Tag Archives: humor

Miraculous Choatic Orchestration

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There’s a lot of talk about “thanks” and “gratitude” this time of year. Indeed, there is much to be thankful for. The struggle, for me, is mustering this “thanksgiving” in the midst of challenge, struggle and frustration. And, I find, I need not look far to find opportunities to practice the cultivation of gratitude in the midst of less than perfect circumstances. Like this morning, while dropping my daughter off at school… gratitude cultivation opportunities abound! I thought it fitting to compile a list of tangibles for which I found myself thankful in spite of the mounting chaos around me.

  1. I’m thankful it does not require a degree in Nuclear Fusion to navigate the Kiss-N-Go lane at my daughter’s school, because college is expensive.
  2. I’m thankful for miracles, because I believe in them, and if I hold on to hope tightly enough, I just know that one day, all persons 16+ will rise to the challenge of operating their vehicle correctly… and the world will know peace.
  3. I’m thankful for the mighty hands of the Lord, wrapped preventively around my mouth, locking my thoughts inside, as the overly hairy father in front of me got out of his car in his shorts and flip flops, sharing more skin than anyone cares to see at 9 a.m., leaving his car door agape, blocking 8 cars behind him and proceeded to look for his child who exited said car 3 minutes prior. I sat mute. That’s the Lord’s provision my friends!
  4. I’m thankful for my prosperous butt, as it afforded sufficient restraint atop my right hand, harnessing the inertia of my strategic digit while the parent in front of me halted all traffic as she stopped 6 car lengths shy of the end of the Kiss-N-Go lane… in the middle of the road… and allowed her child 35 minutes to exit the vehicle.
  5. I’m thankful for Sir Mix A Lot, as he sang the song of my people, providing adequate entertainment for me as I watched the mother in front of me not kiss, and not go, and not stop every door of her vehicle from opening to release four children, one recorder, one trumpet, a cello out the back and one service iguana. I cannot lie, the chorus carried me through as this mother then exited her car to close every. single. door. her brood left open.
  6. I’m thankful for my Winter boots and the traction adorned soles that were planted securely on my brake pad preventing me from taking chase after the parent who coasted through the occupied crosswalk narrowly missing three students, two of whom were wearing Safety Orange and holding STOP flags extended.
  7. I’m thankful for the abundance of Optometrists in the greater Seattle area that would be happy to assist parent referenced in #6 with his/her optical deficiencies.
  8. I’m thankful for the new auto parts store that is within a reasonable drive of the school. They sell blinker bulbs, and based on my calculations of qualifying vehicles, they could stand to make a killing. Let’s support local businesses this holiday season.
  9. I’m thankful for Mrs. G and her composure and patience, rivaling that of Job, while managing the frighteningly comatose masses who mindlessly traverse the parking lot each day. I’ve not once seen her homicidal!
  10. I’m thankful for my gift of creativity as I see a cross stitch in the making that might lovingly adorn the parking lot. Some day.
  11. I’m thankful for you, for reading my nonsense without making a single comment about my proclivity for run-on sentences.
  12. I’m thankful for the humor that we are all going to keep in mind as we work together to use our beautiful heads and not maim our children in the parking lot.

I Don’t Got This…

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It’s no secret this parenting thing is, at times, akin to a tight rope act across Manhattan. Occasionally this parenting thing is going so swimmingly that I think I could run across a tight rope over Manhattan. But, mostly, it’s just a steady effort in juggling, balancing and cleaning up. And crow, I eat a lot of it.

One of the areas I struggle and fail at the most as a mom is being way too quick to accuse, blame and condemn my kids only to learn it was a misunderstanding or worse, they did nothing wrong at all. While these occurrences get fewer as I get wiser, more schooled, I wonder if I will ever master the keen ability to not jump to conclusions.

Yesterday evening we took S to her first soccer practice. The practice is held at a school and about four other teams hold practice at the same time. Adjacent to the large field is the school playground. We’re familiar with this school as S had her practices here last year as well.

Last year I decided to really throw caution to the wind and loosen, not cut, just loosen the apron strings with L and allowed him to go to the adjacent playground and play…with a friend. I would check on him no more than every 5 seconds fully prepared to thwart danger should it arise. I felt so proud of myself for really giving him this pseudo freedom to play with friends several yards away from my person! Look at me not being a helicopter parent!!!

