In Which Nature Takes Over

Scene: A sun dappled den. The Comedian and I are sharing some quiet time while our dog, Lex suns herself outside on our deck.

"Cheeep! Cheep, Cheep, ChiiRRRP!" The Comedian and I look out the sliding glass doors of the den to see Lex catch an adult-sized Robin in her mouth. As I press my face to the glass I can actually see the fear in the bird's eyes and I let out a bit of a whimper. "Poor, germ-infested bird. You had no idea that lazy looking dog was going to come out and get you did you? I know. Me neither."

In the past Lex has caught toads, lizards and other smaller birds but when they cease to move any longer she stands above them looking perplexed. She nudges them with her nose wondering where her playmate has gone. It's almost sad if it weren't so well, wild. I forget sometimes that she is an animal and hunting, not snoring and hacking up an old man lung is her true instinct.

I look out the window a minute or so later to see her ripping the head off the bird and more. Egads. I swalllow a bit of vomit. Feathers litter the deck as do drops of bird blood. 'True Blood' plays on the TV screen in the background. Seconds later she runs through the dog door and drops the lower half of the bird at my feet. "Oh? A present for me? How thoughtful. I always wanted diseased bird claws with entrails on my den carpet. How sweet!" I immediately run for a rag to scoop up the mess and then cordon off the bio-hazard area before The Comedian can stuff any blood and guts into her piehole. I gag again and dial H.

I talk to him about how I really would clean up this mess if I could and I notice that the once sunny and clean deck is now littered with bird head and feathers on one side, entrails in the middle and random pieces of heart, lung and bones on the other side. Blech. She really went to town. Lex stands amongst it all panting and salivating while surveying her domain. She looks like she is in some sort of trance.

You think you are going to spend an hour watching vampires suck blood off some mortal while you fold your whites and suddenly you find yourself scrubbing bird blood, guts and feathers off your beige carpet instead. Typical.

The Longest Hour

To all you women out there who bring your many tiny tots to the grocery store all at once I commend you. I. Just. CANNOT. Handle. It.

At all.

Granted, I can't seem to get the handle of the Ergo Baby while holding a purse which would free up the cart versus putting the baby carrier in there because there is NO grocery cart for people with a toddler and a young baby. None. Sure, I can use the car cart but then the seat to balance the baby carrier is always too small. I end up placing her sideways over the basket and have minimal access to the cart and ooh I'm already sweating and stressing out before I have even entered the store. Now, H can handle all this. He just sticks TD in the cart and straps Dash Two into the Baby Bjorn and goes. It's all stress and nightmares for me no matter what ammo (treats, books, toys) and attitude I bring in with me.

From the moment we hit the produce at the beginning and the guy was meticulously (read slower than molasses in January) stacking broccoli and there was endless screaming from one or another kid. I think everyone at Wegman's was really clear on the fact that TD wanted hot dogs and that she had to grab them off the shelf all by herself. Next, she wanted to be unbuckled and then buckled. Then unbuckled and buckled again. Bunny crackers became airborne out of the car cart as we whizzed by the bulk foods and I ran over my own pen and grocery list as it also sailed out of the cart. I took some deep breaths and loaded the cart up with yogurt as TD realized for the first time that yogurt also comes in Dora flavor not just Mixed Berry. Yeah, we've embarked on the age where we are noticing those Golden Arches, cartoon characters on cereal and how Disney has their hands in everything. Damn you, Disney fruit snacks, cereal, pizza and coming to a shelf near you- toilet paper. I would bet good money on that one right now.

By the time we got to the register my hair was almost standing on end. I probably had that vacant, glazed over look to my eyes as I white knuckled the cart handle bars. Dash Two was making rumbling, grumbling sounds and giving my boobs the hungry eye. Meanwhile, TD went into a full throttle meltdown about how pissed she was that she couldn't put groceries on the conveyor belt because she was in the car cart from hell. Um.. yeah kid, me too.

As we left the store I noticed that the man was still stacking the broccoli, not even an hour had gone by but I swear I had aged a year in the time it took him to carefully place about thirty heads of greens. Thankfully TD started throwing gang signs and dancing to the James Brown playing in the car making me laugh so hard I was able to make it home without cracking up completely.

Welcome to McDonald's. May I Help You?

There I was running errands and so hungry I was about to chew my arm off. Either that or eat some of the tasty stuffing that Nissan has lovingly provided. I looked at the dashboard clock and realized it was close to dinner. I was in no mood to cook for just T.D. and I. I decided to grit my teeth and not think about the harm I was doing to myself or my child and just suck up the fact that tonight we were doing the drive-thru. I needed fries. Twice in one month mind you. I am hanging my head in shame right now. Do you see the grease dripping off it?

As I pulled in I noticed that America does not run on Dunkin', at least not after 5 p.m. No, it runs on McDonald's. The line of cars at the drive-thru was long. At our turn I placed our order and proceeded to sit. And sit. We sat at the speaker box for quite some time until we were able to allow someone else to order some fat-tastic food. As we waited I heard this tiny cheeping sound coming from the back seat. T.D. was talking in a soft questioning voice.

