kind smile. “Tori, nice to meet you,” I say merrily. After all, poor Tori looks like a horse that just ate a lemon, so that warrants some kindness on my part.
“Keep your voices down,” she says tersely. “You’re creating a ruckus in here. You and that other girl.” She points at Kars.
“Sorry.”
“And I do not celebrate Christmas!” she hisses.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you celebrate Tori?”
“Birthdays!” She flashes her horse teeth, displaying more gum than teeth.
I find myself staring at her mouth, slightly mesmerized by her out of whack tooth-to-gum ratio. “Well doesn’t it suck that we’re forced to work today?” I say with strained politeness.
Tori shoots me a filthy look. “I volunteered!”
My mouth falls open, forming the capital letter O.
Since it’s Christmas, I decide to take the moral high ground and play nice. “Do you have any kids?” I ask amiably. Kids are a safe topic and serve as an excellent conversation warmer.
Tori’s face softens a micrometer. “I do. I have a daughter. And she just turned thirteen yesterday.”
“Ah, she’s a teenager now,” I say brightly. “What did you get her for her birthday?”
“I paid for her boob job and nose job,” she says this like it’s no big deal, like she just bought her daughter a sweater from Old Navy and a scarf from Abercrombie.
My smile wavers slightly. “Oh, how nice...”
Now, I have nothing against people getting ‘work’ done if it makes them feel better about themselves, you know…whatever floats your plastic boat. But I do think that thirteen is a little too young to be going under the knife.
Karsynn gives me one of her classic Karsynn looks, and I know she’s thinking the exact same thing. But I remain placid and civil.
Who knows? Tori may strike me as odd, but in her daughter’s eyes, she could very well be Mother of the Year.
Blatantly, Tori fixes her patronizing eyes on me, looking me up and down with an air of spiteful evaluation. Her sharp gaze stops at my chest. Then she turns her critical eye on Karsynn’s chest. “You girls have lovely little blinkers,” she smirks, adding, “and those are some of the ugliest sweaters I have ever seen.”
Her sarcasm is not lost on me. I am barely a B cup and Kars is a 36AAA. Not to mention, our ugly Christmas sweaters have completely obliterated our barely-there-bijongas. But still, that is no excuse for Tori to be bitchy and disrespectful. Poor Kars is already convinced her bijongas look like poached eggs. I dart Kars a worried glance, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s smarting from the insult.
Tori has been malicious and mean-spirited all night, and she has worn down all my tolerance for her nastiness. And as for our ugly Christmas sweaters, well d’oh! That is the whole point of it.
But I do not deign to tell her so. She just wouldn’t get it.
I never set out to provoke Tori, and I was poised to exit the conversation, but that was before her undeserved attack.
Okay, Tori wants to play dirty. Fine. I can play dirty too, I can do passive aggressive. With my lips set in an angry line, I give Tori a taste of her own medicine. Casting a disdainful eye her way, I see that her acrylic sweater is completely covered with pet hair and dander. Aha! Horse Lady must own a horse after all, or at least a dog or a cat. And her bijongas are definitely fake. They resemble gigantic, rock hard cantaloupes, and those dingle bobbers point at me like rocket propelled grenades.
“At least ours are real,” I say demurely. “And what we lack in size, we more than make up in sweetness.”
“Well that’s debatable,” sneers Tori.
Karsynn bolts up. “Well if you weren’t such a miserable horse, maybe you’d see our sweet side.”
Tori’s oversized horse nostrils flare up. Neiiigggh!!!
Karsynn’s claws are out now. Hissssssss!!! “And you know what, Tori? We didn’t purchase our bijongas, so we’ll never suffer from buyer’s remorse.”
Touché. And burn. I believe Kars has just struck a nerve.
Tori looks absolutely stricken. “You-you,” she sputters.
“What?” Kars lifts her chin coolly, feigning innocence.
“You girls are nothing but jealous little bitches!” Tori arches her back, overtly displaying her cantaloupes. “And just so you know who you’re talking to, I was Miss Idaho 1990.”
Karsynn emits a loud, exaggerated snort. “So you were a pageant queen? Well how lovely. Perhaps along with your boob implants, you should’ve gotten a brain implant too.”
Tori huffs and puffs