like I am now? Whatever the case may be, the whole sight kicked some sense into me, because even though I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be my mother.