My Boy, the Ladies Man.

Large has a crush on a girl. 

How do I know this?  She’s ALL he talked about yesterday afternoon. 

As soon as he got off the bus yesterday he told me there is a new girl in his class.  She’s from Texas.  Then when Daddy called from work, Large told him about the new girl.  Before bed, he wrote her a note welcoming her to class and he taped two trading cards from Texas sports teams.  He got advice from Daddy on how he should word his note.

I’m not ready.

Large’s first friend was a girl, Anna.  Anna was born 10 days after Large was and they played “together” as toddlers do . . . meaning in the same room and with the same toys, but not necessarily with each other.  In first grade, Large had a “girlfriend,” Lexi.  She was his girlfriend because he said so, and that was it.  Both Large and Lexi have since moved on.

But now it seems like he really has a crush.  He’s eight! 

All of a sudden, I see his life flashing before me.  He was my sweet baby who cried all the friggin’ time.  We did the Mommy and Me Swim Lessons / Baby Sign Language / Gymboree classes.  He went to preschool, then Kindergarten, and already he’s in third grade . . . halfway through elementary school.  He’s more independent every day, (although if he’d get off his duff and pour his own milk I’d be a happy girl.) 

Soon he’ll really be into girls.  He’ll get all greasy and pimply and disgusting.  His clothes will start to stink.  He’ll start driving and taking algebra.  He’ll have hormones and he’ll develop urges.  He’ll graduate from high school atthetopofhisclassandgetabaseballscholarship and he’ll go to college.  He’s going to leave me.

Oh my God, I think I just passed out there for a second.

On the one hand, I realize that with every independent step they take, I’m getting a little bit of my own life back, but on the other, I know they’ll never need me as much as they do right now.  Every day they need me a little less.  I love that when Medium had a crappy day yesterday, he crawled into my lap for a snuggle and some comfort, because no one loves you like your mother does.  No one.  I want to be their lap forever. 

Remind me of this the next time they’re crawling all over me and I growl "for-the-love-o’-pete-git-off-me."  Remind me that I need to slow down every once in a while and let them need me, because it won't last forever.  

My Recent Experience with First World Problems

I live in the great Commonwealth of Virginia.  What’s the difference between a State and a Commonwealth?  I always thought it meant that if you live in a trailer with your significant other for eight years or more, you can enjoy all the rights and benefits of a legal marriage.  (If you’re straight, of course.  Cough, cough.  Wouldn’t want those Gays trampling on the sanctity of marriage set forth by the likes of Britney Spears, Kim Kardashian, and Sinead O’Connor.)

Anyway, what I’ve always loved about Virginia is that we have a little bit of everything.  We have beaches, mountains, farmland, college towns, suburbs, rivers, and Nascar.  Seriously, it’s the perfect place to live.  I’ve always prided myself on keepin’ it real; I like to joke that I bring a little bit o’ trailer park to the country club. . . . as evidenced by the stray toys on our lawn and my propensity for front-stoop drinking.

A few weeks ago I headed to the Northern Neck of Virginia for a funeral.  My college roomie, Polly, had lost her dad.  After much schedule-juggling and logistical planning, Hubby and I decided I would attend by myself and he would stay home with the kids.  Since he would need the Swagga Wagon with the car seats, I was forced to drive Hubby’s car, which I lovingly refer to as the Divorce Maker.

The Divorce Maker has many bells and whistles, which I find to be annoying.  First, a key should look like a key.  It should not be square and it should not be gently pushed into a square receptacle.  It should be . . . um  . .  . key-shaped and it should fit into a key hole.  Second, I need a lever or something in order to switch the vehicle from Park to Drive, etc.  Every time I try to put the Divorce Maker in Park, I end up washing the windows at a high rate of speed.  I gotta say though, I DO love that @ss-warmer.

