“Like Having A Pit Bull On Speed Dial”

I like to think I’m a nice person. I am thoughtful in the way that I over-think everything and always worry. I’m sensitive. I know that it is not just about what you do, but what you don’t do because not doing something can be as wonderful or as upsetting as doing something is. I am always aware. People say that I am very diplomatic and very adaptive. However, to the first statement, am I nice… my husband says I am when I want to be. Translation: Don’t piss me off.

The other night my husband was accosted by a man at a restaurant we were at. I sitting in a booth, holding a table in a restaurant and my husband was talking to me, while his father, brother and our niece and nephew (both three) finished ordering. A woman with two children that looked about seven or eight came up to my husband and demanded our booth. Why? Just Because. I couldn’t hear her, and I didn’t participate in the conversation. It was clear from her body language, her facial expression and the few bits I did catch that she was incredibly rude and felt entitled to our table. But my husband had it handled. And I don’t know many men who like to be rescued like children when they don’t need it.

After about a minute of back and forth, she left, frustrated. Why did she think we should give up our table? Because our entire party was not there, four of them were still in line (including the kids). But her husband and one of her kids were also still in line, so I didn’t see her logic as all that logical. There was a large table with stools on the other side of the room. Her kids were old enough to eat there without issue, but Finn and Kaylie (our nephew and niece) not so much.

She gave me the stink eye but I ignored her. I prefer not to engage, and my husband working as a bank manger for nearly a decade has both heard everything and been called about every name there is to call someone in the book. (While we’re on that subject, I would really like to see this “book” because sometimes I just don’t feel that creative.)

You would think that would be the end of it, but a few minutes later Mr. Husband who was in line walked by and leaned over our booth glaring at my husband. He said some things and Roy said something back. We were in a restaurant where a person with normal hearing would have a hard time hearing: terrible acoustics, open space packed with way too many people – like possibly near maximum occupancy busy. I had no idea what they were saying, but I knew my husband was being “told” and I instantly wanted to make a dive for this guy and kick him so hard in his special place he would not be able to have any more children. What can I say – I am a tad overprotective.

Of course, I didn’t. I am a very nonviolent person, even if that is my gut reaction. And to be fair this is never my gut reaction when it comes to myself, but when it comes to people that I care about, a ferocious beast comes out. I was very proud of my husband, the guy who thinks being direct is the same thing as being confrontational, because he wasn’t intimidated, kept a smile on his face and didn’t resort to this man’s pettiness. I am the petty one between us – please let me say something.

But I didn’t want to be that person who butts in between two people, unless it becomes necessary or someone asks me to get involved. So, I waited and when the guy started to lean in closer with a sneer, I started to stand. He backed off before I had finished standing. It wasn’t me that scared him off (I mean I am 5 foot 3 and like 110 pounds for goodness sakes), it was because he was always a coward, and “the wife” getting involved was above his pay grade. He folded, and he walked away. His wife and their kids were already at a big table. They were sitting in the middle of it, it could seat ten people and there were only four of them. Whereas there were six of us. I mean, if the table worked for us, wouldn’t you think we would prefer it?

I didn’t let it affect our dinner, and neither did my husband, while his family was completely oblivious that anything had occurred. But there was something that was bothering me, and I knew I had to talk to my husband once we were alone in the car: Did he know he could ask me to get involved? I mean he doesn’t like confrontation, and no one likes being called names or being “told,” but I also think I have a higher tolerance for it than he does, and I think he would agree. Whether I am tougher or if it is just my rough upbringing, 90% of crap rolls right off. I can disassociate logic and emotion, opinion and fact. For someone who is an “emotional” and “passionate” person, most people describe me as hyper-logical and some would say I can be a tad robotic. (Hey, I just call it being mysterious. ;)) So, as soon as we were alone that is exactly what I did.

ME: What did that guy say to you?

Roy: He called me an asshole. [This was all Roy was willing to say, but more words were exchanged because there were multiple exchanges.] I don’t care, he’s from Boulder. [Roy used to hiss whenever we would cross the Boulder line. He is not a fan. His main gripe is that everyone acts like their shit doesn’t stink and are so pretentious. For me – it’s like living in Los Angeles again, only with mountains instead of the ocean. And Boulder isn’t full-on L.A. but saying this never makes Roy feel better about the place.] Aren’t you proud of me for handling it and standing up to him?

ME: I’m sorry, and yes I am very proud of you. But you know you don’t ever have to take on someone like that, if you don’t want to. I mean you did great, but we’re a team. You can always tag me. I have no problem putting guys like that in their place.

Roy (laughs): Tag you, huh?

ME: Yeah, like “Tag, you’re it.” I mean with me it’s like having a Pit Bull on speed dial.

Roy laughed at that, but he knew exactly what I meant. Because I am a very protective person and nothing matters more to me than the people that I love. Whenever Roy is in a spot I have to fight to keep myself in check. Because my gut reaction is to swoop in and save him, and not just save him but to inflict as much venom in the offender as possible so they know, “You fuck with him, you’re fucking with me, and you so don’t want to fuck with me.” I go all “rules of the playground” or something. You know, how if you’re being bullied, you make a shining example of that one bully – the meanest, scariest bully around – and no one else is going to chance messing with you. I’m like that, except instead of fists I’m all wit and a very sharp tongue. (Although I do know self-defense if it ever goes there, but luckily it never has. What can I say – I used to be a victims advocate for rape and domestic violence victims and I lived alone in some tougher areas of Los Angeles – of course I know self defense!)

My husband has seen me in action when defending others. Like when I stood up to my entire dysfunctional and feuding family, to get my grandmother the care and heart operation she needed or when it comes to taking care of a friend who has been wronged by their lover – I take care of my own. And if necessary, I make sure the person who wronged them knows never to so much as think about my friend/loved one again. And this makes me sound scary or like I have some inflated sense of scare power, or at best a bitch. My response is: I’m sugar and spice and everything nice, and bubbly and quiet and ever so thoughtful, but I am also a redhead. Hurt someone I love and you will feel the full extent of a redhead’s wrath. And if you have ever seen such a wrath – it is a truly scary thing. 😛


*I did want to say that the title of this post was based on the remark I made, but says nothing about actual Pit Bulls. I happen to be in the camp of people who believe: There is no such thing as a bad dog, just a bad owner. I feel like Pit Bulls get a bad reputation, because when they do attack they do inflict much more damage than a Chihuahua or Miniature Pinscher or a Jack Russell Terrier. But here is the thing, in terms of actual aggressive breeds the three small dogs I just named, are the three most aggressive breeds of dogs there are. And yet my dog is a Chihuahua/Jack Russell mix and super sweet, just like I have been around several very sweet Pit Bulls. Pits may be more dangerous when they are not trained or cared for properly, but they are not born vicious. All right, just wanted to say my peace. 😉

**This post was originally written four months ago, but it didn’t fit into my blogging schedule (please, you know I plan posts out in advance, usually anyway) until now. And if you’re curious, I’m still a redhead and therefore still a Pit Bull. 😛

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