Ma'am...

It's happening almost daily now.  I get ma'amed.  You all probably know what I'm talking about.  At the check out in the grocery store, at the gas station, at the library, and wherever else I happen to be toting around my smalls (though it happens without them around, too, which is really a pisser).  And it kills me.  Really kills me.  Curdles-my-blood-curls-my-toes-fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-visibly-wince-smack-in-the-face kind of kills me.  And it's happening with enough frequency these days to make a girl feel, you know, a bit downtrodden. 

I would one million times rather be called miss or sweetie or toots, little lady or honey, sugar or 'my lover' (but only from someone over 50 and from Newfoundland.  East Coasters will know what I mean, here), than be called ma'am. (And I don't give a rat's ass if this kills my feminist street cred).  Ma'am erases any semblance of hot-stuffness I once (may or may not have) had and replaces it with  I'm-sorry-you're-all-washed-up-and-you've-now-entirely-run-out-of-any-last-vestiges-of-ever-being-cute-sexy-or-otherwise-attractive. Ma'am-ness.  It ain't pretty.  It so ain't pretty.  I spend a considerable amount of time every fucking morning to feel pretty and lovely and NOT look, well, like a ma'am. 

Apparently this is isn't working...

Ma'am I am.

(not.)