why i will never own a green trenchcoat

Dedicated to my former co-workers at a store that shall remain nameless

Today's soundtrack:
Melancholy Melody by Esthero
Un día de enero by Shakira

The other day, on my leisurely walk to my office and I noticed this woman - mid-40s or 50s - ever so slightly hunched over and walking with fierce determination, her green trenchcoat covering everything but her ankles and standard bob haircut. I staggered back in fear as this woman - this green-trenchcoated dominatrix - passed me without a second glance on the crosswalk.

Dear lord, has Crazy French Lady followed me here?

I looked at her hair. Brown. A nice, normal brown. Not magenta. Thank the gods, I have been spared.

To those who have encountered the wrath of She of the Green Trenchcoat, my relief need not be explained. But for the rest of you lucky lot, I shall attempt to do this tale, this mythic battle, justice.

She was simply known to us as Crazy French Lady, not to be confused with Crazy Chinese Lady who would catch the bus in from the other town and talk to her imaginary friend in Mandarin or Cantonese, occasionally getting into huge arguments with said friend in the middle of stores and restaurants. Crazy French Lady did, tragically, speak English as well as French. You may well ask what she did to deserve such a name. Well, she's crazy, French, and a woman. That about sums that up.

Crazy French Lady would come into our store once a month and reduce staff members to tears. Oh yes, tears. You wouldn't think it possible for a woman that barely cleared 5' to drive anyone to distraction, but she did. She would pummel you with questions, angry and cursing at you in French. If you managed to sell her something and didn't place it with the utmost care on the table, she would grab your arm, shaking you and tightening her grip, yelling about how stupid and useless you were. It's always the small ones, the ones you least suspect (this is part of my larger belief that the Ewoks of the last Star Wars movie are only waiting for the right moment to turn rabid and start gnawing on people's ankles). Well, Crazy French Lady decided she wanted to by a fondue set. She made my sister go through every set, making sure that each and every piece was perfect. If my sister even bumped the box on the way to the till, Crazy French Lady would start yelling in French and storm out of the store.

It got to the point where if we even saw a green trenchcoat, we'd all race to the back of the store and leave the new kid to deal with her. We didn't need to learn more curse words in French. But inevitably, one of us would be working alone and she would come in for her monthly visit. I was the only one working and, unfortunately, it was a very slow day and no one else was shopping in the store (re: no witnesses to what I could only assume was my imminent death at the hands of this green-trenchcoated, magenta-haired miniature Stalin). Up and down the ladder I went, fetching every single fondue I could. Then, I had to go through every single box and carefully package everything back up (after all, it had to fit in the box perfectly again). But when I walked over to the till and set the box down, there was a clink. Just one, but that was all she needed. All of a sudden, she's grabbed my arm and gesturing angrily, yelling in half-English, half-French. I stood there, silently saying goodbye to my ankles.

Then, just like that, she left. I put the fondue set that she wanted in the backroom with her name on it. I gave it an extra kick into the corner - for good luck.

Since that point, I've noticed this same trait among all women who own green trenchcoats. I can only imagine that this trait applies to men with bad bowl haircuts as well. I think that if they had caught the gunmen on the grassy knoll, they'd have been wearing green trenchcoats.