Fast forward to yesterday evening. Apparently I had matured significantly in my views on “letting go” in a years’ time because when we arrived at the school, L asked if he could go to the playground…alone. I said “yes!” So, off he went, alone, to the adjacent playground and I was only 60 seconds behind him in pursuit. Totally hands-off parenting here! As I followed L, at a very considerable distance, he hopped onto the play structure and immediately made friends with three other kids. I stood there, easily 5 yards away, nothing at all like a helicopter parent. In fact, if something bad were to happen and the news crews showed up, they’d have nothing on me! I would not make headlines for being a bad parent, no chance.

As I stood not too closely, a mother arrived with four energetic boys. She was on her phone and seemed in a bit of a puzzle. Her boys quickly joined the others in going down the slide while their mother talked out, “Oh geez, your practice was cancelled, they sent an email at 1:30 I just now got it…we drove all the way here…” The boys had no concern for this development and clamored down the slide on top of each other. As they reached the bottom one boy yelled at his brother, “BUTT WIPE!” Now, I did giggle, but I didn’t let them see me giggle.

I could see S’s practice starting in the adjacent field, so I told L I was going to walk over and sit on the grass to watch her. I said, “check in with me in a bit ok?”

So there I was, watching S play soccer while my 8 ½ year old son played independently with his new found friends, and it totally doesn’t count that I could hear and see them…trust me, he was soooo on his own.

As practice continued, within 10 minutes I hear, “Hey mom!” I look up and there’s my boy. “Just checking in.” Joy flooded my heart to see that he had survived and not been snatched up by a crazy child abductor right in front of me. “Can I go play more?” “Sure, check in again, ok?”

Practice carried on and L checked in a few times. C was on his way to catch the last bit of practice. As the girls were winding down drills, I could hear a small group coming from the playground toward me. I looked up and it was the frazzled mom with the BUTT WIPE! Brothers. I could hear her chatting louder than need be since we were all within ear shot, “NO, we’re leaving the playground because that kid is being really obnoxious!” I look over and she’s walking. toward. me. Right up to ME! For all to hear, in a voice far louder than required, she began her public protest, “Um, do you have a little boy in a grey t-shirt and shorts?” I reply, “Yes, I do.” She continues, “Yeah, um, he is being reeeally mean to the other kids… well, he’s being really rude, well, rude to me.” The humiliation and mortification shot me into the air like a breaching whale, “Oh my gosh! I’m so very sorry!!” I began my march to my son in the grey t-shirt to give him the business for being so “mean” and “rude!” She wasn’t done, “Ya know, if my kids were being rude I would want to know, so…”

With every parent’s eyes on me, I kept walking, no time for questions, details or evidence…I have a boy to berate! “Sorry!” She offered insincerely as I hustled away. Muttering under my breath, “I am not that parent, I am not that parent…I try so hard…I finally let him play alone and this is what he does!?”

I arrived on the adjacent playground that is a whopping ten yards away and I am hot! Man, am, I gonna give it to him! I fully expected to arrive on the blacktop to find my “mean” son “rudely” bossing the other children into submission. Only I didn’t. There he was, with two other kiddos, giggling and jumping on the giant US map painted on the pavement. “Here’s my state!” he cheered as they ran all over the country. Even so, my eyes deceived me, clearly he had done something very wrong. After all, it was an adult, another parent, a certified mother who delivered the news of my son’s “obnoxious, mean and rude” behavior.

“Hi mom!” L giggled as he saw me approach. Announcing his entire name I snipped, “you come over here right now!” The other two previously jubilant kids looked at me shocked and ran away…perhaps because I was “mean” and “rude.” L came over with a look of utter confusion on his face, but I didn’t bother to read the signs, I had a rebuke to deliver, I was determined to swiftly eradicate every ounce of “mean and “rude” from his body! “Are you being mean to the other kids?” His eyes grew wide and his face white, he looked me dead in the eye and said, “What? No!” He can’t fool me, I thought. “L, don’t lie to me, are you being mean and rude to others?” His face was covered in a daze, “mom, no, we’re having fun…” I lobbed this clincher, “Then why would another mom come over to me and ask if I had a son in a grey t-shirt who was being really rude!?” Boom! Wiggle out of that, you heathen! Without hesitation he said, “Cuz she’s an idiot!?” See, I knew it! There it is folks a big, fat, wad of rude right there in my face!

