Dickwad in Aisle 7.

All they have is the one pail and the one saw, so you better hurry before someone else nabs those, and then you can’t cut down that neighbor’s tree while he’s away on vaca or throw a bucket of acid on his new car in the driveway.

So, the other evening, my hubby and I procured lumber to construct a deck in the backyard. I love betterfication projects. I love starting with something as ugly as an infected dog anus and making it look not like an infected dog anus. I love the smell of Home Depot and all the aisles of possibilities there. I can’t curb my urge to fondle the sample backsplash tiles, and it’s nearly impossible to reign in my desire to writhe around in some fresh Martha Stewart paint or Sackrete or potting soil.

And, don’t even let me go to a craft store. At one point the other night, I ran over to Michael's with my daughter to pick up a very large canvas for a painting she's doing and some Sculpey clay for a cute, little project someone has commissioned her to create; well, it's practically orgasmic in that store. Beads and colored pencils and glitter! Oh, my! Hell, I went to Hobby Lobby earlier this week to get one of my 30-year-old paintings framed, and I had to rush in and out without looking at a single thing lest I run up some debt and cause a scene like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I've got a serious DIY addiction.

Anyway, my trip to Home Depot ended up sucking balls because this dude in there agreed with me when I said I was fat. Dumbass! He apparently hasn't been whopped upside the fucking head enough. At first he was kind of being creepy and saying inappropriate things in front of my husband (who is totally oblivious to any flattery directed at me from outside sources). The guy—a HD employee—made remarks about my looking like my daughter's sister instead of her mother, blah,blah,blah. Gack. Then, I had to go back later to the aisle where he was stocking some shit, and he said, "You must have been a baby when you had your daughter."

"Ummmm," I said. "No, no. I'm going to be 50 in a year."

"Well, you're well preserved," he said, and I was kind of impressed he knew the word "preserved." Then I stupidly offered the well-known-among-women fact that if one is overweight, one tends not to age as quickly because of the plumpness in the face. Skeletor women look 100. So, he said, "You're just fluffy." WHAT?! I didn't know they hire pretards at Home Depot. What a dick. I mean, what does one respond to that? I just mumbled some concurring crap and waddled off.

Note to dickwads: You don’t tell a woman she’s fat for any fucking reason unless you would like to be ball-less and have a peanut-sized dick—yours—rammed up your ass. I once had a minutes-long crush on this complete pothead friend of my brother’s in high school. NO idea why. But he found out about the crush and said to me, “If you lost about 30 pounds, I’d date you.” Was that supposed to be romantic? Foreplay? What? That dude knocked up another friend of my brother’s before they ever graduated, and she was…wait for it…HEAVY before he planted his crotchberry in there. How was her fat more attractive than my fat?

And this other time during my senior year in high school, I went on a dinner date with a guy who took me to an all-you-can-eat fish fry because—he said— “I know how you like to eat.” And then the asshole made me pay for my half. Class-say.

I guess the point is that I look like a fullback and need to shed some serious poundage. But still. There is no justifiable reason ever that anyone should have the ass-faced dicklessness to mention a woman’s girth. Even if she is sitting on his head, smothering the son-of-a-bitch to death.