Michael and I decided to go to RuSan's yesterday evening. We were seated at the booth next to three of the loudest, rudest, most pathetic examples of the Frat Boy Stereotype I have ever had the misfortune of encountering, and I went to Vanderbilt so you know that's saying something.
These three were obviously on their way to a truly memorable drinking binge. I'm sure lots of those start at Ru San's. On Friday nights. When the sushi chefs are doing shots of sake with everyone in sight. Not Sunday afternoons when people are there with their kids.
These asshats were slamming their shot glasses on the table to assert their masculinity (and shake our table in the process), earning them the glares of people halfway across the restaurant. They thought it was fun to make fun of their server's accent. They wanted their friends to join them, to the tune of picking up their cell phones and screaming "GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!!" into them five times in a row. They were quite comfortable in their control of the whole restaurant, including one's God-given right to throw his arms around and poke me in the back any time he felt like it.
They decided their sake bombs were too expensive for the amount of booze they got and demanded to speak to the manager, who sounded very irritated but agreed to give them two dollars off, probably in hopes that they would shut up. As soon as she left, they called her a bitch. They then started complaining about all the weird cartoons.
I had had enough.
Originally I had just planned to content myself with a snarky "congratulations on your graduation from kindergarten" remark on our way out, but my meal was being ruined, and I had a feeling that was nothing compared to the way the evenings of the servers and manager were being ruined. So I wheeled around and asked, if these cartoons were so weird and Japanese people are so strange, then why did you come to RuSan's?
I don't remember everything I said, but I read them the riot act, including the graduation from kindergarten line. I informed them that if they were going to yell, scream and generally behave like Neanderthals, they needed to go back to the frat house. I attempted to avoid profanity, but in the end I told them they were assholes.
It very quickly became clear that since I had had the temerity to say what everyone was thinking but was too pussy to say, we were going to be harrassed for the rest of the meal. I requested our waiter move us, which he did. He very apologetically asked us to let him know if there were any more problems.
The ringleader of the assholes picked that very moment to loudly call me a bitch. I informed the waiter of this.
The staff demanded that the table either apologize to me or leave immediately. They left.
It took a few minutes for my adrenaline to settle down. Michael wasn't thrilled over having to move tables, but told me he was proud of me.
You know these people. They show up all over the place. For whatever reason, they think they own everything they see, and they sincerely believe they are the only people who matter. They make life unpleasant for the people who aren't assholes, but since the people who aren't assholes are trying to be nice and dignified folk who take the high road, they get away with it.
I'm not nice.
Some of you will probably think I overreacted. Part of me wonders if I did overreact. But a much bigger part of me knows that I put up with a lot of shit, and I'll be damned if I, or any of my people, am going to put up with any more shit than I have to because I was too "nice" to say anything about it. And if that makes me a bitch, well, there are worse things than being a bitch.
And I'm proud of myself. Three years ago I never would have been able to do that.
And as for those asshats -- boys, the term "bitch" loses a lot of its power when your friends use the term with affection.