The Walmart Apology

Walmart.

Love it, hate it, it is as American as apple pie and baseball.

It’s a place where all walks of life, all creeds and colors, can come together with a common goal. It’s a… a melting pot of sorts. The man, the woman, the child, the redneck, the businessman – all of us together. And Moms. Walmart is so good to moms.

As a mom, I can get my groceries, my wardrobe, my cleaning products, my cat food, my craft supplies, and my baby wipes in one place. THAT IS IMPORTANT.

Mothers, bless our hearts, spend every day taking care of the every need of those sweetest little beings called children (among other things). There are good days, when you cuddle up to your sleeping angel and sniff their soft, sweet skin and kiss their soft, sweet eyelashes, and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly wonderful could come from your very loins. AND THEN THERE ARE BAD DAYS.

Bad days are days when you count the minutes until you can tuck (strap) them into their beds, pray that they won’t get up once they are there, quietly collapse into fetal position on your living room floor to whimper (softly, so you won’t wake the demons children), and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly out of control could come from your cursed, wretched loins.

I had a bad day. And Walmart got to bear the brunt.

Someday I will write an apology letter to Walmart. It will say something like this:

Dear Walmart,

            I’m sorry my kids terrorize, vandalize, and otherwise violate your sacred halls. I’m sorry they pull things from shelves, break things, slobber on things, ride bicycles at high speeds through busy aisles, get lost multiple times in a single visit, run from your employees, and scream – really – loud – for – ages. I am sorry that they may have driven many potential customers out with their antics. I am sorry that no amount of purchases can make up for the pain I have caused you. And I’m really, really, really sorry for that one day.

That day was a doozy.

We were on our way home from a fun day at the state fair, all of us exhausted (as other battles had already been fought with the kids), and that man I’m married to wanted to stop once more to see if there was any good clearance on fishing gear. BAD. I. DEA.(IloveyouHoneyyouaremore
wonderfulthanwordscansayI’dnevertradeyouforanyoneexceptformaybe
ZacEfronbutyouknowthatalready)

My kids ran through their standard list of entertaining public displays:

Run amuck.

Scream and laugh.

Hide from Mom.

First potty break.

Hide from Dad.

Laugh some more.

Ride bikes.

Grab things from shelves. (We are not buying that. Put it back.)

Child #1 lost.

Child #2 dawdling while we try to get to the checkout.

Child #3 crying to be held.

Second potty break.

Repeat. Multiple times.

I could have handled it all. I usually do. But my final straw, the one that sent me completely and totally over the edge, was the dreaded moment in the checkout line.

Daddy Dearest wants milk to go with the cookies we are buying. He offers to take Little E with him while I stand in line with Big E and Sis. Sounds do-able.

FIVE SECONDS LATER… the disaster began.

Sis, perched in the basket of the cart, spills our little box of cookies all over the floor. Oh well, Walmart germs never hurt anyone. I scoop them up and put them back in the box with nary a crumb left behind. No big deal.

Suddenly, Big E needs to go potty. Again. I’m wedged between two families with full carts, and I don’t know how to get out or what to do. I send the tiny-bladdered child to the (nearby) bathroom alone (where he will hopefully not be abducted). After showing him where to go, I quickly return to Child #2, who is sitting in the grocery cart, eating cookies. Are you scared yet? It gets worse.

A moment passes as I wait for an old lady on a scooter cart (bless her) try to buy a protection plan for her new TV from the young, inexperienced cashier (bless her) with a large Walmart star sticker on her cheek (wth?). Suddenly, I hear a strange noise, like liquid hitting the floor. I glance around. I see the people behind me staring underneath my cart. I look at my daughter, sitting there, surrounded by the ruffles of her little skirt, eating cookies. I look at the floor. Puddle. I look at my daughter. I bend down and look below the cart. Waterfall steadily contributing to puddle. Coming from my child.

She didn’t even have the decency to tell me she had to pee. I’m sorry Walmart. So, so sorry.

TWO DAYS LATER, she peed in the toy aisle at Kmart. I picked her up. I walked away. 

Sorry Kmart.

It's the End of the World as We Know It

If you watch the evening news, you may have noticed something lately…

THE WORLD IS ENDING.

But I’m not talking about prophetic visions of F10 tornadoes, mountain-moving earthquakes, the Great Yellowstone Explosion (monitor that imminent disaster here), or hail the size of a beach ball crushing every WalMart from here to the moon. I’m talking about the life-altering, soul-crushing, inexplicable launch of the

CORN/BACON/BALLOON APOCALYPSE.

I first tapped into this horrible truth on my own evening news, only to have it reaffirmed the next half hour by World News with Diane Sawyer. Obviously, there is cause for concern here, people. Diane Sawyer knows stuff.

Perhaps you’ve heard about the shortages. The unfortunate lack of rain in our grand ole US of A this summer has left us with an unfortunate lack of some of our staple foods – namely, corn and corn. Let me tell you all a little something about corn.

EVERYTHING EATS IT.

For a greater understanding of why our lack of corn is affecting bacon and balloons, observe:

Lack of RAIN = Lack of CORN = Lack of PIG FOOD = Lack of PIGS = Lack of BACON = NO BALLOONS AT YOUR KID’S FIRST BIRTHDAY PARTY

Ok, maybe I’m not a scientist, but I think I’m on to something.

