Dammit! I Missed My Exit!

This may come as a shock to some of you, but I like to do nice things for people. A lot of times I even manage to do these good deeds without instantly mumbling things like "Yeah, you better say thank you" or "Sure, pathetic loser, I'll hold the door for you while you slowly amble through it while talking on your phone." My niceties have varied from simple things like picking up a dropped item at the grocery store for a person that appears as limber as a 2 X 4 to baking cookies for someone "just because" or even cleaning a friend's house and delivering dinner because I knew she had been really, really busy. And while I never expect to receive favors or cookies in return, I know that no matter how busy things get, true friends make certain relationships a priority and always manage to find even the smallest amount of time for each other. Or, at least, I thought I knew this but boy oh boy was I wrong and let's just say that lately there have definitely been a whole lot of cookies that haven't been given out but that's a whole different blog.

About a week ago, we went out of town for a tennis tournament. This involved a small amount of packing, planning and preparation and allowed my control-freak self to swing into action. But just as I was making the packing list on my mental dry erase board, Charlie cautiously informed me that he was going to pack his own clothes because there were certain tennis shirts he wanted to bring and he was sure that I would screw it up. Normally, relinquishing any control whatsoever makes me stammer when I speak and break into a sweat. But since we were only going to be gone for one weekend, I figured maybe this would be the perfect time to let the boy do the math and figure out how many pairs of socks to bring.

Turns out, he brought enough socks. He even remembered to pack underwear and pants. Unfortunately, though, he didn't remember to bring pajamas. And while this wouldn't have been a huge deal had we been going on vacation, it was a huge deal this particular weekend because we were at a tennis tourney so therefore weren't staying in a hotel that featured Egyptian cotton sheets on it's list of amenities. In fact, I think if I were to have read the fine print, it would have described the bedding as "Minnesota's finest 60 grit sheets."

After spending one night exfoliating all the skin off of his legs, we headed to Target in pursuit of some pajama pants. Or, at least I would have went to Target if I hadn't missed my exit. And I certainly would have just taken the next exit, waited at several sets of stoplights and went back to the Target exit if Zoe hadn't just said the dreaded words "I have to go to the bathroom." So while I normally don't acknowledge the existence of a Wal-Mart, I saw this one because it was right there and I knew that I only needed two things: pajama pants and a bathroom. As soon as I parked, though, I instantly regretted not telling Zoe that she would just have to hold it a little longer.

While Charlie waited for us and people watched, Zoe and I sprinted into the bathroom with one goal in mind: Don't. Touch. Anything. And then I felt like I was on a game show, trying to pick the one stall that wouldn't make me dry-heave. Stall #1 was out of the equation because it suffered from a combination of Bad Aim/Failure to Flush, Stall #2 was occupied, the handicapped stall was available and that extra elbow room is always so hard to resist, but Stall #3 was also a contender. Or so I thought.

Although the door to Stall #3 was ajar, it was very much occupied. Like, really oh my holy shit you can't even believe how occupied it was. A fairly voluminous elderly woman who, from what my olfactory senses told me, had forgotten she was lactose intolerant so therefore ate an entire Dairy Queen ice cream cake and four grilled cheese sandwiches and maybe a cheese ball right before she came to Wal-Mart, was sitting in Stall #3. With the door open. So that's it, we're taking the handicapped stall. And why Mrs. AARP Digestive Disturbance wasn't in there herself, I'm not quite sure.

As soon as Zoe was done with her business, she stuck her leg in the air, flushed with her foot (oh my god I was so proud!), I opened the door with my elbow and we were both about to make a beeline for the sinks. But then someone started talking to me. Someone in Stall #3.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but can you help me stand up? These stalls are just too narrow and I can't seem to find anything to hold on to. I can't even turn around. Do you have a minute?"

Seriously, people! What the fuck was I supposed to do? My kid is standing right there, pinching her nose and waiting to see if I'm going to be a good person or a candidate for Hell. There was no way I could have walked out of that bathroom knowing that I just left a poop-covered helpless old lady sitting on the toilet! Besides, I figured she had been in there a long time so obviously had figured out a way to maneuver her, um, panties to a location other than around her ankles (I would be wrong). After all, it's not like she said "Can you help me wipe my ass and then pull up my underwear, and while you're at it come over to my apartment, make me an egg salad sandwich and program my VCR?" All she wanted to know was "Can I grip your arm with both of my unwashed hands without traumatizing you for life?"

When we finally walked out of the bathroom, Charlie was standing there with his arms in the air and a "What the hell took you so long?" expression on his face, and all I could do was give him a "Don't ask. Just, don't ask." shake of the head. I did manage to say one thing, though: "Don't touch my arm."

A Stranger's Lap

Believe it or not, sometimes I'm nice. Well, at least in Zoe's eyes I'm nice. Last night, if you were to get my boys' opinions, I'm a horrid, horrid person.

Normally on Thursday nights, the boys finish up their tennis lesson and then spend an hour and a half scarfing pizza and playing ping pong with friends at the club while Zoe has her lesson. But, because of the need to fit 25 things into a schedule better suited to accommodate 18 things, not to mention the potential for a winter storm this weekend, with a little request from Zoe best summed up as WHEN AM I GOING TO SEE SANTA thrown into the cornucopia of chaos, occasionally things need to be rearranged. As a result, last night did not fall under their category of Super Fun.

In order to avoid giving them the opportunity to verbally object to the schedule change, I texted Zach from the car with a little something like "Santa mall meet me in parking lot now." Since I didn't get a reply in the form of either a message or the sight of a boy coming out the door, I followed this message up with a phone call that included phrases like "I know you don't want to but you have to, I don't want to hear it, it will not take forever, yes I know you hate malls, yes malls are stupid" and finally "GET IN THE CAR!"

