{"id":444,"date":"2006-01-24T23:45:04","date_gmt":"2006-01-25T07:45:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.aprilgem.com\/log\/?p=444"},"modified":"2006-01-25T09:58:12","modified_gmt":"2006-01-25T17:58:12","slug":"rich-bitch","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.aprilgem.com\/log\/?p=444","title":{"rendered":"Rich Bitch"},"content":{"rendered":"

Over the weekend, while H.E. and I were waiting in line for dim sum at Dragon Phoenix, with Vietnamese all over Little Saigon because of the upcoming Chinese new year celebrations, some angry driver in the parking lot below us was leaning on the horn constantly, endlessly, even though the drivers up ahead had nowhere else to go. The parking lot there is always, ALWAYS crowded on the weekend, and H.E. and I have long ago learned to park in the lot east of there, at the other mall.<\/p>\n

Asians are generally pretty quiet, even in crowds, but this person, this angry and impatient driver, disrupted the relative calm of the crowded parking lot with that bloody, blaring horn. As if they owned the road.<\/p>\n

“Who in the hell is making that noise?” I asked, and H.E. pointed to one of those cute and fancy little dazzling white SUVs, one of those gas guzzling vehicles that aren’t really designed to go off-road and exist only to look like a trendy little rounded SUV and nothing else.<\/p>\n

“It’s got at least five cars in front of it, and none of them can go anywhere,” he said. “Whoever that is has been sounding that horn since they were another five cars back.” There was no sympathy in his voice, and I felt the same way. There is absolutely no point in honking the horn like that, upsetting people with the sound when they could do nothing, but there that person was, honking away. It was irritating.<\/p>\n

Minutes later, that little SUV turned and stopped below where we stood at the balcony, and a young, fashionable Asian woman with an angry pretty face and her feathered hair dyed an impossible blonde came out of the driver’s side, looked up at H.E. in her tight white jeans and her sexy camisole top, and called out with, “This is going to sound weird, but can you get me a number?”<\/p>\n

She meant a number for the dim sum line, and she said it as though she was used to having her requests quickly met, used to having men tell her yes as they tripped over themselves to get closer to her. There was no sweetness to her voice, no nice pleading or cajolling, no flirting, no smile—it was more like an imperious order, as though she were an empress to be obeyed. Like a regally rich beautiful bitch from hell.<\/p>\n

Now, H.E. is pretty easy-going, and he’s very generous. Without my asking, he gets me things, makes me hot cocoa, cooks for me, serves me breakfast in bed. He helps Mrs. Wilberforce carry things, fix things. He mentors young people when they tell him about their dream careers. Transients have come up to us on our way into a restaurant, and when asked for a handout he has always bought these strangers lunch or dinner; he hardly ever says no to anyone and only refuses to help when he thinks it’s a scam or they’re out to buy alcohol. He helps people because that’s just who he is.<\/p>\n

This woman probably saw that because she singled him out from the crowd on the balcony to get her a number for dim sum, but she was a complete bitch about it. A total jackass. Big mistake.<\/p>\n

“If you hadn’t honked your horn like an idiot,” he called down to her, “I might have actually gotten you a number. But you’re on your own.”<\/p>\n

Then he led me inside so we wouldn’t have to deal with her angry face, but she got out of her double-parked car and stormed her way into the lobby and up the stairs to get her number herself, and when she saw us inside, she blasted him with angry words and called him all kinds of names, as if he deserved her contempt and ill will for refusing to bend to a bitch. Talk about lack of class.<\/p>\n

It really upset H.E. on some level. He kept on the lookout for that awful blonde hair as we ate our dim sum, and every time we go to that mall now, he remembers that day, dreading the sight of her, whoever she is.<\/p>\n

What sort of woman would have the gall to be that way? What sort of life would she have to lead to become that impossible? Her days must be filled with I, I, I, me, me, me, and nothing else. The universe revolves around her. Nothing else matters. She is beautiful and sexy; therefore, all must bow to her will. It is the law. All roads are hers. All men are hers to order around. She is Rich Bitch. Hear her roar.<\/p>\n

H.E. has always used the phrase “rich bitch” when describing the women driving expensive luxury cars in the L.A. streets like they owned the road and disregarded all its rules, but up until this weekend, I had never actually seen one up close. Most rich bitches are married to rich and powerful men, so maybe they think their hoohas are prime property, I don’t know. “My hooha got me this mansion and this Rolls Royce, so I’m better than you. Get out of my way.”<\/p>\n

My only conclusion? Any man with a rich bitch must have awfully bad taste and a very low self-esteem. And anyone who bends to her will only enables the demons that move her.<\/p>\n

Down with rich bitches. May they wrinkle prematurely and lose all their hair, and may their pretty little hoohas never again experience a real orgasm. Amen.<\/p>\nShare this post:

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Over the weekend, while H.E. and I were waiting in line for dim sum at Dragon Phoenix, with Vietnamese all over Little Saigon because of the upcoming Chinese new year celebrations, some angry driver in the parking lot below us was leaning on the horn constantly, endlessly, even though the drivers up ahead had nowhere else to go. The parking lot there is always, ALWAYS crowded on the weekend, and H.E. and I have long ago learned to park in…<\/p>\n

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