Dumbest Injury EVER

I hurt my arm.

At the mall.

Shopping at Victoria’s Secret.

I know. Talk about first world problems!


But the line was really long! And I was holding slippery lingerie! And my arm was in the same position for like thirty minutes!

Yeah, I know. Completely lame. What’s next? Carpal tunnel from swiping my credit card?

But my arm was sore for over an hour after I left that store…

This is Why We Don’t Go Shopping Very Often

I took the kids to “Bed Bath and Beyond” because GG (aged 14) wanted to buy a complicated hair straightening tool. I really don’t know why.

  • Me: But you already HAVE a hair straightener.
  • GG; It doesn’t work well enough.
  • Me: And besides, your hair is already straight.
  • GG; It isn’t straight ENOUGH.
  • Me: Whatever.

So the older girls went looking at the beauty items and I took the twins wandering around the store. The employees were less than overjoyed to see us.


The twins  had something to say about everything there.

(in the home fragrance section)
Little Girl: Is this the candle that gives you a bad headache when you smell it?

(in the window treatment section)
Little Boy: Watch me crawl behind all the curtains! Whoops. Some of them fell…

(in the bedding section)
Little Girl: Is the reason they won’t let you sit on the beds because they are afraid you will fart?

(in the furniture accessories section)
Little Boy: Buy WHY can’t we buy this bean bag chair that looks like giant pair of lips?

No one was sorry to see us go…

A Cautionary Tale


I was at Victoria’s Secret getting my teenage daughters some bras and underwear.

(They were quite modest ones. Really.)

The twins were running around like crazy people, climbing under the display tables, jumping off pretty padded benches, and screaming “UNDIES!!” at the tops of their lungs.

I looked around at all the beautiful airbrushed photos of models, and the racks filled with lovely silky things, and the mannequins dressed n perfectly matched sets of underclothing.

Then I looked at the twins. One was in danger of pulling over a rack on top of himself. The other was shrieking, probably tattling on her brother in decibels too shrill to be understood by human ears.

I thought to myself:

This is where all that sexy underwear gets you, folks. WATCH OUT!

It’s not just men


I hate to ask for directions.

I really do.

Everyone says it’s men who hate to admit when they are lost, but with my husband and me, it’s the opposite.

I’m the one who stubbornly insists I CAN FIGURE IT OUT ON MY OWN, OKAY?!?! I HAVE A MAP!!!! even when it is obvious to him and everyone else that I am floundering in circles like an idiot.

I’m the one who says grouchily, “They probably won’t know where it is anyways! They look like morons!” when he points out likely people from whom we might ask directions.

I’m the one who declares, “No really, I know exactly where we are now. We’re almost there!” when it is blindingly apparent that we are in fact in Siberia.

It’s fun to go places with us.

I also hate asking for help in a store when I can’t find something. I mean, there are signs on every aisle saying what things are there. It should be self-explanatory where the mechanical pencils, or cake flour, or motor oil, or whatever, are located.

Recently, though, I was completely stymied at the office supply store. I was looking for carbon paper.

And for all of you who are too young to know what that is, it’s what we used to use to make a copy of something we were writing or typing, without using a copy machine or computer. Look it up.

I looked in the paper aisle. I looked in the copy-ink aisle. I looked in the writing instruments aisle. It was not there.

A store employee wearing an “ASK ME FOR HELP!” button smiled at me. I ignored her.

I went carefully through every aisle on the non-computer side of the store, until at the very back I came to the Luddite aisle.

“Aha!” I thought, as I looked at the shelves of rubber stamps, paper forms, adding machine tape, and various other implements we used to use in offices twenty-five years ago.

Another cheery-looking “ASK ME!” button-wearer passed me, and I smiled dismissively at him.

Here’s the thing: IT STILL WASN’T THERE!!!

I couldn’t believe it. They had those little stick-on circles to reinforce holes in your paper. They had paper penny rollers. They had a make-your-own-will-kit. But they did not have carbon paper.

I guess carbon paper is so “out” that NO ONE has it anymore, I thought sorrowfully. I started to leave the store.

You really should ask someone, I told myself.

I really don’t want to ask someone, I answered myself.

I steeled myself and approached a store employee. She looked about twelve years old. “There is NO WAY this girl knows what carbon paper even is,” I thought.

But I asked her, “Do you have carbon paper?” She looked at me blankly. I smiled sadly.

“Carbon paper,” she repeated, still looking at me. I prepared to walk away in defeat.

And then… “Right over here,” she said. It was by the typewriter ribbon. ON THE COMPUTER SIDE OF THE STORE.

Who knew?

Just Say No


I was waiting in line at the drugstore when the cashier asked the lady in front me for her ID. She was required to actually get the ID card out so it could be scanned into the register.

The cashier had trouble scanning it in and the manager was called. The military ID was exchanged for a drivers’ license. Confusion ensued as the manager tried using the laser scanner, the credit-card swipe, and finally manually entering the ID number.

The lady looked at her purchases and wondered, “What am I buying that I need ID for?”

I wondered also. There were no cigarettes or alcohol among the items. 

The cashier said, “It’s the acetone.”

“Nail polish remover?!” the lady said, surprised. “Really?”

Apparently it’s a controlled substance now. Along with spray paint and sudafed. Because you never know when someone will try to get high off of ordinary household items.

There is something wrong with this picture.

Another lane opened and I was able to purchase my own things, but when  I left the cashier and manager were still trying to get permission form the register so that this poor lady could remove her nail polish.

“Good luck!” I told her.

Parking Far Away

image from boandbelle.com

I took the kids to Wal-Mart and parked at the back of the lot to avoid the craziness near the store. GG (my 13-year-old) complained.

  • GG: Awwww! Why’d you park so far away?!
  • Me: You can walk. It will be good for you.
  • GG: (with attitude) Are you calling me fat?
  • Me: No.
  • GG: Good.
  • Me: I’m calling you lazy.

You’re probably appalled that I’d speak to my kid like that, but in my defense, she laughed pretty hard.

And the next day she told all her friends the story of how awful her mom was.

So they could be appalled.

Call me Drizella


I always feel like one of the ugly stepsisters when I shop for shoes.

I’m standing there trying to jam my fat feet into all these cute shoes.

(Yes I am sandal-shopping in December. Don’t YOU wish you lived in Hawaii?)

This is as far as I can get my foot to go. Come on people! I’m already in the size 11-13 section! My feet are only a “9” in length, supposedly.

Do they not MAKE pretty sandals wide enough for my Hobbit feet?!

It’s embarrassing.

Overheard in the commisary

I was walking past the baked goods, trying to avert my eyes from the Little Debbie cakes, when I heard a child say in an awed voice, “Yay! White doughnuts!”

Her father answered succinctly, “No.”

The child was quick to clarify. “I wasn’t asking for them. I was just saying, Yay.”

This made me laugh. She was saying, “I was just cheering for the existence of white doughnuts, Dad. And reminding you that they were there. In case some miracle happened and I might get to eat a white doughnut. At some point in my life.”

I feel your pain, kid. I can remember looking longingly at various treats in the grocery store I knew my mom would never buy.



But guess what? I’m an adult now. 

I bought a box of Swiss Cake Rolls.

And ate one.

Heh heh heh….