We hadn't taken four steps inside the automatic door before Zach's I HATE MALLS chant began. Keeping in mind that I hate malls too, and considering the fact that the first thing we were subjected to was the olfactory assault courtesy of the Macy's cosmetics department, this chant did not boost my Christmas spirit and I started to feel a little claustrophobic. Fortunately, he broke into the second verse of his chant, and it went a little something like this: I hate malls and I'm hungry.

After "dinner" in the food court, during which I felt like I was trapped in a John Hughes movie - the lighting, the bad Christmas music being piped in, the neon Sbarro sign with the burned out "o", the teenagers making out and the exhausted woman forcefully shoving her crying, snowsuited child into a stroller - we wandered around trying to find Santa's Village. As soon as I saw the tips of the fake evergreens in the distance, the boys decided to head to the bathroom. I'm sure Santa wishes that more kids would make this a priority before they sit on his lap.

Zoe and I waited in the shortest Santa line I've ever seen (aka we were the only people in line) and after (hopefully) washing their hands, the boys joined her. I pulled out my phone to snap a couple pictures, and that's when Bi-Focal-Wearing Helper Elf quickly intervened.

Elf: Excuse me, no pictures allowed. You need to buy something.

Me: But I don't want anything. I just want a picture.

Elf: Then you can buy a picture.

Me: But I don't want to buy a $17 8x10. I want a $0 picture.

Elf: Well, usually people buy pictures.

Me: I just want to take one picture. I promise I won't tell.

Elf: How about a keychain? Or a magnetic frame?

Me: I don't want a keychain or frame. I just want a picture.

Elf: Well, I guess if I don't see you take the picture...

Me: Merry Christmas.

Santa turned out to be pretty cool. He thanked my boys for cooperating with their mom, said they are nice kids and told them to enjoy their much-needed time off from school during the Christmas break. He didn't throw in any fake Ho-Ho-Ho's or rub his bowl full of jelly or bother to share any wacky tales from the North Pole, all of which my boys appreciated and, judging by the smile on her face, I'm sure Zoe didn't miss.

On our way out (which, by the way, was expeditious due to Zach's saying "Do you know the way to the car? Yes? Well, then, let's go straight there making zero extra turns, without stopping to look at anything.") Zoe asked me the question that all parents dread: Was that Santa real?

I stopped walking (inducing an eye roll from Zach who, after throwing his arms in the air, kept walking), looked at Zoe and without a hint of doubt in my voice said, "Well of course he's real. Who else would it be?"

Yes, I looked my child in the eye and lied. But I am NOT losing the Santa card to a six-year-old. After all, it's still three weeks until Christmas.

A Fashion Dead End

Now that I have some time to myself during the day, several people have said things like "Ooooh! You have tons of time to go shopping now! You can go to the mall by yourself! You'll be able to go shopping every day!" These people obviously don't know me at all, since for me, having to shop everyday would be the equivalent of being subjected to waterboarding. Or being that guy that gets trampled in the first five minutes during the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Or having to walk across the Sahara with only a juice box and no cell phone service.

Unfortunately, though, trends come and go, seasons change and my damn kids continue to grow, which means that occasionally I find myself having to shop. And since I can't get everything done online (believe me, I've tried), I occasionally have to go into actual stores where actual people work. People that say things like "Are you enjoying the beautiful weather? What else are you going to do with your day? Do you need a gift receipt? Oooh, I just love these tops! How is your morning going? Would you like to save 10% and apply for a store credit card? Sorry, we're all out of that size but I could check another store that's 57 miles away! Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?" I'm still waiting for a salesperson to say what I'm really thinking, which is "Would you like to slap me in the face and tell me to shut the fuck up?"

On my most recent outing I was searching for black pants for Zach, a jacket for myself and a shirt for Zoe that would be suitable for school pictures. Since shopping with something specific in mind is an entirely different level of torture, I bribed a friend with caffeine and forced her to tag along.

Store #1: No jackets to be found, except for a tweed number that wasn't even long enough to cover my bottom rib. I did find one cute pair of pants (for myself, not for Zach), but unfortunately they were designed for someone that had lower legs shaped like pipe cleaners. The tops all had ruffles, gathers, bunches, sewn on jewelry, bows, frilly shit and/or beads that resembled poppy seeds. This is exactly why I hate shopping.

Store #2: I see jackets! The first jacket I found had a weird buckle across the front, the second jacket was cut for a person that possessed negative amounts of shoulder strength, but shockingly enough, the third jacket fit, and I loved it. I almost passed out from the shock of it all. And then I wandered over to a rack of white long-sleeved shirts because, after all, a girl can never own too many white shirts. Maybe shopping isn't so bad after all.

Store #3: With the jacket checked off my list, I moved on to Zoe's shirt and pants for Zach. After browsing the contents of two racks, we determined that the girl shirts were all -- how should I say this -- designed by colorblind, tasteless, clueless morons that were obviously hell bent on dressing all young girls like hookers in training. It seemed that every shirt we found was either some freakish shade of pink, had a leopard print, was constructed of 98% lace, was freakishly short, and would have only been suitable for school pictures if she happened to attend Whore School. At least we had fun laughing at the ugliness, I managed to find pants for Zach that aren't too nerdy, and my friend and I both found cute shoes for our daughters.

