Sunday, October 24, 2010

Walmart: Where the Magic Happens

Rare is the occasion where I get to slip into Walmart without my kids.  When I do, it's so much less painful in a sense, because I can skip the gnashing of teeth and wailing over refused toy purchases and who needs a spanking and who needs to go potty and who is pushing mommy over the edge.  Tonight was one of those times.  Times like this I am able to observe past the perimeter of my cart's personal space, if that exists, and make note of the, ah-hem...freak show that is going on there.  We all know it, we all see it, we're just sometimes too rushed to really soak it in.  So I'll share my experience, which really turned out to be heartwarmingly romantic.  Not in a Twilight kind of way (I guess I'm the only one who hasn't read the books or seen the movies) but in a full moon brings out the crazies in love kind of way...

So this couple strolls down the aisle like it's the red carpet at the Oscar's and I stop for a minute thinking I might be interrupting something important.  Mostly, I'm afraid someone might be taking their picture and I don't want to be in it accidentally and have it posted on the internet.  It's Homecoming in __________? (sorry I can't keep track, ask me 18 years ago) and they are dressed to kill.  I hear a little boy ask if they're getting married.  Cute.  They walk back by the electronics department where they part ways.  The boy, all dapper in his vest heads straight for the gaming console to test out some new game.  Typical.  The girl, I secretly hope, is going to buy condoms.  And sponges, and foam, and birthcontrol pills, and the morning after pill, and a coat hanger.  Times like these are when I really wish I could win the lottery.  To randomly help some poor girl like that out, to just follow her and offer her thirty grand to just walk away and go to the dance by herself because this tard just brought her to Walmart.  I want her to set her standards higher, to demand more than this because, frankly, this is how he's going to act when he's forty, except it won't be quite so cute, and she's going to have way more stretch marks than options.  I circle around the boy who has now met up with other boys who I guess all had some plan to meet up in their rented formal wear to hang out and take turns exchanging germs on the single controller there.  Don't they know that barfy-diarrhea stomach thing is going around?  They will tomorrow.  I wasn't really meaning to circle them like a vulture, but I was more like a bat, without glasses I could NOT figure out where I was in relation to what on earth I was going to get for the seven-year-old birthday girl whose party brought me to Hellmart in the first place.

I get half my stuff and run almost literally into a male nurse and a to be honest I am not really sure, might have been pirate girl or hooker or something, I am hoping they were on their way to a costume party but seemed a little bit early being the 23rd and all, but whatever.  I just suddenly felt reeeeeally dirty, like I had stumbled into their bedroom in the middle of some kinky role playing session, and I wanted to get out before they invited me to "stay and play".  I know he was a male nurse because his outfit said "Male Nurse" which was lucky because I would have probably confused him for an ER doctor or a Gynecologist so I'm glad he clarified.  I don't know what she was because it was honestly just fabricky stuff fashioned in an inappropriate manner even for Walmart given the temperature outside and her girth.  I'm not pointing fingers at the calorically challenged, because I fight that fight myself, but she was proud of whatever it was that she had.  It was clear, however, that they were excited and in love, and he was clearly going to use her outfit to his advantage tonight.  Good for him.  I think.  Ew.

Anywayyy, with my mental shopping list finally satisfied, complete with requisite wrapping supplies (i.e. gift bags) I made a beeline for the checkout that looked like it would have the shortest wait.  One couple behind one lady and they didn't have a lot of stuff.  Perfect.  Riiiight.

Normally, I am not one to notice what other people are buying.  I'm usually too consumed with whether I've forgotten anything myself and/or whether my kids have added anything to the cart without my knowledge.  But this wasn't fair.  These two forced me to look.

"Why didn't you get the Walmart brand of tooth glue?  That crap's expensive."

So now I have to look at the "tooth glue".  Poligrip.  Okay.  And then the other stuff.  I can't help it.  Baby formula, marshmallows, generic soda, red and black thong underwear, and a case of clay shooting targets.  Hmmm, just the basics tonight I guess.

"Because Sheila don't like the Walmart brand, she says it don't keep her dentures in good when she eats hot wings."

"Hot wings like hot like they melt the glue or hot wings like spicy Mexicans?"

"I don't KNOW!  It don't matter anyway, just shut up."

"Oh ________ Sheila.  I never liked her anyway".

"You liked her Thanksgiving when you had sex with her after the rest of us all passed out."

"Oh yeah, I did.  Well are you gonna get all mad if that happens again, because I'm not real sure I can say it won't."

"Hell yeah I'm gonna get mad if I find out, you need to get better at having an affair with my sister if you don't want to end up on Jerry Springer you idiot."

"Hey Baby, at least I saved all that money reloadin' my shells and got you them fancy panties there, huh?  Huh?  Huh?"

"Ooh, yeah.  I love you baby."

"I love you too baby."

