Matt, Clover, a friend named TJ and I went to a free bluegrass music concert on Thursday night. I set up a blanket and picnic style dinner for Clover and myself in front of Matt and TJ’s chairs. We WERE enjoying the music, the ambiance, the whole thing. It was nice. It was easy. It was pleasant.
Enter the two.
I suspect these two old ladies to be in their sixties at least. I think they fancied themselves far more attractive than they actually were. I think, in fact, that they were going for “old Paris Hilton and Nicole”. Hear me out.
They both dressed in very revealing clothes. They both exuded a sexuality that made everyone around gross out. They both carried smallish dogs. They both thought that they were the only ones in the place. They both were obviously out to party in high fashion with alcohol.
Except for the fact that they were 60 something, doesn’t that sound like copying to you?
So, one is carrying a totally gross light brown poodle and the other has a long haired weenie dog. Know that both of these ladies were equally sick in their demeanor and appearance, but since my dealings were primarily with old Paris (the bluegrass witch), I will only be going into detail about her. Just know she wasn’t alone.
This woman, standing about 5’3” had her fake red brown hair ratted up and pinched in the back with a clip. She wore Jackie O sunglasses with a very weak tint and had a thin orange arc drawn on in the place of each eyebrow. Her wrinkled face defied her attempts to spackle it with makeup and gave away the fact that she was an old lady. (Joke was on her- several things gave that away.)
She had the osteo-hunch working for her but it was poking out in all it’s undressed glory, as she was wearing a black spaghetti strap shirt that also accentuated her lack of brassiere. She wore black high watered tapered jeans that hugged her skinny old legs mercilessly and showed off her non-existent rump. On her feet were two sandals that revealed her disgusting toes and toenails. Crooked, cracked and long are a few words that come to mind.
I got a good look at those nasty toes, since she felt obligated to tromp all over the blanket that I was sitting on with my child. She drug a chair over and set up shop about 2 centimeters from the edge of my blanket.
She plopped her purse down and pulled out a foot long cigarette to light up and starts a continuous sprinkling of ashes upon Clover our food and me.
Suddenly, we were under the glare of her stare-beam. She was blatantly staring at Clover and me. Finally she says, “Who’s the father?”
Poor conversation starter with a total stranger aside, what kind of question IS this exactly?
I look behind me at TJ and Matt- both who are acting like they can’t hear her and staring straight ahead. I point at Matt and say, “He is.”
At this point, I expect some sort of compliment on my beautiful child and how well behaved she is or how cute her clothes are or something and then I expect to say thank you and move past the small talk and back into enjoying the music, alone.
It goes like this instead:
Bluegrass Witch: Does she get that big head from you?
I mean, has she always had a head that big?
ME: (unsure if she’s joking) Well, she got a big brain from me… heh heh.
Bluegrass Witch: What? (Staring, dumbly)
Bluegrass Witch: Well, because he has a little head. (Pointing at Matt with her cig)
ME: Oh, well, yeah, she got the big head from me.
(Matt mumbles some sort of confirmation of this rude fact here)
Bluegrass Witch: Oh, well, she has an awfully big head, did that hurt or was she a c-section?
ME: um (frightened at where this is going) she was a c-section.
Bluegrass Witch: idiotic nodding.
Fortunately, her attraction to her poodle overwhelmed her at this point and she proceeded to try to headlock him and make out with him- on the mouth- while balancing her cigarette between her fingers. She actually said, “give me kisses Rainbow,” and smashed her ruby red lips all up in his yucky little muzzle.
It was not long after that, the smoke and ash-fall became too much for us to bear and we packed up and got out.
Before we left, she leaned over and asked Matt, “What’s that round one called?”
He mumbled, “It’s a banjo.”
She was a true bluegrass fan, obviously.
Old Paris, the bluegrass witch.