Since we had some time to kill, we actually spent some time wandering around store #3 and found a couple of unexpected surprises. For the first time in a long time, shopping wasn't totally stressing me out and, thanks to my friend, I was actually having fun! And that's when I made the fatal error of checking out the men's department, thinking that I'd maybe find a shirt or something for Doug.

Hanging amidst the True Religion embellished pocket jeans, Affliction t-shirts and cruise wear was this:

So even though I've never seen my husband dress up on October 31 as anything besides himself, if he wants to dress up as an asshole in a couple weeks, I know just where to pick up his costume: Nordstrom Rack.

Back-to-(Hooker) School Clothes

In case you were wondering, our cabin vacation up north was great. We had ideal weather (after the cyclone-level winds finally died down), I actually managed to relax (as long as I use a generous description for the word relax, I really did), drank just enough beer to prevent feeling deprived (and maybe more than my fair share of vodka), slept more than six hours a night (but don't even get me started on the pathetic pillows) and put fewer than 800 miles on my car (the bar was only about six miles away from the cabin). But now that we are home, that relaxed state of mine already seems like a faint memory.

Since it's the end of August, I made sure to get a few back-to-school requirements off of my to-do list while simultaneously completing my vacation to-do list (Pack beer - check!): the school supplies have been purchased, organized and labeled, I found time for a trip to the barber, orthodontist appointments are scheduled and the school calendars have been entered into the computer. One thing that I didn't do, though, is shop for back-to-school clothes.

Because I'd rather just hurl my body out of a ten-story window with nothing but a wrought iron fence to block my fall than shop for school clothes.

Maybe it's because I have boys that could care less about what they wear to school. They would be content wearing a pair of random shorts and a t-shirt that they got from a tennis tournament every single day if it weren't for the fact that I occasionally force them wear something that's not meant to wick large amounts of sweat.

I vividly remember the nightmare of dragging Zach through Aeropostale and Hollister a couple years ago, before he started junior high, forcing t-shirts into his hands while he rolled his eyes and complained: "I'm not going to wear some stupid shirt with a giant logo on the front! I don't even care about this store and I'll look like a moron! Plus, this shirt smells! Like perfume!" Just imagine how ecstatic I was when, after I finally persuaded him to let me buy a few shirts, I got the damn things home and discovered that the bozo salesperson at Hollister forgot to remove one of the anti-theft devices. I went back to the store to have the thing removed, only to be told by the same bozo that "Sorry, but you need your receipt. How do we know that you didn't just grab it off the shelf and are trying to steal it?" Of course my receipt was at home, so I was like "Listen you ratty-haired piece of shit. My kid doesn't even want this shirt, so I can pretty much guarantee that his lack of desire to own it wouldn't motivate me to go through the pain in the ass of walking into your stinky store and stealing it." He must have then sensed that I was about to go insane over a $20 t-shirt, so he grabbed the shirt out of my hands and removed the plastic device.

So, since I've been completely spoiled with boys that don't care about what they wear, the fact that Zoe loves to buy t-shirts and shoes has forced me to make some adjustments. There have been so many times when we are running into Target for three non-clothing items but can barely get by the girl's department without her whining "Will you buy me a shirt, puleeeeeeaaaaase?" And if she would just find one quickly that is under $7 and chuck it into the cart, I would gladly say yes, but that's so not the case.

This one is too pink. This one has a weird bow on the front. This one says "Pink, Punky and Precious" which is just stupid. This one feels scratchy. This one has sparkles, which is pretty, but it has a bug on it, which is weird. Oh I like this one, but it's too yellow. I like this orange one, oh wait, it's a dress. Why does this one have this fringe junk on it? I don't like fringe. I don't want puffy sleeves. The buttons are too big. And on. And on. And on and on it goes.

After a few minutes of frustration she gives up, but not before she's completely crabby, my forehead has developed a thickish layer of sweat, the Target team members are walkie-talkie-ing each other and eyeing me suspiciously like I'm going to become violent, and I make a mental note to let her start shopping online.

Now that she is starting first grade, though, I should probably make sure that she has a few new things to wear. Outfits that say "I'm not in kindergarten, but I can still dress like a little girl" or "I'm going to be a first grader so therefore I don't wear shirts that scream 'look at where my cleavage will be someday' and miniskirts that reveal glimpses of my Tinkerbell underpants." And while this sounds like an easy enough task, believe me when I say IT'S NOT, OKAY!? I WOULD RATHER LICK BATTERIES FOR THE ENTIRE SCHOOL YEAR WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY POKING NEEDLES UNDER MY TOE NAILS THAN SHOP FOR GIRL CLOTHES!

Some people just hop on Gap.com and click clickety click their way to shopping success. But since I have a daughter that is shaped like a very short No. 2 pencil, everything meant to be worn on the lower half of the body falls off of her no matter how far that EZ Waist is cinched in. And could Gap please make a shirt that doesn't say "GAP" on the front? Gap Baseball, Gap Girl, Gap Athletics, we get it already! You shopped at The Gap!

I could shop at abercrombie, but the last time I checked, I haven't won the lottery.

At some point I'll eventually end up ordering a few things from Mini Boden, but only after their stuff goes on sale and I can get free shipping, which won't happen until after school starts.

I know I could go to other stores, like JCPenney, WalMart, Kohl's and Sears, but being in any of these bowels of retail hell gives me anxiety and as a result my vision becomes blurry and I can never find anything that doesn't have a kitten, a bouquet of flowers or a licensed character on it. Or maybe it's that these stores don't sell anything that doesn't have a kitten, a bouquet of flowers or a licensed character on it.

