We took Gutsy and a friend to one of those indoor amusement park type thingies yesterday. We avoid those places like the plague for financial, psychological and, well, plague reasons, but he had been wanting to go for a while, and his birthday is on Tuesday. Geekster and I felt like we needed to do something special for him, so we caved.
My check-in status said it all:
It was a guilt-induced torture chamber, where parents lay curled up in fetal positions along the walls, rocking back and forth to the shouting and air horns, and mumbling, "I'm a good parent, see?... I'm a good parent after all... Has anyone seen my Xanax?"
I quickly remembered why I carry a special hate for these places. Geekster and I found it easier to text our disdain to one another than try to yell over the fray. We left after two-and-a-half hours looking like we had just attended a less fun, G-rated S&M party - with all the pain and none of the gain.
There are many reasons not to breed. I might not understand all of them, but if "taking children to indoor germ-infested scream carnivals will be a part of your life for the next several years. Bahahaha!" was part of the pregnancy brochure, I just might have given my decision some extra thought.
Exhausted, I dropped everyone else off at home around 9:30 p.m. and then had to go to the grocery store because families of five eat a lot. That wasn't in the brochure, either.
I found a spot relatively close to the door and was just turning in while thanking the gods of motherhood for shining down on my flared-up plantar fasciitis, when I noticed this:
Now, maybe it's because I was so tired, or maybe I was just being a judgmental bitch, or maybe it's because it was a rich person car and I was feeling pretty broke by then, but this bothered me more than it normally does. And that's probably why I spent several minutes tearing through the inside of my car in search of a pen so I could write a note:
Sadly - or thankfully - I couldn't find a pen. But I did glare at the car as I walked by, hoping Mercedes is advanced enough these days that their vehicles come with an emotion chip. My theory is that a car with shame won't let its self-important owner take up three parking spots.
Realizing I was clearly (more) unhinged (than usual) from the day's torment, I put on my headphones - which I never do - and dubstepped my way through the produce department. It helped me start to feel a little more like my Mavenly self.
As a mom and regular gym rat, I buy headphones with earbuds that block out every little noise. If they don't pass the three-foot-away tantrum test, they aren't good enough. That's what I was wearing in the store when I came across this nice little surprise:
Chris Hemsworth could have been lying on a table with "free sample" written across his boxer shorts and I wouldn't have been quite this excited.
... I have a problem with food, don't I?
You have to understand what a goldmine it is to find freshly-baked gluten-free goodies at a grocery store. In the last two years, I've had to either bake the stuff myself, or go out of my way to get it. And I'm a lazy North American, ok? Sometimes I just want a damn cookie with little effort.
I whipped out my phone to snap a picture for Facebook.
And that's what I was doing when I got a polite tap on the shoulder. I turned to find a rather confused young man and two of his coworkers lugging a massive dolly full of water jugs behind them. You know, one of those heavy loads that takes a lot of momentum to get going, and a great deal of effort to slow down again? So you kind of hope you never have to stop; that people will either see or hearing it coming and they'll get out of your way. You hope that they won't, for example, be standing mesmerized in front of a bakery display, holding a phone and wearing headphones that are blasting Skrillex into their ears at the expense of every other auditory experience.
You would hope wrong, my slightly annoyed friend. I apologize on behalf of every moody, tired mother who has ever escaped into her music as she's trudging through the store on a sore foot and wishing she was doing anything but.
I decided I was about done listening to music after that. It was my gift to the universe - or at least to everyone else in the store.
I got to the checkout with a full cart. Once it was all scanned through and I was (poorly) helping to pack it in my (disgusting) reusable bags, the cashier said:
"Because you spent over $200, you qualify for a free urn!"
... Excuse me?
Please Google "definition urn". Actually, don't bother. I'll do it for you:
Noun: A tall, rounded vase with a base, and often a stem, esp. one used for storing the ashes of a cremated person.
I must have shot the guy my very best grocery stores and estate planning are not exactly compatible business models look, because he quickly pointed to the display along the wall, which said:
FREE URN*!!!
(*With a minimum $200 purchase.)
First of all, calm down with the exclamation points, ok? There is nothing exciting about an urn - even a free one. Ever.
The display had a bunch of these sitting on it:
That's an urn?
Ok, maybe technically, but come on. The tag said "Outdoor Holiday Display." How about that?
I walked over, picked one up, examined it and asked if the ashes go under the cedars, or in those little silver Christmas balls.
He laughed politely, but shot me his best you clearly lack a tact filter - please leave my store look. So I did, with my new forever resting place bouncing merrily in the cart.
I thought of putting it on top of the douche canoe, but luckily for that person, they had already left.
Besides, given that it's technically an urn, that might have constituted a death threat.
