I cussed at an old lady.

Story time, y'all.

Saturday night was my little sister's birthday. I had to get to the Cheesecake Factory, stat. We were meeting at 6:15 PM, which is the approximate time I awoke from my 4 hour afternoon nap! (My bad!) Thankfully, there was a wait of 30 minutes and thankfully my make up only needed minor touch ups. I threw on my pants, touched up my make up on the drive from Cuba (where I live) to Boca Park.

Mind you, it's a Saturday night in Vegas. Not only does everyone celebrate on the weekends, it is also date night and whatnot. The place was packed. People were lined up outside... I was in a grumpy mood (as I have been for the past few weeks or so...), so as you guessed it, the parking lot is packed. If this was any casino, I would have happily valeted, but we are in a recession folks my deflated $5 was staying in my pocket.

I don't know whether to call it fortunate or unfortunate, but when I was 18, I received "Rock Star Parking" for life. Yes, that's right kids, Jessica has an irrevocable handicapped placard. Yes, from the outside, I look whole and complete and perfectly healthy. And I am for the most part, but I am missing two organs and have restricted breathing due to lung obstruction. (If you want specifics, I can fill you in, but for now I will spare you the details). Fortunate that I have one - a handicapped placard, but unfortunately, I had to be sliced and diced and almost die (several times over) to have it. (I never spend more than 30 minutes at the DMV either, it's lovely, so if you ever have to go and I give a shit about you, holler at your girl, I will hook you up!)

Anyway, back to the story, I got lucky and one of the limited handi-CRAPPED spots was still open and I most happily parked in the last remaining spot. (When you are assigned a placard, the DMV gives you a letter you must carry to prove that you are the rightful user of said placard or you will get a ticket and have your placards taken away temporarily.) So, I get out of my car and there is this older lady (early 60s or so, I am guessing), parked right behind my car. I was on the phone with my friend, so I just kind of glared out her (you know I can be a non-verbal bitch, too).

She rolls down her window (is it rolled? I mean we all push a button nowadays) and asked me in a stern voice, "Are you allowed to park there?"

I replied, "Yes."

She then has the audacity to say to me, "Prove it."

Are you fucking kidding me, lady?! So, you top on my shitty attitude, to me running late, to my phone call now being interpreted, and you get my response. I shot her my most cunt-terrific face and said in a nice tort tone, "Fuck you!" (I am SO Vegas) I was livid. How fuckin' dare you! Mind you, I get asked this all the time... ALL THE TIME. Like, people assume I am using grandma's placard to be lazy.

She responded, "Fuck you, bitch." I didn't feel so bad saying it first now, but really? How the hell else am I supposed to feel or take that? If I was in a wheelchair or had a cane or was missing a limb, this altercation would have never taken place. I have gotten so peeved in this situation before that I have lifted my shirt to show my surgical scars, which instantly shuts people up.

I know I overreacted in this situation, I completely did. But being "Vegas famous" as a friend told me, immediately upon entering the Cheesecake Factory, I ran into a current co-worker and told her about the ordeal that just went down outside. She said I wasn't wrong for how I acted, which was comforting.

Now looking back at it in retrospect, it makes me giggle. I cannot believe I said that to someone's grandma... (I think all old women are GRANDMAS). I do feel bad and slightly guilty about it, but it is still a funny, funny story. I was completely unladylike and kind of a trashy ghetto biotch, but in a fabulous way (that only I could pull off).

Moral of the story: I ain't scared of shit, not even yo' grandma.