So to get through the first few weeks of school, I considered just going to Target and actually looking at what they are offering for the shortest students this fall. After all, their inventory changes by the hour so chances are I should be able to find something cute, trendy and age appropriate, right!? WRONG! I checked out the first rack of clothes, directly inside the door, prominently displayed, and found this season's hottest offering: apparently Target is saying no to childhood and has decided to put their efforts into dressing all of the local suburban girls for hooker school:

I sure hope Zoe won't mind going to school in a pair of random shorts and a free t-shirt that one of her brothers got from a tennis tournament.

A Couple Simple Requests

Tomorrow is the last day of July. I know this sounds cliche and very creatively challenged, but holy shit! Where did the summer go? How is it that I only have one month left to enjoy not having to deal with school drop off, homework-free evenings and elementary school drama? I guess this means that I'm going to have to really crack down and focus on making the most out of the next few weeks, and also be extra appreciative of the fact that our school district doesn't start until the Tuesday after Labor Day.

At least the summer hasn't been a complete waste. Over the last couple of months, I've spent a lot of quality time with my kids and in the process, have discovered a few things that certain businesses could do to make my life, and the lives of other moms, much easier and more enjoyable. So if these changes could be made by Monday morning, I'd really appreciate it because it would make the rest of my summer much better and result in me being even happier than I already am. And everyone knows: If mom is happy, then everyone is happy.

• Time is tight and we're all trying to squeeze as much enjoyment as we can out of each hour. So, I'd appreciate it if either bars started offering pedicures and neck massages on their happy hour menus, or spas provided complimentary vodka-tonics and/or cold beer with their pedicures. I'm not being greedy and asking for both, but will happily accept one or the other.
• And whichever establishment decides to put this business plan into action, I'd appreciate it if you would offer diet tonic.
• At the end of the school year, I received an envelope so that I could clip and collect Box Tops for Education over the course of the summer. This envelope would be much plumper right now if Box Tops were found on cases of beer or bottles of booze, not just cereal, granola bars, toilet paper and tampons. Yes, that's right. There is a Box Top for Education on Kotex Tampons.
• In addition to my ongoing request for a lotion bottle pump that reaches all the way to the bottom of the bottle, thereby allowing me to use the last 1/3 of the product, I'd also like a bottle that lets me squeeze out the last bit of sunscreen without getting carpal tunnel syndrome. If not that, then an aerosol can of sunscreen that actually puts the product on my child, not just in the air.
• If everyone wants my kid to wash her hands, please place the soap dispensers in public bathrooms at a height where a child that's not the offspring of the Jolly Green Giant can actually reach it without having to be hoisted up by a parent. Inevitably, there is a giant puddle of water on the edge of the counter, which ends up being sucked up by a kid's shirt after the kid has tried in vain to stand on their tip-toes, stretch as far as they can, and still not reach the damn soap.
• If you're not going to move the soap dispensers, then would it really be that much of a cost burden to toss a few plastic step stools in front of the sinks? Do you really think that anyone is going to be so desperate as to steal a plastic step stool that dozens of grimy feet have stood on? If yes, then chain the damn stool to the sink.
• Okay, I'm going to sound a little obsessed about this public bathroom thing, but I have to say something about the toilet paper dispenser. First off, when the roll that's the size of a semi-truck tire is full, it never actually spins, releasing a long strip of paper. It dispenses the paper in 1/2" long segments. Second, if you tear at the wrong angle, you risk lacerating your knuckle. Third, they're usually located in a spot that is unreachable by a child unless the kid yells "Go go gadget arm."
• Yes, yes I know. You're sick of the bathroom theme, but just one more. I'd really like to have stall doors that automatically lock when the person that just used up the last of the toilet paper leaves the stall. That way, I won't end up being the one sitting there later, only to find an empty roll. Because then I can't help but visualize all of the strangers' asses that must have been in that stall throughout the day in order to use up such a humungous roll of toilet paper, which makes me a little nauseous. Also, I'm sick of drip drying.
• Why can't Costco have an express lane? Or better yet, accept normal debit cards? And what is with their moronically designed milk jugs? And I wouldn't have to annoy you by climbing the salad display to pull a fresh one from the back if you would stop leaving the about-to-expire crap on the shelf. In the front. In my way.
• Gas stations should start placing complimentary vacuums next to the pumps. That way, when I'm waiting for my tank to fill, I can use the time to suck up Goldfish and granola bar shrapnel.
• It's really nice of McD's to offer the huge Diet Coke for $.99, but what I really want is for them to offer the huge Diet Coke with a couple ounces of Captain. I'd even be willing to pay more, like $1.99.

If one, two, or all of these requests are met, then I can safely say that August will be spectacular. If not, well, then I'll just have to pick up my Box Top for Education-free case of beer, put my unpainted toes up on my deck railing, attempt to squeeze the last bit of sunscreen from the tube without hurting myself and enjoy the month at home. At least then I know I won't have to deal with drip drying. Unless, of course, someone in my family forgets to replace the roll.

Professionally Single

Even though my brother, Jess, is now married and has an almost-two-month-old baby, it wasn't that long ago that we all thought he would go through life as a professional single person. He was content to work weird hours, ride his motorcycle, buy toys, get together with friends for spontaneous games of volleyball on the weekends (or weeknights), celebrate holidays with only one family, take impromptu trips to London and, if he wanted to, spend entire Sundays watching football and napping.

It was during this phase of his life that Charlie declared that when he grew up, he wanted nothing more than to be exactly like his uncle. And considering how freely he hands out the anti-compliments to me, I don't think this is going to be a tough goal for him to achieve.