Full name again, “You do not speak to an adult like that! Were you rude to her? Were you bossy!?” His little shoulders slumped. He buried his face in his play stained hands and began to sob. He was scared, he was confused and he was remorseful for something he hadn’t entirely done. Even so, I didn’t believe him. I marched him to the car propelled by humiliation and pride fully convinced I would mine the real horrid story right out of him! I would reveal the truth yet! Then, I closed the deal with this gem of grace, love and compassion, “Don’t even open your mouth. Don’t say another word!”

In the car I told him I wanted the full story from beginning to end. With tears rolling down his face he said, “I promise you I was not rude or mean to any of the kids! That lady told us to stop screaming on the slide and I was confused because everyone was screaming and she came over to me and so I told her I didn’t have to listen to her because I didn’t know her…I didn’t have to talk to her… she wasn’t someone I knew or a police officer like you said!” My heart began to sink, low, low, low. The “truth” I was convinced I knew, began to fall apart. He continued, “She said, ‘you are a brat and I’m going to find your parents right now!’ and I told her she wouldn’t find my parents and I didn’t have to talk to her because I didn’t know her.”

Tears welled in my eyes…I felt like a complete, hopeless, piece of rotten you know what. That I would care so much about what the other parents thought of me and my “rude, mean” kid, that I would allow my pride to grow so unmanageable, I completely missed the truth! My son, my Autistic son, who takes so many lessons very, very literally was simply repeating, in his own words, what I myself had instructed him to do. “Don’t talk to strangers, if a stranger approaches you and you don’t feel comfortable, you don’t have to say a word, just find an adult you know.” Those words, that lesson, the one we have had a thousand times…the one he just took so very literally, causing this tremendous misunderstanding.

“L, honey, you simply cannot talk back to any adult like that. Though I understand why you said it, she thought it was very rude. It was disrespectful to talk back to her. Whenever there is a parent or teacher on the playground and they tell you to stop screaming you do so, ok?”

Barely able to catch his breath, “I’m… so… sorry…. mom. I shouldn’t have said that… to her! God, why did you make me this way? I hate this, I’m not normal, I’m not! Why do I say things I don’t mean to say!?”

C arrived to find us both bawling in the swagger wagon. I, the epitome of parenting excellence, leveled to a piece of dog excrement. My son, the loving, funny, friend to everyone kid, leveled to an insecure mess who questioned his very existence. Fan-fricken-tastic!

C went to retrieve S from practice and I drove home with L. I cried the entire way. I felt the weight of shame, again, and though a familiar friend, it suffocated and choked and burned every inside corner. I was b.r.o.k.e.n.

Once home, L went to his room and I ran to my closet, shut the door and fell to the floor in hysterical sobs. For the woman who hates drama, it was exceedingly dramatic. I cried out, “Lord, I have completely ruined this again, this mother bit, I can’t do it, I don’t got it!!!”

As I prayed, I felt His Spirit wash over me and heard a whisper in a still. small. voice. “But, she’s the mom of the BUTT WIPE! Brothers. She’s the frazzled mom who was late to a soccer practice that had been cancelled four hours prior. She don’t got this either.”

Now, is it possible there is more to the story? Of course. Was what L said to her ok? No, and he was given a very clear lesson on why, again. Was what he said disrespectful? Yes, and he was given a very clear lesson on why, again. Do I condone or defend my kids being “rude,” “mean,” or disrespectful? Absolutely not and L will apologize to her personally when we see her again. Does L always understand what “rude,” “mean,” and “disrespectful” look like? Not even close. Are other people going to see this and know why? Nope. Do people care that undesirable behavior in a child is not always the result of bad parenting, doesn’t always mean a child is a “brat”? Sadly, they don’t. And though I care about that very much, I need not care about that so much. It bothers me greatly, but I can’t change it, it’s too big and heavy and I can’t fix it. I just can’t.

I’ve come to learn a bit about this thing called “grace.” Though foreign to me in sooo many ways, Christ is showing it to me over and over and over (again). It’s this “grace” that I need so desperately when I blow it as a mom, a wife, a person. It’s this “grace” I need to get better at, a lot better. It’s this “grace” that I so freely give all the other children, even the BUTT WIPE! Brothers, but fail so often to give my own. It’s this “grace” that I’m going to give the frazzled, not-minding-her-own-business mom to whom I’d like to give a piece of my mind, because I am carnal and I am proud and I am broken and I’m just. like. her. It’s this “grace.” Just, grace.