The Divorce Maker has so much smarts, it signals the driver when gas is running low.  This is a useful feature if you pay attention to it.  I was in an area of the Northern Neck which prides itself on its ONE stoplight, so as you can imagine, the nearest gas station was, well, NOT near.  It was Northern Neck Near (10 miles,) not Northern Virginia Near (1/4 mile.)

Polly’s brother-in-law is known as Mark the Baptist.  Polly’s aunt, upon first meeting Mark the Baptist, told the following joke:  Do you know why Baptists don’t have sex standing up?

Wait for it . . .

Wait for it . . .

It might lead to dancing.

I was a little concerned that the Divorce Maker might be running low on gas.  It had said “28 miles to go,” and then “8 miles to go,” and then “5 miles to go.”

And then “--- miles to go.”

Huh.

Wonder what that means?

Mark the Baptist decided it would be a good idea to follow me to the closest gas station, so he and Polly jumped in the car and we began our journey.

I pulled up in my Divorce Maker, and I was still dressed from the funeral.  Instead of my normal uniform of sweatpants and a ponytail, I was actually wearing stockings and boots, makeup, and I had hot-rolled my hair.  I thought Mr. Polly’s-Dad would appreciate a little grooming effort on my part.  I pumped my gas and ran in to the “Bird Dog Convenience Store” to buy a soda for my trip home.  Seriously, it was called The Bird Dog.

I sh*t you not, I was the ONLY person in that store who was not wearing camouflage.  I am not saying this to be funny or hyperbolic (look it up.)  I was literally the only person not dressed in camouflage from hat to boots. 

Naturally, when I got in line, I leaned over to the gentleman next to me and said, “I must not have gotten the memo about the dress code.”

Thank you!  Thank you!  I’ll be here all week!  Don’t forget to tip your waitresses!

But . . . . crickets.

“Oh honey, there ain’t no dress code,” he replied sincerely.

“Oh, I know.  I just meant because I’m the only one not dressed in camouflage.” 

More crickets.  Quieter crickets. 

Tough crowd.

And I leave you with Dawson crying over his First World Problems, also known as White Whine.  (Totally "borrowed" this from a site called crushable.com.)

New Year's List o' Things I Probably Won't Accomplish

I am not a huge fan of New Year’s Resolutions, mostly because I hate setting myself up for failure.  Don’t you think if I really thought I could lose 10 lbs. by simply resolving to do so starting January 1^st I would have done so by now? 

Nevertheless, I am going to attempt to hold myself accountable by putting some goals (NOT resolutions) out there in the universe.  And by universe I mean the World Wide Internets.  I must admit that I do not have high hopes.  Actually I foresee a post on December 31, 2012 that includes a video of the honey badger and which is titled "Guess Who Else Doesn’t Give a Sh*t?"  

Karma, if you’re out there, please help me out a little.  I try to be a good person.  (Relax, I didn’t say nice person, I said good.  There’s a difference.  This is how I earned the nickname Sweet B*tch in college.)

So here’ goes:

1.  Lose weight

I know everyone says this, but I really need to lose weight.  I remember joining Weight Watchers once . . . yes, I’ve joined MANY times . . . and hearing a woman say her goal was to lose 9 lbs.  NINE lbs.?  I don’t mean to undermine her goal, but to someone who needs to lose, um, more than 9 lbs., that sounds like a good night at Outback, not a goal weight. 

The thing is, diabetes runs in my family.  I don’t want my kids to have the fat mom, and I currently weigh more than I did when I was pregnant.       

Prom, 1991
Although looking at it now, maybe my
Big Hair just made the rest of my
body look smaller . . . 

I have many reasons why I need to lose weight, but the primary reason is that I am getting fat.  Not just “fluffy” like I was before; I mean I’m getting FAT.  I use food as comfort, and I need to remember that food is sustenance, not a hug from the pantry.  I also realize that I have had a distorted body image for a looooong time, meaning I thought I was fat way before I really was.  Now I really am.  (And for those of you who read my previous blog entry about people who post needy messages on Facebook in order to elicit sympathetic responses, this is NOT one of those times.  I don’t need sympathy; I need a life change.)