When Jess and Ali got married, they planned a small, casual ceremony that took place in their backyard, which is on a lake. Since I would rather shop for my own casket than shop for a dress that is comfortable, stylish and cheap, I started looking for one a couple months before the big day. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled on a great dress hanging on the sale rack at J.Crew. It wasn't slutty, too short, uncomfortable, over-priced or in need of alterations, and it was a summery shade of cantaloupe. Or maybe it was more tangerine. Or mango. Or, as Charlie informed me, it was prison-garb orange.

The day of the wedding arrived and as I was trying to figure out what shoes to wear with my sherbert-colored dress, Charlie looked at me and said something like "Hey mom, aren't you supposed to be picking up garbage in the ditches today? What crime did you commit to end up in prison anyway?" Wonderful. I looked like I was out of jail to do a stint of community service. Now, I don't know about you, but that's exactly the kind of confidence booster this non-dress-wearing girl needed before walking into a room filled with random friends and family members.

A couple days ago, I took advantage of some perfect weather to accumulate three very distinct layers of sweat: I did an early morning run, an afternoon way-too-fast-of-a-pace run while I chased Zoe on her bike and then played tennis with Charlie for an hour and a half. On our way home from the courts, I said "I'm tired, but at least I earned the right to put a slice of bacon on my burger tonight" and Charlie pulled out the keys to my heart by saying "Oh, that's a great idea. Workout all day burning calories and then just put them all right back on." After managing to not pummel him with my clenched fists before kicking him out of the car, I realized that not only had I earned my right to a couple slices of bacon, but had earned several beers too.

It's a magical moment like this and his wonderful way with words and flattery that assures me that Charlie may, in fact, never be in a long-term relationship. But there is a bright side to him remaining single forever: I won't ever have to worry about finding a mother-of-the-bride dress for his wedding. And if by some miracle he does end up finding that certain someone -- that very patient, independent, confident and funny someone -- I guess I wouldn't necessarily have to shop, because I can always just wear my prison garb.

I Need Therapy After the Retail

Since Zoe's birthday was on Wednesday and Father's Day is the day after we get back from vacation, I've had to endure more shopping than usual. As a result, this post is directed toward all facets of the retail industry that are bitching because consumers are preferring to shop online rather than wander into their stores. If you really want us, the consumer, to shop at your store and make impulse purchases from your strategically arranged end caps, here's a tip: STOP SUCKING!

Target: I understand that you aim to please in every aspect, you are obviously making a huge emphasis toward improving customer service, and you want all of your team members to appear educated and knowledgeable. In order to achieve this goal, though, you might want to teach some of your team members to use a little thing called common sense. For example, if a customer is walking quickly and doesn't make eye contact, that's usually a pretty good sign that she knows what she's looking for (birthday gift card, box of Nerds, toothpaste and sandwich bags), where to find it and is probably in a hurry, so requiring a team member to shout "Can I help you find something?" as she's sprinting by is less than pointless, because she obviously knows what aisle the sandwich bags are in. I have had the pleasure of having five, yes five different team members ask me this question within a two minute time frame. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I can occasionally look dazed and confused while standing in the home of the bullseye, but FIVE? That meant that I had to say "No, thank you" five different times, each time with a little more annoyance than the time before. I'm sure the last guy thought I was PMSing or something because the no thank you sounded a lot like "What the fuck, NO! Get off my case!" but honestly, FIVE TIMES? And even if you do say why yes, yes I do need help, I'm looking for crew socks and a new garden hose, Joe Team Member usually just jumps on his walkie talkie and ends up having to ask someone else which, in my opinion, doesn't exactly scream "knowledgeable team member."

Grocery Stores: It's 4:00, so you might want to open up a few more lanes, create self-check out lanes that actually work, quit rearranging the aisles every three months and stop cluttering up the aisles with patio furniture. Also, if you can sell fresh bananas in the cereal aisle you should certainly be able to put a basket of fresh lemons and limes in the aisle next to the tonic. And after the chaos that I witnessed during one recent trip, it might be best to schedule pre-school field trips on the days that don't coincide with free donuts and coffee for the senior citizens. Those two events are bad enough on their own without having to be intertwined into a perfect storm.

Best Buy: Holy crap do I hate this store right now. There is nothing in there that I can't find on Amazon.com, so I rarely even subject myself to the insanity. But occasionally I need something sooner than now and don't have time to wait for even two-day shipping so I head to what I envision hell would be like if the devil wore a blue shirt and sat around in air conditioning. It used to be that trying to find something on the always-changing shelves was the biggest pain in the ass, but I've recently discovered that now the worst part of the Best Buy experience is paying for your crap. During one recent trip (when, shockingly enough, I was in a hurry) I was asked the following questions, and I mostly answered them by just moving my head around since answering with actual words would have resulted in not-very-friendly responses:

