Milky Vengeance: The Consequences of Pissing Off a Fat Lady

During the summer of 1994, I had three small children at home including my six month old son. I had gained approximately one metric ton during the pregnancy as my best friend, who was pregnant with her twins at the same time, and I would eat our way through the malls giving zero fucks.

I had to run to the store for a few things, like you often do with a house full of kids. It was a hot, sticky day in Gresham, OR, and I was wearing a peach tank top and some jeans shorts, my hair up in a messy ponytail to keep it from sticking to my sweaty, sunburned shoulders.

I parked my car on the far end of the lot, and, as I walked towards the grocery store, this 70s era Bronco with the top carved off, making it fully open topped, slowly cruised by, slowing down even more as it pulled up next to me. It was chock full o’ dude-bros. I didn’t know any of them, so this was odd.

One of them yells loud enough for anyone in proximity to hear, “HEY! YOU, YOU BEACHED WHALE!”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and acknowledged them with a look of “What the fuck??” Because…was he actually talking to me?

The four or five dudes laughed, the driver yelling, “That fat bitch has no business wearing shorts…” as they sped on by, leaving me standing in the parking lot with my jaw dropped to the ground.

Why?!

I went into the store, trying to shake off the dude-bros, and I couldn’t. I’m in the midst of a prolonged postpartum funk, I’m exhausted, I’m hot because it was, at that point, the hottest day of the summer, and I was actually enjoying a break from an apartment with no AC and a car with no AC. The grocery store was a bit of fucking reprieve from reality. Usually.

But, today, my body had somehow provoked a verbal assault that was designed to humiliate me just for existing.

So, instead, I stood in the dairy aisle fighting back tears because a bunch of dudes in backward hats and muscle shirts called me a fat bitch whale.

I grabbed what I had come in for, minus the peaceful reprieve, paid for my groceries, rolled my cart through the parking lot towards my parking spot, and there it sat:

The shitty open-topped Bronco.

But it was devoid of dude-bros.

I suddenly felt like I had to do…something. Anything.

I WANTED to slash their tires, but I also didn’t want to go to jail. That and I didn’t have a knife for tire-slashing.

I had only one weapon, well, three actually: 3 gallons of Darigold 2% Milk.

I glanced at the milk.
I glanced at the open-topped Bronco.
An open-topped Bronco sitting there, the interior completely covered with a dark red carpet, in 98 degrees of summer sun.

There was only one thing I could do…

I looked around and saw that I was mostly alone in the parking lot. I grabbed two of the gallons of milk, ripped off the caps, and proceeded to empty the contents of the milk jugs into this Bronco.

On the seats.
In the speakers.
In the heating vents.
In the dash.
Soaking the entirety of its shitty red carpet.

Adrenaline was screaming through my veins, and I was laughing. Crying a little still, because hormones are a bitch, but laughing. I felt goddamn TRIUMPHANT knowing the havoc I had wrecked upon this Bro-buggy. I giggled at the mere idea of what sort of smell would be emanating from the curdled milk in every nook and cranny of this dickwagon.

I glanced over at my cart and thought, do I use the last jug of milk?

Hell yes I do.

Into the Bronco it went, painting white the parts of carpet which had already absorbed my prior douching for good measure.

I threw the empty milk jugs into my cart and ran to my car, threw the groceries into the back of my old Ford Taurus mom-mobile, and sped out of there like a maniac.

I pulled into my parking spot, grabbed my groceries (sans-milk) and ran upstairs to my apartment, throwing open the door so I could get inside and slam the door behind me in case anyone was chasing me, even though I was pretty sure no one had even seen me.

My husband turns around and says, “Hey, you’re ba….OH GOD, WHAT’S WRONG???” The look on my face was crazed, tear-stained, and victorious.

“I DIDN’T BRING THE MILK HOME,” I blurted. And then I laughed hysterically at how little that answer would make sense to him or anyone else who hadn’t witnessed the previous events.

 


 

I sometimes wonder, almost 24 years later, how much destruction my retaliatory milk-assault caused.

I hope it was as malodorous, fetid, and barf-inducing as I fantasized.

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