2.  Prepare and Eat Well-Balanced Meals

It’s no secret that I don’t like to cook.  I like to eat.  Cooking takes too long.  Since Hubby often works late or has evening meetings, I usually make something quick for the boys.  Then I end up eating remnants of grilled cheese or cold spaghetti.  I have turned my kitchen into a restaurant where each diner places his own order.  Since no one likes the same thing, I make grilled cheese for one, macaroni and cheese for another, etc.  Notice there are no requests for vegetables.  I have created these monsters, and I need to put an end to my family’s poor eating habits because I am the main culprit.  

3.  Spend less time on Facebook

Facebook is such a timesuck.  Because I’m so nosy curious, I spend way too much time snooping around in other people’s business.  When I think of all the creative things I could be doing with what little free time I have, it makes me cringe to know that I waste it by cyber-stalking people I barely know.  Plus, I have a bad habit of believing things I read on Facebook, like how happy/fulfilled/successful everybody is.  I need to work on my own happiness, and Facebook makes NO contribution to my overall well-being. 

4.  Stop saying “I’m sorry”

I don’t mean that I need to stop apologizing when/if I’m wrong.  I mean when someone backs into me in the aisle at the grocery store, why is my first instinct to apologize?  I feel like I’m apologizing for taking up space, and that ain’t right.                

5.  Start putting more effort into my appearance

Perhaps this sounds shallow, but I feel so much better when I look better.  I am not the kind of woman who can roll out of bed and look all fresh and eager to begin my day.  Just ask any of my neighbors who have bus stop duty in the morning.  I am aging, just like everyone else, (even though I have a firm plan in place in which I will remain 39 forever.  Not that I’m 39.  Because I’m not.  I’m 38.)  Anyhoo . . . I need to keep up with my hair, my skin, and my style.  (And perhaps shave my legs a little more often.)  There’s no reason for me to be wearing pastel-colored elasticized pants and embroidered blouses just yet.  I remember thinking my mom looked so pretty when she got dressed up and wore makeup, which she didn’t do often because she stayed at home with us kids.  I don’t want my kids to look at me and think, man, Mom cleans up real nice, when she washes her hair.  I mean I'm never going to be a Ginger; I'll always be a MaryAnne.  But right now I look as if MaryAnne got trapped on Gilligan's Island with a keg full o' beer and a never-ending supply of Doritos.

So there ya have it.  My goals probably aren’t much different from anyone else’s.  If I decide not to run the Honeybadger post next year, I can probably re-post this one.  It will probably be just as relevant then as it is today.  Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis . . .                                                       

Facebook Archetypes, part II

I’ve discovered some new Facebook Archetypes to add to my previous post, called Facebook, I Wish I Could Quit You.  I find them to be equally as annoying as the first 10.

1.  What is commonly known as the Vaguebooker.  She posts things like “Why does it have to be so hard?!”  This, of course, prompts replies like, “what’s wrong?” and “call me!” and “hang in there!”  and it leaves me perplexed because I am nosy curious and I want to know what the heck is going on?  It's the Facebook equivalent of the following conversation:

Person A:  "What's wrong?"

Person B:  Sigh.  "Nothing."  (please keep asking me because I need you to know how needy I am.)

The End.

2.  The Self-Portrait Taker.  Now you know I LOVES a good self-portrait, but seriously?  You’ve got 326 “friends.”  You can’t find ONE to take a photo of you?  And since when did the bathroom become a photography studio? 

This IS my sexy face . . . 

3.  The Bra Bragger.  This status update is posted ostensibly to make a point about whatever the cause du jour is, although how posting your bra color is going to cure cancer is questionable.  In reality, this is a means for women to give the illusion that they are still young, vibrant, and sexy.  Because who, (besides me of course,) is REALLY going to post that their bra color is used to be white but is now grey from years of wash?