1. Are you ready to check-out? (No, I've been standing here next to the "Please wait here for the next available cashier" sign holding these items because I like to waste my time.)
2. Are you paying with cash? (This is a weird question. Does anyone use cash anymore? No one pays for even a cookie with cash.)
3. Do you want to purchase the replacement plan for this video game? (That's the dumbest question ever, and no.)
4. Do you want to purchase the replacement plan for this DVD? (Okay, I stand corrected. This is the dumbest question ever, and still no.)
5. Is this a good show? (Yes, since I typically don't pay money to own full seasons of shitty shows.)
6. Oh, an iPad case. Do you have an iPad? (Oh, that case is for an iPad? I thought it was just for a really big iPod!)
7. Oh, that's kind of odd. I don't think they make an iPod that big. (Moron, yes, I have an iPad.)
8. Oooooh, iPad's are neat. (Yes, they are.)
9. Do you want to have your receipts emailed to you? (No)
10. You have been selected to receive a discount magazine subscription if you choose to do so. Are you interested? (You have been selected to get smacked in the head if you don't quit asking me all of these questions. And no.)
11. Are you a Reward Zone member? (Yes, I already gave you my card.)
12. Oh, yes you did. I'm not usually up here working as a cashier. I'm more of a department manager. (Wow, so I guess they'll give that job to just about anyone then?)
13. Okay, so please scan your card. Oh wait, did I offer you the replacement plan on the video game? (Yes, you did. And the answer is still no.)
14. Do you want the receipt with you or in the bag, or would you prefer to have it emailed to you? (Just. Give. Me. The. Receipt. I'm. In. A. Hurry.)
15. Is there anything else you need? (Yes, but they don't sell beer at Best Buy.)

Spring Non-Essentials

Even though I am married to a person that reads more books a year than anyone I know, I don't read nearly as many books as I used to. And when I say "nearly as many," it's really just another way of saying I don't read books. It's not that I don't have the desire to read, it's just that every time I try to focus on more than three pages at a time my head starts bobbing back and forth, my eyelids slam shut and I fall asleep. So instead of inducing narcolepsy by reading books, I read the newspaper every day and other things that don't require long stretches of concentration, like magazines.

Anyone that knows me at all will support my admission that I am clueless when it comes to fashion and style. I don't wear heels, I don't buy designer denim, my absence of a curvy figure omits anything low-cut and I don't wear jewelry. Despite this mild retardation when it comes to putting an outfit together that doesn't involve yoga pants and a hoodie, I do have a subscription to "In Style." But how I ended up with a subscription to "W" magazine is more than a little bewildering because there is no way in hell that I would have ever paid money for this oversized publication filled with overpriced, oftentimes hideous, crap.

Since it arrived in my mailbox and I'm always up for a good laugh, I thought I'd take a break from the sports section and see what the fashion world is up to. After I got past an ad for Marc Jacobs featuring a model standing in a toilet and a picture of a dress made from ostrich feathers, I came across an article titled "Cheat Sheet to Spring's Must-Haves." Obviously everyone has a different perspective on what defines a "must-have" and judging by W's list, some people in this world are, in fact, insane.

When I saw the prices attached to some of the items, the first thing I thought was holy shit what the fuck. And then I started thinking about the other, much cooler things (in my opinion) that could be purchased with the same amount of money:

Ralph Lauren sandal - $1,950. Ten pairs of sandals at Target and two pedicures a month for a year, including tip. Depending on where I get the pedi, there might even be enough leftover for a manicure or three.

David Yurman watch - $13,500. Three watches from Fossil. Also, two new tennis racquets for each of the three kids and one private tennis lesson a week for each kid, for a year, monthly club dues included.

Blumarine cardigan - $1,630. Five cardigans at JCrew, a sweatshirt for each of the kids, and 30 take-out lunches to be eaten at the park.

Chopard watch - $20,300. Three years of weekly piano lessons for the kids. Oh yeah, and a three-week Hawaii vacation with first-class airfare.

Bottega Veneta bag - $1,550. Twenty sessions with a personal trainer, followed by a bacon cheeseburger and an Extra Pale Ale after each workout.

Tom Ford eyewear - $420. Fifteen pairs of sunglasses at Target, none of which will cause tears to be shed when they are sat on/driven over/lost/mangled.

St. John's Couture jacket - $2,595. A jacket from REI that's actually wearable for each member of my family, and Sunday morning breakfast at Original Pancake House for a year.

Erdem dress - $5,445. Three dresses for Zoe from Mini Boden, 100 martinis for me, a few beers for Doug and maybe even some chips and salsa. And a 50" plasma TV.

J Brand shorts - $158. Three pairs of shorts at the Gap that actually fit a girl that has leg strength and doesn't have an eating disorder.

Eugenia Kim hat - $215. One baseball hat that can be worn to the bar ten times, where I will happily order onion rings and two glasses of Fat Tire on tap.

Nicole Miller top - $375. A top off of the sale rack at Banana Republic, and one year of HBO and Showtime.

Christian Louboutin bootie - $1,595. Six pairs of new shoes for each of the kids. Well, eight pair for Zoe because she's a girl.

Clinique All About Eyes Serum - $25.50. Okay, this one actually makes sense. In fact, I might be buying it in bulk.

Is Everyone Insane?

Since there are etiquette classes available for table manners, maybe a shopping etiquette class should be required before a person can put a foot inside a grocery store or Target. Lately, it seems like every time I'm out running errands all I come across are rude, arrogant, selfish, inconsiderate, clueless morons. It could be that everyone is suffering from SADS, or a lack of peripheral vision, or have just decided that they don't give a rats ass what anyone thinks of them because, obviously, their time/space/ego/life is much more important than everyone else's. Ideally I'd like to never have to subject my lack of patience to a retail industry ever again, but since my family requires things like food, toothpaste, vodka and science project supplies I am forced to put myself in the middle of an idiot convention on an almost daily basis.

Watch Out! If you are walking through the parking lot and see that I'm already backing up out of my spot, please do not start walking faster just so that you can go behind me and give me a nasty look like I was about to run you over and "Oh my god look where you're going why didn't you see me!" I didn't see you because I don't have x-ray vision that allows me to see through SUV's and minivans. Besides, if I had seen you, I would have been backing up much faster.