My check-in status said it all:
Just kill me now.
It was a guilt-induced torture chamber, where parents lay curled up in fetal positions along the walls, rocking back and forth to the shouting and air horns, and mumbling, "I'm a good parent, see?... I'm a good parent after all... Has anyone seen my Xanax?"
I quickly remembered why I carry a special hate for these places. Geekster and I found it easier to text our disdain to one another than try to yell over the fray. We left after two-and-a-half hours looking like we had just attended a less fun, G-rated S&M party - with all the pain and none of the gain.
There are many reasons not to breed. I might not understand all of them, but if "taking children to indoor germ-infested scream carnivals will be a part of your life for the next several years. Bahahaha!" was part of the pregnancy brochure, I just might have given my decision some extra thought.
Exhausted, I dropped everyone else off at home around 9:30 p.m. and then had to go to the grocery store because families of five eat a lot. That wasn't in the brochure, either.
I found a spot relatively close to the door and was just turning in while thanking the gods of motherhood for shining down on my flared-up plantar fasciitis, when I noticed this:
 |
| UM, NO. |
Now, maybe it's because I was so tired, or maybe I was just being a judgmental bitch, or maybe it's because it was a rich person car and I was feeling pretty broke by then, but this bothered me more than it normally does. And that's probably why I spent several minutes tearing through the inside of my car in search of a pen so I could write a note:
Dear Sir/Madame,
Kindly learn to park your douche canoe.
Sincerely,Everyone
Sadly - or thankfully - I couldn't find a pen. But I did glare at the car as I walked by, hoping Mercedes is advanced enough these days that their vehicles come with an emotion chip. My theory is that a car with shame won't let its self-important owner take up three parking spots.
Realizing I was clearly (more) unhinged (than usual) from the day's torment, I put on my headphones - which I never do - and dubstepped my way through the produce department. It helped me start to feel a little more like my Mavenly self.
As a mom and regular gym rat, I buy headphones with earbuds that block out every little noise. If they don't pass the three-foot-away tantrum test, they aren't good enough. That's what I was wearing in the store when I came across this nice little surprise:
 |
| HOLY MOTHER OF AWESOMEBALLZ. |
Chris Hemsworth could have been lying on a table with "free sample" written across his boxer shorts and I wouldn't have been quite this excited.
... I have a problem with food, don't I?
You have to understand what a goldmine it is to find freshly-baked gluten-free goodies at a grocery store. In the last two years, I've had to either bake the stuff myself, or go out of my way to get it. And I'm a lazy North American, ok? Sometimes I just want a damn cookie with little effort.
I whipped out my phone to snap a picture for Facebook.
And that's what I was doing when I got a polite tap on the shoulder. I turned to find a rather confused young man and two of his coworkers lugging a massive dolly full of water jugs behind them. You know, one of those heavy loads that takes a lot of momentum to get going, and a great deal of effort to slow down again? So you kind of hope you never have to stop; that people will either see or hearing it coming and they'll get out of your way. You hope that they won't, for example, be standing mesmerized in front of a bakery display, holding a phone and wearing headphones that are blasting Skrillex into their ears at the expense of every other auditory experience.
You would hope wrong, my slightly annoyed friend. I apologize on behalf of every moody, tired mother who has ever escaped into her music as she's trudging through the store on a sore foot and wishing she was doing anything but.
I decided I was about done listening to music after that. It was my gift to the universe - or at least to everyone else in the store.
I got to the checkout with a full cart. Once it was all scanned through and I was (poorly) helping to pack it in my (disgusting) reusable bags, the cashier said:
"Because you spent over $200, you qualify for a free urn!"
... Excuse me?
Please Google "definition urn". Actually, don't bother. I'll do it for you:
Noun: A tall, rounded vase with a base, and often a stem, esp. one used for storing the ashes of a cremated person.
I must have shot the guy my very best grocery stores and estate planning are not exactly compatible business models look, because he quickly pointed to the display along the wall, which said:
FREE URN*!!!
(*With a minimum $200 purchase.)
First of all, calm down with the exclamation points, ok? There is nothing exciting about an urn - even a free one. Ever.
The display had a bunch of these sitting on it:
That's an urn?
Ok, maybe technically, but come on. The tag said "Outdoor Holiday Display." How about that?
I walked over, picked one up, examined it and asked if the ashes go under the cedars, or in those little silver Christmas balls.
He laughed politely, but shot me his best you clearly lack a tact filter - please leave my store look. So I did, with my new forever resting place bouncing merrily in the cart.
I thought of putting it on top of the douche canoe, but luckily for that person, they had already left.
Besides, given that it's technically an urn, that might have constituted a death threat.