4.  The Hacker.  He gets into his girlfriend’s account and starts gushing about how in luuuuuve they are.  “My boyfriend is the BEST thing that’s ever happened to me!!!!”  For future reference, if you ever see elaborate PDA posted on my account, you can be pretty sure I didn’t post it.  I love my husband, so I tell HIM.   

5.  The Over-Friender.  This is your cousin’s neighbor’s hair-dresser’s little sister.  You bumped into her at the 7-11 ONCE and now she thinks you’re BFFs and need to be “friends.”  She has 1000+ friends.  Oh mah gah, she is SO popular!

Friend Request, Friend Request, Friend Request . . . 

6.  The Former Teacher.  I will admit I am “friends” with some former students with whom I worked closely when I was employed.  These are girls I coached and worked with for several years.  But it creeps me out when I see former teachers make remarks like “you’re just as beautiful as you were 20 years ago” and “hang in there, you’ll find someone!”  Ooops, I’m sorry!  You must have stumbled across Facebook when you were searching for the Sex Offender Registry.

7.  The Repeat Friend Requester.  Remember the last two times when I didn’t accept your friend request?  It’s not happenin’ this time either.  I have my reasons.  Accept it and be on your way.

8.  The Photo Tagger.  I don’t mind being tagged in a photo in which I look smokin’ and lord knows I love to have my picture taken.  But if I’m stuffing pie in my mouth, (hypothetically, of course,) and you just happened to click at that moment, PLEASE don’t tag me in that photo.  Or else the next time you’re picking your nose, I’ll be watching.  With my camera. 

9.  The TMI Poster.  Recently we lost a member of our graduating class and most of us found out because of an ALL CAPS POST posted by his grieving wife.  I certainly understand the need to disseminate information quickly, but I about had a heart attack when I read the post.  I need to be eased into these things.  I liked being able to share stories and contact info afterwards, but I was wierded out by the whole facebook thing, mostly because I was scrolling through, delightfully learning what so-and-so was making for dinner and what whatsername was buying at Walmart . . . and BAM! 

10.  The Inspiration.  I am all about self-discovery and improvement, but the cheesy inspirational it’s-all-about-the-journey posts on a canvas of beautiful scenery?  I call bull-sh*t.  You know you’re sitting on your couch in your jammies just like I am, so don’t tell me you’re all zen now.

I am the first to fall into that trap of believing everyone else’s life is more glamorous, exciting, and fulfilling than mine.  Trust me.  Please remember to put it all in perspective.  People post what they want you to see.  Facebook is an excellent way to manipulate people’s perception of you.  This is why, from now on, I will be posting portraits

of myself,

my home, 

  

and my children's accomplishments

in order to make you all jealous.

Merry Christmas, Y'all.

In the interest of not ruining anyone's Christmas surprise, I had to postpone publishing this one until today.  Happy Christmas!

You know how I’m not supposed to write about Hubby because he thinks I throw him under the bus?

Is it MY fault he gives me so much material to work with?

Today is December 24, also known as Christmas Eve.  The Day.  Before.  Christmas.  I have had most of my Christmas shopping done for at least a few days now and I have been wrapping like a madwoman so that my family can rip paper off their gifts in a matter of mere seconds.  Hubby took the older two boys to a football game today and the plan has long been for me to wrap the remaining gifts while they are gone.  Keep in mind that I did much the same yesterday, except yesterday also involved a screwdriver and Chinese directions for items which may require some assembly. 

I couldn’t sleep this morning because I kept thinking of all the things I want to get done before our guests arrive for dinner this evening.  I am not a morning person, so when I had returned from Target and was already making Rice Krispie Treats with Medium at 8 AM, Hubby literally felt my forehead for fever.  What can I say?  Mama’s got sh*t to do. 

Before he left for the game, he made an online purchase for his parents on behalf of himself and his two brothers.  Would any particular member of this little trifecta of siblings be picking up said purchase at the store?