Crosswalk Courtesy: Just because the crosswalk lines span the entire width of the parking lot, it doesn't mean that you should walk diagonally through the entire crosswalk at a snail's pace while holding the hand of a small child, texting, or like I saw yesterday, doing both and pushing the cart with your foot.

Chatty Cathy: If, while shopping, you bump into someone you know and are just dying to talk to them, find a far-off corner where A) we don't have to listen to you and B) you aren't blocking off an entire aisle because you guys parked your carts facing each other. And when someone has to get by and says "Excuse me," you do not have the right to sigh loudly and roll your eyes as you move your cart because we interrupted your riveting conversation about the upcoming dance recital where your daughters get to dress up as daisies.

We're All In A Hurry: I don't know how many times I've almost been run over because some crazy cart-pushing person (who is almost always on the phone) comes flying out of an aisle without bothering to see if they're about to bash into someone that is right there. Usually, I say "Oh, SORRY!" like, sorry you're a stupid bitch and don't know how to perform the simple task of navigating aisles with even basic common courtesy. Inevitably, the person either ends up ignoring me because they never saw me or they stare at me with their eyeballs bulging out of their face, sigh loudly and say "that's okay," like their lack of brain function is all my fault.

Yes, I See Your Child. Now Go Away. Since I now have the luxury of having a two-hour window each morning to run errands without a kid tagging along, I prefer to not have to acknowledge each and every small child I see. The other day there was a little girl with a limited vocabulary sitting in one of those gargantuan wide-right-turn carts who kept looking at me and saying "Hi, hi, hi, hi" while I was trying to find some decent grapes. I finally said hi back and the mom gave that goofy little giggle and smiled at me with that "Isn't she just the most precious wonderful adorable thing you've ever seen" look, even though she wasn't that cute. So of course she continued to say hi and I played along for a couple more hi's and then made a break for it before I went insane. Unfortunately, the girl started shrieking "HI! HI! HHHHHIIIIIIII!" at the top of her lungs and I heard the mom say "Oh, sweetie. Where did that lady go?" I'll tell you where that lady went: to the other side of the store. I got a glimpse of her later on in aisle 7, but since I wasn't pushing a ginormous car cart, I was able to turn around quickly and run the other way.

The Deli Dilemma: If you really can't decide what pasta salad to get because they all look so delectable, never hesitate to tell the always-patient deli employee to "Go ahead and help her first" because some of us are just there for a pound of turkey.

Get Off The Phone: Get off the phone.

Sorry To Inconvenience You

On Sunday afternoon I voluntarily drove around our over-populated suburb and went shoe shopping with my husband. How much time did this take, you ask? Let's just say that it was more than one hour, but less than six. Now before you start thinking "Ah ha! The Mean Mom said that she would never rip on her husband, but I knew she'd cave at some point! I can't wait to read about how horrendous it was!" I have to admit that it was actually pretty tolerable and even enjoyable. After all, I wasn't under any pressure to find shoes for myself or the kids, the boys were left at home and I took advantage of the opportunity to point out several items that I really liked because you never know when Doug will be overwhelmed with the urge to shower me with gifts.

Due to the fact that the majority of men's shoes consist of little more than hideous hunks of leather and fabric sewn together into something that resembles the shape of a foot, we had to go to a few different stores to find something that he liked. How many stores exactly, you ask? Let's just say that it was more than one, but fewer than six. We did manage to find a pair at store #2 that didn't make me wince with disgust, but unfortunately they didn't have the right size. Since I like to be efficient and don't really derive joy from making wasted trips, I figured I'd call store #3 to see if they had the correct size before we drove there.

Now is when the bitching starts, but it still isn't about Doug.

I had a coupon for store #3 but of course the coupon was at home. Since I knew exactly where the coupon was I called Zach so that he could look at it and give me the phone number. As soon as he answered his phone, though, I knew that I had interrupted a critical video game marathon and that there was no way in hell this conversation was going to result in me having a phone number.

I told him to look in the cabinet in the kitchen where I keep the calendar. "What cabinet? Where?" That long door, in the kitchen, by the fridge, where the calendar has been hanging for the last ten years. "Oh why didn't you say so in the first place." Open the door and look on the top shelf. "What? The bottom shelf? All I see are bags." No, the top shelf. There's a coupon for a shoe store. Do you see it? "Start over. I see no coupon on the bottom shelf. Oh wait. Here it is on the top shelf, not the bottom shelf. What do you want?" Please tell me the phone number. "I don't see a phone number. I just see a coupon." Please open your eyes, turn on your brain and decipher numbers. And stop making me want to hurt you.

Doug was listening to my end of this riveting conversation and could see the beads of sweat forming on my hairline. Since we still hadn't found a pair of shoes for him and he didn't want me to lose my mind and start screaming in public, he pulled out his iPhone and said "Here, I'll just look it up."

Within ten seconds Doug had found the phone number and I had pretty much hung up on my limited-use-of-the-English-language kid. After another 20 seconds I found out that store #3 not only didn't have the correct size, but didn't even carry the same style. And then I started to wonder if they sell shoes at the bar.

I probably would have had better results if I had told Zach to Google the name of the shoe store instead of having to physically move around the house trying to find a specific piece of paper because as I've discovered, technology is more helpful and reliable than a teenage boy. I will definitely remind him that although I know I'm not as interesting or smart as a PlayStation 3, he still needs to pay attention when I'm talking to him. And maybe he needs a smack in the head. After all, I think there's an app for that.

Get Me A Beer, And Then Shut Up

Unlike some women, I don't love malls. Actually, I don't even really like malls. If it weren't for the existence of Auntie Anne's Pretzels, I would probably never be seen in a mall. All those rude sales associates, bitchy teenage girls testing every possible fragrance at Bath & Body Works, The Piercing Pagoda, blind women pushing strollers, and the fact that I can never find one piece of apparel that doesn't suck all add up to me hating malls.