There came a little knock on my closet door. L stood on the other side with eyes swollen tight from tears. “Mom, I’m so sorry, you don’t have to accept my apology…” I stopped him quick, “L, my sweet boy, I absolutely accept your apology and I forgive you completely and I love you so, so big!” He melted into me, and I held him for a long, long spell.

And so it is, a perfectly imperfect portrait of parenting imperfection. Doubled up, rung out, hung to dry. When I woke today, there it was, still. But, I’m covered by the mercy of the One who created me, the One who created L and it is this mercy, this grace, which gives me just enough to hopefully, be merciful too. An imperfectly, merciful, grace-giver.

Spanx

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This post is for ladies only.  Gentleman, you’ve been warned.

Ahhh, Spanx.  Many a gal has sung her praises.  I’ve tried. I mean “engaged in cardiovascular contortion” tried. But, despite the damage done in pregnancy, I just work with what the good Lord gave me and let it all fall where it may. So, I find myself perplexed that on Christmas Eve, after losing over 30 lbs in 2013, something came over me and I still felt the need to give them Spanx a whirl. I use “whirl” literally. You see, as I started the process by which I hoist the Spanx over my “target area” I damn near landed in the hospital.  With only one leg in the Spanx, I “balanced” there like a drunken sailor on violent surging seas. I was rendered helpless.  I couldn’t stop it.  I “whirled” around, crashed into my jewelry cabinet, launching my faux pearls yonder. I’ve yet to retrieve them. Being mauled by a bear would have been quieter. “Spastic” comes to mind.

After gaining my composure, I attempted the second leg.  Call me an innovator gals, but I think I’ve got something here… If you want a true workout, the kind that draws the sweat from the core of your being, just put on a pair of Spanx. Because, prior to fully securing my second leg in this sling, I achieved a lather to rival an MMA fighter. I lost 2 pounds. I had mascara running down my cheeks. My carefully straightened hair had reached colossal fuzziness. I was wheezing. Baby Jesus, help ME!

Then, I hear from the distant shadows, “Did someone fall!?”  Thank you family! Though your ten minute delay illustrates your grave concern, overlook the bleeding about my shin, all is well.  

Alas, I had completely enclosed my lower body into the Spanx, successfully cordoning off my “target area”. Still panting like a rabid dog, I then did the worst. thing. imaginable.  I went and looked in the mirror.  Apparently this nylon prison had squeezed the sense right out of me. Ignoring the four inch sag at my crotch, I waddled toward my reflection to get a full view.  Why, Cam?  To see the glorious results of compressing myself into a sausage casing!?  To relish in victory?  No. I cried ladies. I cried hard. Sure, I didn’t have panty lines, but I looked like a cross-dressing Tammy Faye Baker… after being mauled by a bear. Lack of panty lines is kind of a lost bonus feature if I look like an overly quenched sailor in drag…at church.

Sufficiently cinched, I shuffled downstairs. Without looking up Curtis said, “You look great sweetie.” You lying son of a…  Off we went to service.  I was perpetually light headed. I sweat. all. evening. I had no feeling in my legs and my gate resembled that of a horse on parade. Clippity clop, joy to the world. The lack of blood to my lower extremities must have shrunk my feet, ‘cause with each step my shoes flew off. Maybe that’s where I lost the 2 pounds.  It was fantastic.

Sing Spanx praises if you wish sisters, but I fail to see the draw. Spanx are dangerous. Spanx are exhausting. Spanx nearly put me in the ER. Can you even imagine that conversation!?  “Oh doctor, pay no mind to the gaping wound on my shin, the more conspicuous matter at hand is this girl don’t have panty lines!! And, watch me dance Doc, NO jiggle!”  Can I get a witness!?