N to the O.

That little task was left to me after Hubby asked me if I could do him a little favor and pick something up for him.

Do you know what he wanted me to pick up for him?  A friggin’ television. 

Me:  How am I going to get it out of the store?

Hubby:  Oh it won’t be a big deal.  They’ll have it all ready to go once you get there.

Me:  Remember, I’ll have Small with me.

Hubby:  You should just be able to run in and run out.

Me:  Um, it’s the day before Christmas.  I'm having some doubts . . . 

So I drove to the store, loaded Small up in the stroller, and headed in to “just run in” and pick up my purchase.

Wah?  There’s a line?

We waited.  Small wanted his cup.  We waited some more.  I broke out the snacks.  We waited some more.  “I wan git out,” he says. 

Finally it was our turn with the sales representative.  She checks my ID and the purchase order and then steps over to find my item.  Except she returns empty-handed and tells me my husband just cancelled the order. 

Super. 

I’ve just waited in this line and there are at least 10 impatient customers behind me, who are beginning getting a little testy when my phone rings.

Me:  (super friendly and brimming with adoration for my spouse.)  Yes.

Hubby:  Hello Dear.  So I’m making things more complicated for you.

Me:  Uhuh.

Hubby:  I talked to Cluer (my brother-in-law) and he measured the space and we can get a different size for the same price, so I cancelled the order and all you have to do is pick up the different, even bigger, tv.

Me:  So now I have to wait even longer so they can bring a different tv up from the warehouse and then I need to stand in line, again, to check out?

Hubby:  What’s wrong?  You sound annoyed . . .

Me:  I sound annoyed?  (this comment was met with chuckles from several members of the Last Minute Shopper entourage waiting in line behind me.)

Hubby:  What’s the big deal?

Just so we’re clear . . . the big deal:

1.  It’s now naptime.  I left the house in plenty of time, but I’ve had to wait and now Small is cranky, squirmy, and loud.

2.  It’s crowded.  I don’t like crowds of people as I get easily annoyed by people who stand too closely to me or who have complete disregard for the line of people who apparentlyarejuststandinghereforourhealth, hello???!!

3.  There’s no way to look cool while pushing a toddler in a stroller AND maneuvering a giant television.

4.  WHY did you and your brothers wait until the day before Christmas to make this purchase, and WHY is it that not one of YOU is doing anything more strenuous than clicking “make purchase” on the website?

I am wrapping that bad boy tonight.  And I’m signing the card:

TO:  Hubby's Parents

FROM:  the woman who went to the store on the day-before-Christmas to wait in line, pick up the gift, load it into the car, and then got to go home and wrap it, all with her tired toddler in tow.  And also the Trifecta of Morons who waited until yesterday to buy your gift.

BoyMommy Works Her Magic: A Lesson in How It's Done

I thought for a moment that this blog entry was going to be dedicated to convincing you, dear readers, to stop shopping at a certain big box toy store because of their less-than-stellar customer service.  (I won't name them directly, but it rhymes with ShmoysRUs.)  But alas, I worked my magic and they have therefore been forgiven.  You may continue to shop there until further notice.

We bought Large and Medium a certain gift for Christmas which will herefore be known as The Big Gift.  I purchased two The Big Gifts so as to guarantee that there will be no fighting and/or whining about whose turn it is. I ordered said purchase online on December 1^st and I was assured that it would ship out from the warehouse immediately.

Except I got several apologetic emails stating that The Big Gift was backordered and I started FREAKING OUT a lil’ bit that they might not arrive in time for Santa’s delivery.  Worry not; they have since arrived, but in the meantime I got on the website and discovered that the price per The Big Gift had dropped by $50.

Now I’m not so good at the math, but I bought two of these suckers, so that’s $100.  That’s a lot of money.  Right?  Two children at $50 per gift = $100.  Yes, one hundo.