Unfortunately, I needed to go to the Apple Store to drop off my laptop, which meant I had to go to a mall. I figured a Thursday mid-afternoon would be a great, uncrowded time to go, and as an added bonus it would give me something to do while Zach was at his tennis lesson.

After I dropped off my computer and let Zoe test out every iPhone on display ("Where are all the games? What about 'Monkey Pee?'") I still had almost two hours to kill. I considered just grabbing a pretzel and coffee, putting my ass on a bench and letting Zoe run back and forth from Macy's to Caribou, but I didn't want to risk her getting run over by any crazy stroller pushers. So we went to The Gap (is it even possible to go to a mall and not go to The Gap?), and while I was waiting in line, Zoe kept herself occupied by trying on sunglasses and rocking some major dance moves in front of a full length mirror. After that we wandered around aimlessly, laughed at the ugly shirts in Gymboree, and tried on hideous pieces of costume jewelry.

After half-an-hour went by, we were both bored, and she was hungry. Since it wasn't even 5:00 yet, I didn't want to eat anything but was definitely willing to have a beer in silence while Zoe ate. We went to Macaroni Grill and sat at the people-less bar, and that's when I realized that not only do I hate malls, but I hate bars, and the bartenders at the bars, in malls even more.

While Zoe was busy slurping up buttered spaghetti noodles, I tried to look busy by keeping my upper lip constantly submerged in my beer glass and my eyes focused on a TV. The bartender just stood there, asking me how my shopping was ("Fine"), where I lived ("Not by here") and how old my daughter was ("Ask her yourself"). Then he asked if I was going on vacation anywhere ("Not that I know of"), and it was at this point that I wanted to cut my head off. He proceeded to not only tell me about his upcoming vacation, but who he was going with, why he was traveling with this person, how his grandma died, his sister is sick, he just got in touch with an old friend on Facebook, his uncle gave him some money, he likes to drink beer, blah blah blah. The whole time I just sat there saying "Mmm. Mmm hmm. Wow. That's neat. Sorry to hear that. Oh. Okay." I instantly regretted not just grabbing Zoe a pretzel and getting the hell out of the mall to do something more fun, like crashing the car into the ditch.

Eventually, a couple more customers wandered in, and while I wanted to warn them and tell them to make a run for it, I also hoped that maybe then he would quit talking to me. No such luck. He quickly took their orders, poured the stupid olive oil on a plate, and then returned to where I was sitting, and that's when my expression must have changed to "Shut the fuck up."

I guess he got the point because not only did he walk away and start washing glasses, but he kept looking toward me with a "You're a huge bitch" look on his face. I wanted to say: "Listen, asshole! I'm just trying to sit here and enjoy a beer in some peace and quiet while my daughter has an early dinner! I never asked you to keep me company! Just because I don't want to hear about all your crap doesn't make me a bitch!"

One thing he mentioned was that his upcoming vacation was in the Dominican Republic. As Zoe and I were getting ready to leave, it occurred to me that I don't know one person, including my husband, that has managed to go to the Dominican Republic without getting sick, specifically from poultry. I wanted to tell him: "Hey! When you're on vacation, be sure and eat chicken. Lots and lots of chicken. Yum, gotta love that Dominican Republic chicken!" But sure enough, now that we were leaving, he was nowhere to be found.

If That's The Look You're Going For

The flat tire on my minivan was probably a sign. The fact that my neighbor who was kind enough to give me a ride (she was going anyway) was at risk of running out of gas on the freeway was definitely another sign. But I ignored all of it, subjected myself to the Miley Cyrus concert, and I can safely say that my daughter, unlike 96% of the other fans, was not dressed like a whore.

I know that it's difficult to buy cute clothes for girls, specifically a 5 year old that weighs 31 pounds and has no ass. It's almost impossible to find something that doesn't say "Daddy's Little Princess" or have bears, bows, balloons, or bears wearing bows holding balloons on it. One walk through the aisles of Kohl's results in nothing but scratchy fabrics in Pepto Bismol pink, gathers at the shoulders, shirts printed with kittens and glittery hearts, and yes, even some of the dreaded eyelet lace. I don't think I'm being unreasonable, wanting to find something for my kid to wear that won't get her beat up on the playground.

As I discovered last night, though, apparently the main goal of some girls is "I want to wear something that will get me picked up on the playground." I don't consider myself naive, prudish, or completely clueless, but maybe your daughter shouldn't be wearing a size 6X miniskirt when she's actually a woman's size 10. The number of exposed guts (yes, I said guts), sleeveless tops, black leather boots with platform heels, and ass-exposing skirts eventually overwhelmed me and I had to self-medicate with alcohol. I was grateful for the fact that I had a friend by my side that was willing to take the same approach.

The saddest thing for me was that it probably wasn't long ago that the majority of these girls played with stuffed animals, could put in their own pony tail binder, and were genuinely excited to finger paint. Now, someone knowingly lets them wear false eyelashes, makeup, and a Bump-It wedged into the back of their hair. And since when does a 7 year old wear a black lace bra?

Earlier in the day, I had asked Zoe if she wanted to go shopping so we could buy her a new shirt for the concert. She gave me a bewildered look and said "Um. No. I have shirts in my closet. Even one with a sparkly star on it. I don't need a new shirt. I don't want to go shopping." Now I know for sure that Daddy's Little Princess is being brainwashed by her father.