Do not f*#% with me

 

I am no longer the young girl who had not yet found her voice when she left Cambridge, MD in 1966.

There were things I learned from my mom and dad that I tried hard to practice while I was growing up.

My dad, by his everyday actions, taught me kindness.

My mom, in a less subtle way, tried to teach me to speak up.  To stand up for myself.

  

That lesson took longer for me to put into practice.

But.

Once I got it, I got it.

Push me too hard and I promise to become your worst nightmare.

After high school I went to Brandywine College in Wilmington, Delaware.

When I left Brandywine to go to work at Aberdeen Proving Ground, I worked for a couple months at one of the first little 7-11 stores that opened in Cambridge in the mid to late 60s while I was waiting for my security clearance for my job at the proving ground to come through.

The man who owned the store knew it was just a short term job when he hired me.

Thing is, I'm still waiting for my last and final paycheck.

My dad caught on quickly and told me to give it up, that check was never gonna happen.

I called, I wrote, I stopped in to inquire as to when I might get that last check to be told over and over and over again,  "it's on the way."

Would I put up with that bullshit today?!

You know not.

Which is why the woman trying to pull this kinda thing now with me being a grown ass  woman with a mouth my mom would be proud of should know better.

She told me today that she would put my check in the mail.  Today.  The check that should have been in my hands two weeks ago.

I think I made it clear today that this shit would not be tolerated.

As my husband is fond of saying, "Underestimate me.  That'll be interesting."