Lushgurl's most recent post reminded me that my favourite winter sport is about to commence: holiday shopping!
Before you ask, I think it's already been established that I border on clinically insane. I have three boys and I stay home with them on purpose. There is no further proof required.
However, there is a method to my madness. Some potent tequila in my half-empty glass. Fertilizer in the grass on my side of the fence, if you will (most likely dog poop). The nice thing about being a stay-at-home-mom is that I get to shop when the mauls are nearly empty. So empty that I could almost spell the word regularly instead of butchering it like I normally do.
I call it a 'maul' because that's exactly what it is - at least during peak hours. I fight for a parking space of epic proportions to accomodate my van, which usually leaves me somewhere near the back of the parking lot. I then pack up my now three gremlins and head toward the doors. Nobody holds the door for a mom of three with a stroller of course. That would be thoughtful, and people are too tired and stressed to have much thought at all these days. We then make our way into the loud, overcrowded, consumer-driven metropolis of wasteful things. We play a game of chicken with other moms with strollers to find out who's going to make that final, sudden swerve and spill her latte all over the cup holder (since I love my latte, it's almost never me. She only wins if she's bigger than I am). We stand in line in grotesquely understaffed stores to pay excessive dollar amounts for things we probably can't afford anyway. We then go back to the van, exhausted, and get honked at for nearly backing into one of the three other vehicles waiting to take our parking space.
Hence, 'mall' becomes 'maul', and it sticks. Even on Monday mornings.
Monday mornings are the best possible time to shop. Everyone's busy on Mondays. Either they have to do that icky paying job thing, have a doctor's appointment or are making a mad dash to the license bureau before someone notices their plates expired on Friday. Most (sane) people who have the opportunity to be home during the day have no desire to get up, get dressed and go out on purpose. That's reserved for idiots like me. But the idiot gets the uh... worm.. or the quiet shopping times, anyway.
The only people out on Mondays are other socially-deprived moms and little old ladies. The Monday moms are friendly and not in a rush. They stop and talk, or at the very least smile. They sit on the same bench and nurse their babies alongside you, admiring your baby and appreciating that you're admiring theirs, too. The little old ladies always have time to stop and talk to your children, even when said children are not talking back and instead sticking their tongues out at the elderly. Or making monster noises. Or other mortifyingly embarrassing things that recently-turned-four-year-olds-who-shall-remain-nameless have done in the past.
Yes, indeed. If there was a show called 'Pimp My Holiday Shopping Experience' and I was its not incredibly hot or talented or urban host, I would first take the poor little flower out on Monday mornings.
This is most def' the season to get my charge on. Gutsy's birthday has just passed, Intrepid's is in less than two weeks, my brother Michael's is five days later and then we have the big C not three weeks after that. By then I will be thorougly sick of the maul and most likely be suffering from a spending hangover.
Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Ho ho ho, yo.
Before you ask, I think it's already been established that I border on clinically insane. I have three boys and I stay home with them on purpose. There is no further proof required.
However, there is a method to my madness. Some potent tequila in my half-empty glass. Fertilizer in the grass on my side of the fence, if you will (most likely dog poop). The nice thing about being a stay-at-home-mom is that I get to shop when the mauls are nearly empty. So empty that I could almost spell the word regularly instead of butchering it like I normally do.
I call it a 'maul' because that's exactly what it is - at least during peak hours. I fight for a parking space of epic proportions to accomodate my van, which usually leaves me somewhere near the back of the parking lot. I then pack up my now three gremlins and head toward the doors. Nobody holds the door for a mom of three with a stroller of course. That would be thoughtful, and people are too tired and stressed to have much thought at all these days. We then make our way into the loud, overcrowded, consumer-driven metropolis of wasteful things. We play a game of chicken with other moms with strollers to find out who's going to make that final, sudden swerve and spill her latte all over the cup holder (since I love my latte, it's almost never me. She only wins if she's bigger than I am). We stand in line in grotesquely understaffed stores to pay excessive dollar amounts for things we probably can't afford anyway. We then go back to the van, exhausted, and get honked at for nearly backing into one of the three other vehicles waiting to take our parking space.
Hence, 'mall' becomes 'maul', and it sticks. Even on Monday mornings.
Monday mornings are the best possible time to shop. Everyone's busy on Mondays. Either they have to do that icky paying job thing, have a doctor's appointment or are making a mad dash to the license bureau before someone notices their plates expired on Friday. Most (sane) people who have the opportunity to be home during the day have no desire to get up, get dressed and go out on purpose. That's reserved for idiots like me. But the idiot gets the uh... worm.. or the quiet shopping times, anyway.
The only people out on Mondays are other socially-deprived moms and little old ladies. The Monday moms are friendly and not in a rush. They stop and talk, or at the very least smile. They sit on the same bench and nurse their babies alongside you, admiring your baby and appreciating that you're admiring theirs, too. The little old ladies always have time to stop and talk to your children, even when said children are not talking back and instead sticking their tongues out at the elderly. Or making monster noises. Or other mortifyingly embarrassing things that recently-turned-four-year-olds-who-shall-remain-nameless have done in the past.
Yes, indeed. If there was a show called 'Pimp My Holiday Shopping Experience' and I was its not incredibly hot or talented or urban host, I would first take the poor little flower out on Monday mornings.
This is most def' the season to get my charge on. Gutsy's birthday has just passed, Intrepid's is in less than two weeks, my brother Michael's is five days later and then we have the big C not three weeks after that. By then I will be thorougly sick of the maul and most likely be suffering from a spending hangover.
Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Ho ho ho, yo.