K and I got everything on our list, plus night-time cold and cough medicine for the kids. I didn’t know they made that! I thought I had to give him a teaspoon of honey!
What asshole thought up THAT useless crap?
Whoever it is, (I’m guessing it’s a dude, and I think that would prove to be accurate if anyone cared to look it up) he’s laughing his ass off at everyone who thinks it works. Fuck that, I got me some NyQuil for kids. 180 proof.
Also, for the first time ever, I let one of our children open something before we bought it.
Somehow it seems K knows she can walk in the store, instead of riding in the cart, EVEN with a cart present. (Glaring in your direction, Daddy) So we no longer wish to sit in the cart.
Instead, she wants to run around the store, pull stuff off shelves, and throw it on the floor (glaring in your direction, Daddy) so mommy can pick it up. There’s no keeping up with her either. If, by chance, I do catch her, she turns into dead weight, puts her arms above her head, and slips out of my grasp like a fucking tuna on a fishing boat. So, once I got her in the cart, I let her have some animal crackers. Off the shelf. I have a pet peeve about that– you know, it’s my mother coming out to visit.
We go to check out, and we get the lady with the 50’s wig with the bow on the side at which I can never stop looking- it’s like a train wreck or something out of The Stepford Wives or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You know her, she asks really retarded questions about whatever you’re buying, while you just stand there, smiling and nodding, wanting so very badly to shout:
K is using one of her formula containers as a drum while wig bow lady is ringing up the others, so I tell wig bow lady,
“There’s only one more of those.”
Then K starts putting her formula on the conveyor belt and taking it off, and wigbow lady can’t keep track.
There are three fucking formula cans, and wig bow keeps trying to scan the one K is putting on the Belt. Over and over, like there were multiple cans that I was trying to scam from my local Target. Luckily I could pull my eyes away from the wig bow long enough to take the can from the baby and show it (One. Only one.) to her. Three. Only three. It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist.
Okay. I know that was mean. Wig bow lady, if you’re out there, amongst my zero followers, you have my most sincere apology. Well, maybe not my most sincere, but higher up amongst the various less sincere, although not amongst the top less sincere
I’m sort of sorry. Maybe.