Damn Retarded Yankee

So today, apparently, I was upgraded from a “Damn Yankee” to a “Damn Retarded Yankee.”

This confuses me too, since us yanks are far more educated on average than the average confederate.  Or southerner. Or whatever the hell they’re called.


Basically these assholes.

Basically these assholes.

Anyway, after I got off work, I noticed that my nose was full of black heads.  One thing anyone who is in my very close inner circle knows is that I’m OCD with my skin care.  I don’t wear makeup or sun screen, but I moisturize my face every night and always have the high end lotions and lip balms to make sure my skin always looks fresh.  I have a professional waxer for my eyebrows and mustache, and overall, I’m just very OCD with my skin.

Today I noticed I had a lot of black heads and I needed nose strips, because apparently I love to induce pain to get rid of black heads.  So on my way home from work, I walked into Walgreens and got what I needed.  I stepped in line and I was the third person in line.  An elderly black woman was behind me and a tiny little white guy was in front of me.  The white guy was buying some cold medicine and was minding his own business.  He looked grumpy and mean and ‘murican, so I turned to the woman behind me.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I said to her.  She smiled.

“Yes, I love this cold weather.”

Good, someone who shared my likeness for the cold.  “Oh I love it.  When it’s cold like this, I open all the windows and put a bunch of the blankets on the bed and wrap up like a cocoon.”

The woman was about to respond to my comment, when the guy in front of me practically yelled.

“That’s just retarded.  I’m sorry, you’re retarded.”

What the fuck, right?

“Well, I’m a Yankee and I like the cold weather.”

“That makes you a damn retarded Yankee then.”

When I looked up damn retarded yankees, I kept getting pictures of Red Sox Fans

When I looked up damn retarded yankees, I kept getting pictures of Red Sox Fans

Dude.  What the fuck was this guy’s problem?

“Sir, I lived in Alaska.  I don’t deal with the hot weather.”

He continued to talk, which surprised me because I was easily 4 inches taller than him and twice his width.  And I am wonder woman.

“That makes you doubly retarded.  Why would anyone want to live in the cold?”

See, this is how I feel about the south.  Why would anyone want to live in the south?

“Because you’re not sweaty and sticky all the time,” I countered.  The super sweet woman behind me nodded in agreement.

“That’s what air conditioning is for.  Besides, what activities can you do in cold weather?  Nothing, that’s what.”



I was feeling a little frustrated.  “There’s a ton to do in the winter.  Skiing, Skijoring, dog sledding, ice fishing, snow shoeing—,”

Then he cut me off.

“Find warmth.  That’s what you do.  Nothing else.”

Then I had it, this guy was probably perverted.

“You can snuggle up to someone for warmth and see what happens,” I said, rather smugly.  Probably too smugly.

“Yeah, and you can just turn down the AC so it’s hot outside and cold inside so you can snuggle up.”

“THAT WASTES MONEY AND RESOURCES!” I nearly roared, making a few heads turn.

Don't worry, the AC is on and it's a thousand fucking degrees outside

Don’t worry, the AC is on and it’s a thousand fucking degrees outside

“It’s better than living somewhere that’s cold where you’ll be eaten by polar bears.”  He grumbled something else, but I wasn’t sure what.


To which he checked out and repeated I was retarded and that I should have a nice night.

The cashier rang me up and said, “I’m from Nebraska.  I prefer snow too.”

So we high fived for the Midwest and I hugged the lady behind me for helping me out with the moron who thinks I’m retarded.

And believe it or not, I didn’t even hyperbolize this story.  It’s damn near spot on.  Because I’m a magnet for weird fucking encounters.

Have you ever had a random stranger call you retarded?  Have you hugged a stranger and had your wallet not stolen?  What is the weirdest encounter that you’ve had with a stranger?  Tell me in the comments!

It’s Official: I am an Amazonian

So I recently started a new job as a donation attendant at a well known thrift store, which I shall leave nameless for the sake of privacy.

Doing this job in the south is very unheard of, considering I’m a woman.  My manager told me this when he hired me, stating women rarely apply for this job.  When I started the job, I couldn’t understand why either.  Yes, it’s very physical, but there are a lot of women as short order cooks as well, and a lot of women who are waitresses, which I think is far more physical than any other job.  But this job, it’s a lot of lifting.  My job description even states that I will be lifting over 75 pounds at a time.

I’m totally okay with this.

My legs are going to look amazing.




However, I’m thinking that I must be an Amazonian.

Last week, I had a woman pull up to the donation door and open the back of her van.  She worked in the office part of our building and stated she wasn’t donating, but she needed some help.  Being as I wasn’t doing anything at that particular moment, I decided to step in and assist.

“Oh ma’am, you are going to need to get a man out here to lift theses boxes.  They’re way too heavy for a lady.”

I felt my blood pressure go up just a tad.  She continues.  “Also you’re going to need a flat bed.”


Strike one: She didn’t even ask me to get her boxes out of her car.

Strike two: She told me I had to have a man do it.

There are a few things that I am very certain of about myself.

I am stubborn.  I am not a lady. I am independent to a fault. I am caring.  I am Minnesota Nice.

And most importantly, I do not need a man to lift something for me.

So I go over to the box, ready to throw my back out to lift this box for this woman…

And the box was maybe ten pounds.

I tried not to roll my eyes, and this woman was just dumbfounded.  She told me that they were far too heavy for her to lift.  She then told me to bring them to her cubicle so I followed her there with the flatbed with the six boxes that were maybe ten pounds.

This is what really pissed me off.

She just watched me take all of these boxes off of this flatbed.  And not just her, every single person in the office watched me lift these boxes.

Since then, I have had four separate women tell me that I needed a man to lift something for me.  I always stay polite, but I usually respond with something along the lines of “I’m a corn-fed Midwesterner, I don’t need a man for anything.”

Which has caused everyone I work with to call me the “Minnesota Wonder Woman.”  Or to have customers ask me if I’m a “Yankee.”  Which apparently is the same as being called a Wonder Woman.

And Wonder Woman was an Amazonian warrior.

Basically me, just add more fat rolls and corn

Basically me, just add more fat rolls and corn

That’s right bitches.  I’m an Amazonian woman.  Because I can lift over ten pounds.