"And how are YOU?" the cashier said with a sympathetic smile.
I liked him for not NOT liking me.
Why? Because my sweet Angeldoodlehead, H4, had just thrown a fit worthy of an Academy Award in the middle of Old Navy. In fact, I could still the screams echoing off the concrete walls filled with images of non-terrified souls in brightly colored parkas. These were in sharp contrast to the people filling the aisles who were still not breathing after my pride and joy was heaved-hoed over my husband's shoulder and carried through the mall and out the door.
"He's two. And he's milking it," I smiled and handed him a credit card.
"Oh, it's not signed? I'll need to see your ID."
"Okay!" I said brightly. I was happy. The kid was with the husband and I was thisclose to owning a mint green zip up sweater that was sooo cute and --
"He'll have to come back in and sign for this."
"What?" My good mood evaporated as I stared at the pre-pubescent, tattooed, Adam Lambert-wanna-be who just asked for the impossible. He may have asked that I simply walk into Mordor, that was the scale of this nitwit's request.
I didn't like him.
"He was just here? Just carried out the crazed kid? You saw him," I was trying to be reasonable and I shook my Disney card in front of his eye-linered face - just in case the Kohl was blocking his damn view.
"Yeah, but he has to be the one to sign it," he said. "But I can hold it for you!"
"No. No need. I won't be coming back," I said.
I was proud of my maturity.
Proud of the fact that I was SEETHING on the inside but managed to keep my gaping maw closed - for once.
Happy Fucking Christmas, Glambert, I thought as I pushed my empty stroller toward the door. "And thanks for the GIANT FUCKING INCONVENIENCE!"
Okay - maybe I didn't quite maintain my high level of maturity for too long. :)
Saturday, December 1, 2012
"Hey - can you be ready in ten minutes?"
These words are enough to put me in a bad mood for the entire weekend yet my husband, without fail, utters them to me every Saturday morning as I am emerging from the shower.
This is from the same man who can take up to twenty minutes to decide on a pair of shoes. Or thirty to decide on the perfect undershirt-and-t-shirt combo.
So as I sit here in full attire, wet hair and a face lacking any tidbit of cosmetic enhancement I plot my revenge...
Suggestions are welcomed. :)
Posted by Holly at 11:46 AM