I can't believe I finally let the insulting biatch who works here get to me.

For some reason, the women here are very cool, laid back, casual, non-superficial, etc. with the exception of this only hosebeast.

She picks a Monday, of all days, to give me an accurate assessment of my hair color (which, by the way, is safety orange. I know that, you horrid beastie. No one could fail to observe its Day-Glo splendor unless they were blind. Duck hunters in Maine can see my hair right now.)

Instead of using my veritable holster-o-insults (a) oh, yeah? Well YOU look pretty good...for 1986. (b) Uh, I was trying to cover the gray and I made a mistake. Surely you know all about that, being so much OLDER than me, and all. (c) by the way, your boyfriend will never marry you.

But I'm not like that, y'see.

Instead, I just gave her a very sarcasm-laden, "thanks, Maria," which went completely over her head, as she replied, "well. It is [stripper orange]."

Ugggh. Cannot stand people with no tact. Plus it's no fun when they don't even realize they've contracted hoof-and-mouth disease from putting their foot in there so much.

Don't you hate it when you let these types get to you...? She is worse than the older, paunchy guy who always inquires about my weight while shoveling 3,200 lbs. of bean dip down his piehole with tortilla chips.

Apparently, her mother never told her, "if you can't say something nice...always carry Anal-EZE because..."

Excuse me. My foot is late for a meeting.