Don't call me Lady

Seriously. It's a direct route to my facepunching nerve. LADY. Nothing good ever comes from conversations that start with someone calling me Lady.

So I'm driving in this suburb today. It's out in the country. The roads aren't paved yet. They are gravel and dirt, and with all of the snow and rain we have had, they are really horrible.

The speed limit is 20 mph. This is hardly a problem, as when it is wet, anything over 10 will send you into someone's front yard, and when it is dry, you throw up enough gravel and crap from the tires to shatter every piece of glass in your car.

Anyway. I drive to where I'm going and do what I have to do (nothing interesting, honest). I head back out of the neighborhood.

Cue Crazy Old Man. He stands out in the middle of the street. I slow down and try to go around him. He holds up his hand moves in front of the car. Wait, what? He's holding a jar of something in his hand. He wants me to roll down my window.

And conversation. I am not using some dialect thing to try and make him sound like an uneducated country bumpkin. I'm just writing it how he said it.

COM: Hey, Lady, are you aware the speed limit here is 20 miles an hour?

Well, yes.

COM: Well, you wasn't doin no 20 when you came thataway! You stayed down there for a while then you came back this way.

Yes, I did that. But I wasn't speeding.

COM: Yes you was! Lady you got kids you (mutter mutter)

I see. Can I see your radar machine?

COM: I just count from pole to pole, them telephone poles!

Well, that's a fucking magic trick, congratulations.

Then I rolled up my window and left. Didn't even try to squish his foot.

I will now work on overcoming my childish urge to drive past his house really, really slowly. A lot.