B*tch

So, I was (don't you just love stories that begin with "so, I was..."?) walking to the bank from my work, waiting to cross the street. A car goes speeding by at a whopping 25 mph or so and from the window I hear a punctuated "Bitch!" which I assumed was directed at yours truly. My immediate reaction was to lift both hands and look down to see what in my posture, outfit or overall vibe could warrant such a cry. Nothing seemed particularly offensive and in fact, the only remarkable thing about me was the ceramic coffee mug I carried in lieu of the usual paper to go cup. Maybe this guy assumed I was quietly calculating the angle at which to throw said mug through his windshield in order to hit him directly in the face, but my math was a bit slow so instead he was able to curse me for my vicious thoughts. This seemed unlikely. Equally unlikely was the probability that a female dog was in my near vicinity and he was loudly exclaiming to the driver what a dog of that gender might be called. I didn't notice a cell phone but what with all the hands free technology flying around, I suppose it is possible (though not probable) that he was having a fight with his girlfriend over his deficiencies as a boyfriend. For a second it dawned on me that maybe it was my face, but I'm not one to sport inadvertent bitch face while standing curbside the way I imagine Rose McGowan, Karen O, or Posh Spice might. In the end I decided to settle my baffled mind with the explanation given to me for most of the offensive behavior in Eugene—they must have driven in from Springfield.