So I went to this amazing conference in Boston (International Conference on Eating Disorders) and I have about 3,500 words pending about it in other spaces that talk about the important stuff.
This story is not the story of what I learned and who I met and the amazing work that we are doing.
This is the story of how I became a lead player in an insane Groundhog-Day-esque encounter and learned firsthand what a Masshole is.
On Wednesday morning I sat in the reception are of the upscale Marriott Copley Plaza, waiting for my compatriots to arrive, tethered to an outlet because my iPhone decided that a cross-country trip and a few days in a strange city was a great time to begin draining the battery at lightning speed.
I was approached by an androgynous woman I initially mistook for a man. She definitely picked the wrong target for her panhandler spiel (I will buy food cards if I am moved by someone's plight; I don't do cash ever) of: "My kids and I became homeless today and a room at the Y is $63 a night and I've got $8--can you spare a few bucks." I smiled politely and said "Sorry."
On Thursday night I sat in the lounge area of the (still upscale with a professional, business vibe) sharing drinks, appetizers and energy with three of my fellow advocates and good friends.
The woman from the lobby approached our table and delivered the aforementioned spiel to which I replied for the table, "Sorry, we are on cards." I would not have been shocked had she whipped out a card reader, but she did not. As she walked away, I, thinking she was out of hearing range leaned over and shared with my friends, "I heard that exact same story yesterday in the lobby." My intended meaning being, "Hmmmm, she JUST became homeless TODAY, when she told me yesterday she just JUST became homeless TODAY."
Whether she wasn't as far away as I thought, or my voice was louder than I intended or whether perhaps she just has amazing hearing, she heard me.
And wheeled around.
And proceeded to deliver, at shockingly high volume, the following diatribe in a classic Boston Southie accident. She would have been the tomboy sister in the movie "The Fighter."
"You fahkin' bitch! Who the fahk do you fahkin' think you are? You don't have a fahkin' clue! Fahk you ya' fahking bitch! (Chorus repeated several times before the concluding line). And why don't you get a fahkin' dress that isn't three sizes too fahkin' small ya' fahkin' bitch."
Let's let that sit for a moment . . .
I was body-shamed for my weight and style choice at an eating disorder convention.
So that was fun.
But hey, a blogger is always a little happy about any encounter that makes a great anecdote.
And the bar manager did tell me that in his opinion I looked really good.
Two encounters does not, however, a Groundhog Day-esque experience make, amiright?!
I am right.
Sunday morning as I walked to the lounge, with a friend who had been there for incident #2 and an acquaintance from New Zealand, we were approached by my apparent stalker who opened with "My kids and I became homeless today and a room at the Y . . . "
That's as far as she got before registering that the "Are you motherfahking kidding me?!" expression on my face was a result of our previous encounter. I said not one word but began to walk briskly to the nearby hostess stand while casting my eyes about for security. While I did that, she began, once again, to involve the entire hotel in our little tableau by unleashing the following torrent of anger and profanity at me.
"You fahkin' bitch! I will fahkin' kick your fahkin' ass right fahkin' hear and fahkin' now! I will fahkin' beat you down right. fahkin'. here you fahkin' bitch!" (Repeat x 5 with little variety).
(The story of how security was nowhere to be found and how the hotel employees at the hostess stand were nonplussed by this scene to a rather shocking degree and how I was charged for the drink I ordered when the waiter checked to see if I was okay after the 2nd verbal attack and how the person who handles Twitter for Marriott and I are bffs now and what the corporate response to this was is a different story for another time).
Not only does this California girl know exactly what a Masshole is, she will be fahkin' happy to never meet another one.
For fahkin' realz.
It may be a fahkin' while before I watch Good Will Hunting, The Town or The Departed again. Just fahkin' sayin'.