Fifty Shades of Red

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So this happened today…for reals. Was at the grocery this mornin’ looking at a bottle of wine, strictly for gift-giving purposes. Anyhooo, as I reached for an old standby, I hear this chipper, “Can I help you pick out six bottles of wine!?” I turn to see a friendly gal overly bedazzled with Christmas cheer. I make eye contact and she heads toward me. I ask, “Uhh, six bottles??” She said, “Oh yes, we’re having our wine sale! Buy six bottles and get 20% off.” I said, “Oh, good deal, I’ll check it out, thanks.” I proceed to reach for my one bottle and she says, “Ahhh, do you like that Fancy Pants wine?” I said, “I, uh, do, it’s not bad, I like a sweet wine….” She gets excited, “Ohhh, girl, have you seen the NEW Fifty Shades of Grey wine!!!?” Me, “Uhhh, nooo.” She continues, “Oh yes, it’s right over here, we have white and red!!” She jingled as she walked. A little uncomfortable I say, “Ohhh my, look at that! Well, I’ve not read the book, so…” She interrupts, “Me neither! I thought they were kinda gross. (chuckles) Guess I’m not kinky!” Slightly more uncomfortable, I hesitantly participate, “Yeeah, well me neither I guess, must be getting old…I’m more into Little House on the Prairie…” Interrupts again, “Besides, I’m just gonna be honest with ya! (I wish she wouldn’t, please don’t be honest…for the love of all things holy, do NOT be honest with me!) What if my husband sees me reading that stuff and starts to, ya know, get some ideas and expect something!?” She explodes into laughter aaand coupled with her bells it was quite the festive performance. I however, broke out in a nervous sweat and turned Fifty Shades of Red! Never bought six bottles of wine so fast in my life!

Merry, merry!

Not My Cart, Not My Husband

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So there we were, strolling through the Mart. C was right behind me with our bounty. Two plungers, a toaster oven and an oversized golf umbrella. And what to my wondering eyes….an end cap loaded with a captivating display of Moscato. I grabbed a bottle and stared longingly at the label as I turned to place it in the cart. I said, “This right here, honey bunny, is gooood stuff!” As I set it in the cart I noticed it was mysteriously empty. I slowly glanced up to the man pushing it. The man before me was not my husband. Nor was he my “honey bunny”.  (Apparently C had made a turn down a side aisle to pick out some peanut butter.) Startled, I said, “Ooopsy! Ohhh dear!” I gave a nervous giggle and a ginormous grin erupted across this man’s face. I don’t know what bear he’d been fightin’, but it took his teeth. Literally.  This toothless wonder then says, “Ohhhh, yaaaa! You bet!” I began to scurry, with my Moscato. He turned his cart around. I saw him pivot.  He was in pursuit…of the good stuff. I ran to the real honey bunny who has this (curse) knack for pontificating endlessly over even the simplest decisions, like peanut butter. I hid behind my big, Alaskan, over thinking, peanut butter loving husband. My suitor caught a glimpse of Sunny Jim and was gone. Apparently C thought it was funny. I just took the opportunity to justify another bottle and ran back to that end cap in a Jif.

Out to Sea

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It’s a rite of passage for many children, the loss of a golden finned friend. Last night was our turn as we bid adieu to Goldie and Abraham, who had succumb to the perils of tank life.  Daddy scooped them up and we gathered around the throne.  He tossed them in and gave a chipper, “All drains lead to the ocean!”  He looked at me giggling and I nodded “no,” the smile fell from his face.  L said, “I’d like to say a few words.”  We waited.  “I can’t do it!” he cried.  S stepped up, “I’ll speak. Goldie, you were a good fish.  We will miss you terribly. (Apparently Abraham failed to make an impression on her, but I digress). You are free now, no longer in pain. So Goldie, go to the heaven’s to be with the other angels…and great Grandpa.”  I glance over at C, he’s hunched over and head bowed, his shoulders shaking.  Is he losing it?  Gonna hurl?  Get a grip man, they’re 19 cents! No, he’s straining to control his unbridled laughter!  L literally falls into my arms bawling, “GOLDIEEEEE!” Daddy gives the flush and I imagine a tiny floral wreath whirling down to the ocean.  I admit I was ill prepared for the dramatic response to the loss of our little school.  I shuffle the kids out so as not to be traumatized by daddy’s hysterics. I look over at C and say, “You need to give them a hug, they’re taking this hard.”  “I’m trying!!” He snorts.  Man, this parenting thing, we’re knocking it out of the park!

Summer Slump

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At times I imagine I’m capable of being all cavalier and professing I have no shame in humbly admitting my failings as a parent. Alas, this would make me a liar, liar pants on fire.  The reality is, I’ve never been so afraid of failing at anything in my life as I am with this gig, being a mom. I lose sleep. Lots of sleep. I have whiskey in the pantry and my Bible by the bed. I cannot. mess. this. up. And yet, I do. Daily. Now you know.