This is what the folks over at TIME Magazine have to say about our current helium situation:

“The U.S. helium reserve in Amarillo, Tex., controlled by the Bureau of Land Management, accounts for 30 percent of the world’s helium. But a current Senate Bill calls for the reserve to continue selling helium, even if it risks running out by 2018. Helium is a common inert gas, but for commercial purposes it’s usually generated as a byproduct from natural gas mining. But because the recession has caused a slowdown in natural-gas production, helium markets are facing a shortage; more plants will coming online by the end of 2012 in Qatar, Russia and Wyoming, but not in time to ease the current crisis.”

Got that? No?

Here’s my interpretation:

Basically, since we elect our government in this here land of the free, we have thereby given them permission to ruin any and all birthday parties from this day until forever. Thank you, democracy. I will now do my part by sacrificing the chance to hear my husband talk like Alvin the Chipmunk on his birthday in order to leave more helium for MRI machines to diagnose my ailments.

And now you see it – the Corn/Bacon/Balloon Apocalypse has begun. We were warned, guys, we were warned.

The Other Woman

So there’s this chick.

She’s got it all – she’s exciting, exotic, and really attractive.

She goes great with Doritos, Mountain Dew, and a big, fat slice of ego.

She stays up late, gets up early, goes all day and still finds the energy in-between to take away the one thing I care about the most.

My husband.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I know what you’re thinking:

How dare he that dirty rotten scumbag #%@$&&*#^$*&^% (insert your choice expletives).

But it’s not him. It’s her.

No, really. She’s got this undeniable draw. Even I can’t resist it.

Yes, I’ve met her. We’re actually kind of friends, if you want to know the truth. And, if you want to know more of the truth, this isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s kind of an on-again, off-again, deal-with-it-as-it-comes(-again) kinda thing.

Now, I don’t write this because I want your sympathy, empathy, casseroles, or whatever else you've got to offer (unless it’s money, then you can just fill that check out right now. I also take cash). I just wanted you all to know.

And we’re working through it. The three of us. Together. It could take some time. It could take some therapy. It could take multiple packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Like, a lot of packages.

But we’re determined to make this work.

And if someone has to go, well I guess we all know who it has to be.

HER.

By the way… that Other Woman? 

The Mistress? 

That Great Whore of the Earth?

Her name is...

“Hunting Season.”

Yes ladies, it’s that time of year again. Lock that man up.

What's [Not] Ailing Me

I’m a worrier.

I worry about all the typical stuff a woman/wife/mother tends to: dishes, laundry, bills, the hubunk finding a job, my children’s health, work, that fabulous yacht we’re going to buy and travel the world in… blah, blah, blah. The daily grind. It’s a worrisome life.

But I have this problem. Some might call it undue stress. Or obsession. Or compulsion. Or even hypochondria. My husband would probably say that I am a stressed out obsessive-compulsive hypochondriac.

Why? Well let me start at the beginning, my friends.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt that I could, and possibly/probably would, pass on at any moment.

Lights out. Kick the bucket. Give up the ghost.

DIE.

I remember being 8 years old, lying awake at night, panicking like no child should, believing I was having a heart attack and death was imminent.

And despite the fact that I quite obviously did not die back then, nor since, I still have my little problem.

I can tell you all right now, the hubunk is going to read this, and he is going to roll his eyes and moan because he has heard about my plethora of “ailments” since day one (and counting). In fact, it seems to have gotten worse since I’ve had children. I fear for their lives as much as I do my own (as a good mother should, right?). But poor Aaron. He is the unfortunate man called upon to be my diagnostic trash can, at whom I throw every symptom (real and imaginary), every speculative concern, every pathetic wail of “What is wrong with me?!”

Allow me to let you in on this wondrous part of his life.

If I get a headache that won’t seem to go away, I have a brain tumor. Or an aneurysm. There is a good chance I will have a stroke.

If I have a pain in my side for more than an hour, I have cancer (in various organs). Probably incurable.

Chest pressure? Heart palpitations? Shortness of breath? A pain in my left arm?! Certainly a heart attack.

If my hair seems to be falling out more than usual, it’s got to be lupus.

Leg ache? Definitely deep vein thrombosis.

Skin growth? Melanoma, without a doubt.

Fate has certainly been unkind, right? And who knows what I’ll contract next? The Avian flu? West Nile? That flesh-eating disease that works so quickly they have to hack off your limbs before it eats the rest of you? I’ll be pushing up daisies at any minute.

I could go on. But I won’t waste your time telling you all about the symptoms and diseases I [don’t] have. I’ve got WebMd Symptom Checker for that (and my stats are already pre-filled in those little boxes anyway).

And if I do happen to, shall we say, up and croak… no autopsy will be necessary. Just check my Google search history. Oh, and tell them not to play The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young” at the funeral. I’ve decided it doesn’t quite represent my life. Perhaps LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” might suffice?

P.S./Disclaimer: This post is in now way meant to be derogatory to those who actually suffer from these diseases. I just wanted to sarcastically point out the fact that I am a worrier without a cause, hopefully scare up a few sympathetic friends’ comments, and put my mind at ease. No offense is intended, so please don’t take it.

Or do, but don’t leave me any nasty feedback. I already worry too much, remember?