"Chi-chi nugget?"

"Chi-chi nugget?"

"Did you just say chicken nugget", I asked.

"Yes! Chi-chi nugget, apuhl and nuyk?"

"Did you just say chicken nugget, apples and milk", I asked.

"YEAH!"

I cringed and sank in my seat. My kid knows her McDonald's order. We come here maybe once a month. MAYBE. In the last month it has been twice due to a trip and complete exhaustion on our parts. As I am pondering this scary fact I hand my card over and pay at the window. The cashier hands it back with a receipt. Hm... two meals for only $2.82? Is this 1950's pricing day? Is Mickey D's doing some founding father commemoration for good ol' Ray? No. I seem to have only ordered a chocolate shake. The window now slammed shut in my face, I bang on it a bit and tell the kid my order is wrong. He asks if he can give me cash back. No, I explain, I paid with a card. There is a heavy sigh and he disappears. The line for the drive-thru is now that much longer.

There is a flurry of commotion as two managers, the cashier and who knows who else cram themselves in the tiny window whispering and looking at papers, using keys to unlock secret McDonald's register draws and quietly upbraiding each other. I look in my side mirror and see the woman two cars back is now enraged. Her face is contorted in an ugly grimace. (Ha-ha! Grimace! Get it? Ok bad joke.) "Hold on lady, you'll get your ass-fat in due time. This isn't my fault", I feel like yelling to her. Finally, the issue is resolved. I sign forms. FORMS people and I am on my way.

Ten feet later I arrive at window two. The trough. A bespectacled man hands me my order. Coke and a tiny kiddie Sprite. WTF? NYUK. I ordered nyuk! I politely ask where my milk is and the dude almost cries as he hands me my milk, apologizing profusely. I take my greasy bags of sodium and incidentally pure-fried goodness and pull away. As I drive away I notice. No apuhls. Just fries.

I am never going there again. I am cured.

Michael's a.k.a. Pain & Suffering in Suburbia

Dear Micheal's Craft Store,

Or should I be calling you Crafty store? You suck me in each time with the power to persuade me that I really can bake a four tiered cake with sugared flowers and fondant decor. All done by me and my masterful hand. Ha! Your masterful hand. Like a Puppet Master you hold the strings as I glide slowly down the aisles being seduced by your sparkly paste gemstones, beads, and modeling clay. Your bright and colorful displays of silk flowers lure me in making me feel inadequate when I know that no amount of green foam or designer dish will make my floral creation something of beauty.

Each time I go in for one thing only and come out with foam pumpkins (only 50 cents!) and fabric paint. You are tricky Michael's. Very tricky. I dream of weddings gone by that could have used your expertise and the delicate yet cheap looking Christmas ornaments I could attach to future presents. When I go to find the right style garland to match what I already own your staff vacantly stares at me and points me towards the wall of baskets. I become incensed. I circle your store getting angrier by the second. I only want one thing and I CAN NEVER FIND IT no matter what it is!

My cart gets clipped by a jutting display of wooden boats that just need some paint! Bored children abound, including my own. Elderly women clog the aisles and play some sadistic Michael's induced game with me and my cart. They pop up in the most unexpected places blocking my way and ceasing to move. No amount of "Excuse me, Ma'am" is nice enough. For some inexplicable reason that I can only surmise as yet another mean Michael's trick these very same slow as Molasses in January women suddenly all appear as if from thin air at the register at the very same moment that I do.

Armed only with my two foam pumpkins (50 cents only!) and a cookie cutter I am at last at the register. I look into my cart and there's now about $50 worth of scrap booking materials and an additional $75 in picture frames. Do I need these? My mind is a fog. I can't recall how they got into the cart. All I know is now my kid is in meltdown mode and there are three slow women in front of me with all manner of difficult tasks. Coupons for items that no longer exist but yet they now possess in their claw like hands, returns that are past their 60 day return mark, and one confused look and attitude. My blood pressure rises. My hands clench the handlebar of the cart. I tap my foot and shake a bag of green meltable chocolate at my child.

Why Michael's? Why?! Why do you do this to me each and EVERY time I venture into your store? The story is always the same. The aisles look eerily empty yet the register always has the same painfully long and slow wait. The clerks move at the speed of a Galapagos tortoise on Valium and the customers are the same. I never cease to leave your store without feelings of failure and doomed projects hanging over my inexperienced head and a heart condition from the stress your registers never fail to cause me. EACH TIME I SWEAR I WILL NEVER GO BACK. Then weeks sometimes only days later I tell myself it will be different this time. I make excuses for your past horrible service. Convincing myself that this time it will be different and that I really am crafty.

It never is. I never am. Micheal's, you are the bain on my suburban existence. I wish I could quit you but I see you have pastel pom poms by the dozens at 75% off and I feel inexplicably compelled to buy them. They would look great on a lamp shade I now see is in my cart.





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