fighting the man one step at a time

This afternoon we had to go to the bank, which is in Georgetown. Georgetown, if you don't know, is the la-di-da-est part of the city, where the women contain more botulism toxin than a 34-year-old can of Dinty Moore beef stew and the luxury SUVs clog the streets. It's a horrible place, full of horrible people, but they have some good Indian restaurants. I had to stop at Paper Source to get a card for Becca because she got a fabulous new job (yay Becca), so we drove around for a bit looking for a parking space.

As we were driving down a side street, a shiny blue BMW SUV pulled out of its space about a foot in front of us. Evidently owning an overpriced piece of crap exempts you from using a turn signal, because we had no idea there was even anyone IN the vehicle, let alone that they were about to pull out and damn near crush my poor beleaguered car. I, being of a feisty nature, have a propensity for throwing down the finger in traffic--it's almost automatic at this point (driving in DC has given me plenty of practice)--and I did so. The driver, an orange-tinted mass with terrifying fingernails, then flipped us off. I love it when people do that, like "How dare you get upset with my flagrant violations of traffic laws and common decency?"

While we were walking to the bank, we passed a woman who looked like Jessica Simpson's coke-dealing aunt. She was waving her Kate Spade bag around while berating a group of three people who had been standing on the corner, forcing her to take an extra step to get around them. This was evidently unacceptable to her.

So we walked into Paper Source, shaking our heads at the loathesome creatures that infest Georgetown, and while I picked out a card, Kevin wandered over to the display of fancy pants bottles of ink for people who want to pretend they're Lord Byron. While I paid for the card, he could barely contain himself, smirking and generally looking amused with himself. Once we got outside, he told me that next to the ink was a book for people to write in to try out the fountain pens. In inch-high capital letters, he had written "Kill Whitey".

Sure, it's childish, sure, it's petty, sure, we're white. But I laughed all the way to the end of the street. I love my smart-ass boy.