While there’s not been bloodshed, say for the droplets from my own eyes that I’ve just poked out of my head, it has reached a fever pitch here at the Cole House. If whining and nit-picking were an Olympic sport, we’d take gold. Solid 24K. It’s maddening. No, no, that’s not accurate. It makes me apoplectic. (Grab your Webster’s.  No here, let me help: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/apoplectic). I can handle arguing, I can handle yelling, I can even handle the occasional brawl.  But the acutely self-absorbed mentality that has afflicted my children of late, I cannot do. And why, you ask, have they been recently plagued with this solipsism? (Here ya go: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/solipsistic) Because I messed up, that’s why.  Yep, it was me who unwittingly invited this horror into our home.

It happened last week.  I was chatting with a friend.  I let loose and boasted with reckless abandon! “Well, we’ve just had a really great Summer so far, the kids are getting along swimmingly!” At the time, thunderous laughter erupted in the heaven’s, I thought it was my children frolicking upstairs. But, no, it was fate peeing its pants at my brazen display of ignorance.  And so, here we are.  The tables have turned flipped violently. I don’t even know my children anymore.  Who are these people in my house!??  Selfish! Mean! Demanding! Rude! I won’t have it! You don’t want to share your Legos? FINE!  Then yer gonna have to shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine cuz I don’t ever want to see them AGAIN! (No, no, I would never say that. Not within earshot of the children anyway.) Your hotdog is cold? Ooopsy, sorry mama failed to hit reheat on the micro over and over while you enjoyed Minecraft! EAT. YOUR. DOG!

And so, I confess the error of my ways. I eat my humble pie with a whiskey chaser. When my kids return to normal, and they will, I vow to NEVER again boast at good behavior.  I will keep it secret.  I will build a mote around the sanctity that is a quiet household.  I will sit by the window with my cup of tea and relish privately in the peace.  And when my neighbors drive by and see me smiling with my Earl Grey, I will scream wildly and duck to the floor!  Because never again will I invite this curse into my home!

Chocolate Soup

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It’s a rare occasion we visit McD’s these days.  Trying diligently to permanently adopt that healthy lifestyle. But, we stopped by today, as a lunch treat, after a morning of shopping for back to school.  I pulled up, ordered our usual “healthiest of the choices” with two small vanilla shakes to bolster my chances in running for Mother of the Year.  When I got to the window and paid, the gal said, “Wow, you knew just what you wanted, I love customers like you.”  “Why thank you,” I thought, my type A ego sufficiently stroked.

Then I arrived at the pick-up window.  No one was there. I noticed two small chocolate shakes melting at the window. They were very drippy and soupy.  I thought, “Poor person who ordered those!” Still no helper. I glanced in the rear view and noticed a lengthy line had formed behind me.  My Type A personality felt a tinge of panic at the thought I caused this “special order” back up with my “hold this and hold that.” 5 minutes.  I know it’s only 5 minutes, but come on, in the drive thru 5 minutes is like too short a swimsuit on a too long a ride home from the beach. You know I’m right. Then she arrived…7 minutes.  She opens the window and proceeds to hand me the chocolate soup.  I say, “Oh, we ordered vanilla.”  She continues to extend the shakes and says, “I know. They’re supposed to be vanilla they just look like that.”  She just held the chocolate soup out the window for me to take.  I just stared at her.  She snipes, “Ok, I guess I’ll fix it.”  “That would be swell,” I say. 

The line behind me is now up to Bellingham. My eye is twitching. Her hair color is irrelevant but when she came back to the window I couldn’t help but notice the fluorescent pink bands on her braces. Sans shake she delivers a doozy, “Uh, ya, our vanilla shakes are just like that.” Stares at me.  I say, “Your vanilla shakes are like chocolate soup?”  She grimaces, “Noooo, our vanilla shakes are a little, like, runny.”  Well hon, I’m a little, like, Charlize Theron and a lot, like, Dog the Bounty Hunter… I’m not here to cause trouble, I just want what’s right. So if you’ll kindly hand over my non-chocolate vanilla soup I’ll be on my way. She’s still staring. She brazenly asks, “Um, soooo, do you still want ‘em?” I’ve never wanted vanilla soup so badly in my entire life. “Yes dear, please. But, explaining to Mr. AC Delco behind me why his lunch hour has dwindled to zero is on you and your ineptitude.”

My 9 year old wrapped it up nicely as we drove away, “I think we all understand now why they have a help wanted sign in the window!”