Then they kissed.  With tongue.  And I threw up in my mouth a little and vowed to try harder to do my shopping at Shopko next time.  And I'm taking my kids with me for distraction, because frankly I can't handle knowing this much about other people.  I need a shower.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Fashionistically Challenged

On my way to work today I passed by a group of Jr. High schoolers walking up the sidewalk in a pack, clearly on an "official" mission, complete with teacher bringing up the rear.  They were lumbering along in typical teenager lackadaisical style, obviously unmotivated at such an early hour.  As I got closer my brain got confuseder and confuseder about their attire.  I seriously could not figure out if they were purposely dressed in pseudo-costume for some spirit week day I clearly missed in my days, or whether it was simply the fact that I'm officially old and those were the outfits that they hoped to define themselves in all their individuality, their youth, their clear lack of parental presence during their morning dressing routine.

I'm not joking, not even a little.  I am clearly so out of touch with today's youth, save for the two mini-me's that rule our castle and the pack of cousins that thus far, we as an extended family have banded together to forcefully control by showering them at all birthdays and Christmases with "normal" outfits from Old Navy like God intended.  Probably the most out there is Dylan, who inherited his Uncle Jake's label whore gene and who we only ever see dripping in DC clothing head to toe (literally, hat to slippers).

This is not to say my kids don't look like ragamuffins the majority of the time, because let's face it, they do.  They're big into dressing themselves, and after all the consecutive time I've clocked with the diapers, socks, shirts, pants assembly line I'm all for their independence in that area.  Their choices don't always "go", but hey, where does Clayton have to be that's so important he can't have on a pink and white striped polo with BSU blue and orange sweats?  I don't think Dora or Diego give a rat's how he looks hanging out on the couch really.  Now, if he's in Jr. High and still dressing like that we're going to have a serious talk.  Or not, depending on whether it's effective in keeping the girls away.  It is my ultimate goal to keep these two single and supporting their mother well into her old age, you know.

Nonetheless, my mind still reeling from those outfits, those...whatever they were...made me distinctly remember when my mom had a huge problem with something I was going to wear to Jr. High one day.  Brace yourself.  I had taken the laces out of my white Keds.  I was going to wear my Keds to school with no laces, because that was pretty cool to do at the time, and to be honest, my freakishly high arches love high heels, but not so much shoelaces strapped over top of them like a prime rib.  She took one look and said absolutely not was I going to school "like that".  Like that.  Hmmmm.  I guess I have her to thank for stopping me at the shoe laces, because judging from what I saw today, who knows what I would have dared to wear had she not put her foot down when she did.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Fat Monkeys

So we recently became an official "Netflix" family, thanks to a trial offer.  We're more a "Hastings" kind of family anyway, but since we can also get instant movies via the Wii, we're doing it, and it's somewhat expanded my usual selection.  We typically rent whatever movie we intended to see in the theater but due to our lack of social life tend to miss before it's gone.  I've watched some films I'd otherwise pass by.  Today I, as any nerdy girl would do, curled up on the couch to watch National Geographic: Stress: Portrait of a Killer.  I'll save you the trouble and fill you in on the important parts.

Baboons and some other monkeys studied spend about 3 hours finding and consuming food for the day, leaving them the rest of their waking hours to simply: mess with each other in a more often than not mean-spirited way.

The illustrative clips equated in my mind with a typical day with pretty much any two or more children, including one of a clearly dominant bully trying to drown his lankier younger sibling.

The point of the studies was simply surrounding the idea that the hierarchy of status within the group determined the health factors of the population.  Those in positions of status were healthier, showing clearer arteries and lower blood pressure levels, and those in subordinate positions had clogged arteries, compromised immune systems, high cholesterol and actual spare tires.  Surprisingly, it was not because those lower-class baboons gathered at McDonald's to pound Big Macs while they chain smoked and did tequila shots.  It was simply because they spent the majority of their time stressed out because the more "important" baboons were busting their balls all day long.


They equated it with studies of people in England who work in the public-service sector over the course of 40 years, and found the same thing...those in higher positions tended to be healthier than working-class Joes.  Of course, even the HIGHEST of the positions they studied had jacked up teeth, which is a given for those Brits (not a point of the documentary, just my observation).

So how, then, can I explain my cholesterol levels when I was pretty much on the course of being a ball buster, not a ball bustee?  Apparently there's some busting going on in my life....could it be the two hooligans that I just spanked for the 47th time today for violating my cease and desist order on stairway-sleeping-bag-sledding?  Is it my concern that when I stick them in the tub in about 10 minutes one of them will inevitably try to drown the other?  Is it that when I get to work in the morning there might be a baboon in a suit (not naming any names) that will eat for 3 hours then have the rest of the day just to screw with the rest of us subordinates?  Will we scatter, asses in the air, attempting to escape the wrath?  Why can't someone just hold me and pick the lice out of my fur?

My plea to all:  Please stop busting my balls, I can't afford to take time off for a cardiac bypass right now.