Once I received my order, I pulled out the receipt and called the 800-number to attempt to get a price match and be refunded $100.  Surprisingly enough, I spent a significant amount of time on hold.  My call was very important to them.  They appreciated my business.  They would answer the call in the order in which it was received.  While I was waiting, I was welcome to check out their website at www.Shmoys-R-Us.com.  So I did.

In the interest of killing time, I started reading the online product reviews for The Big Gift. 

Rut-row.

MANY customers were complaining.  Not about the product, but about the customer service they were receiving as they attempted to get the price difference refunded and the fact that the product didn’t ship when it was supposed to.

It’s time for BoyMommy to work her magic.  I’m not one to try to buck the system or be unkind to customer service representatives.  After all, they’re just doing their jobs.  I'm only interested in being fair, but sometimes their policies are dumb.  (That’s the technical term.)

"blah, blah, blah, but it says!   with the little stars!"

Finally, an actual real-live person picked up the phone.  I explained my situation . . . made the purchase in plenty of time, item didn’t ship immediately, recently discovered price difference, me wants my money. 

Customer Service Representative: “I understand, but our 'policy' states that we cannot refund money on a purchase that was previously made.”

BoyMommy:  “That doesn’t make any sense to me.  I could go to the store and return this item and then repurchase it for the lower price, OR you could make it right over the phone.”

Rep:  “Yes, you could do that, but they may have to restock the item before they’ll allow you to purchase it again.”

BoyMommy:  “It says on my receipt here, all highlighted with cute little stars, that ShmoysRUs guarantees hassle-free returns!  Going to the store 3 days before Christmas is NOT hassle free.  Is there someone else with whom I can speak?”

Because I’ve got good smarts and I like to use proper grammar.

Eric gets on the phone.  Eric sounds as if he is about 25 years old and I’m pretty sure he does not have any children, though I didn’t ask.

I exlpain the situation again, except this time I also mention that I have THREE children, I am a frequent customer of ShmoysRUs, and I am not the kind of customer they want to lose.  And I WILL boycott.  (Ask me how many times I’ve had Father J’s pizza since the 30-year-old-still-lives-in-his-mom’s-basement-delivery-driver messed up my order at the baseball field, which you can read about here.)  I mention the stars on the receipt and the hassle-free returns.  I mention the MANY negative reviews I’ve been reading online.  I want to know WHO decided it was good business policy to refuse to make a price match if the customer makes the effort to redeem it.  Then I begin my diatribe on the crappy economy and how $100 is a lot of moolah.  Did I tell you I mentioned the little stars?

THAT conversation won me a trip to speak with the Senior Customer Service Supervisor. 

Go ahead . . . I ain’t skeered.

Guess what, folks?  ShmoysRUS refunded $100 to my credit card.  It seems they lowered the price on The Big Gift before my purchase ever even left the warehouse, so they felt obligated to give me the price that was offered on the day it shipped.  (It's also possible they felt obligated to get me off the phone once they realized I could go on for a looooong time.)

And that, my friends, is how it’s done.  God bless us, every one.

Ah, the Holidays . . .

Ah, the holidays. 

They bring out the best in all of us, don’t they?

Hubby and I decided we’d take the boys shopping separately so they could each pick out a Christmas gift for their brothers.  We would split up and then meet back at home for dinner in one hour.  We decided on the division of labor using the same method we use for all important decisions in the BoyMommy household:

Rock, Paper, Scissors.

It was a one shot deal; none of this best-out-of-three nonsense.  I was SURE he was going throw “rock” so I threw “paper.”  Alas, he threw “scissors.” 

Crap.

So I took Medium and Small out to Walmart as Hubby said he was taking Large to Target. 

See?  I was set up for failure from the very beginning.

We got out of the car in the Walmart parking lot, which in my town is like going to Cuba from Florida.  One does not keep going once one arrives at the Florida Keys.  Oh no, one STOPS where the gettin's good.  Such is life in our town.  We don’t generally pass the Target because our destination is Walmart.  It’s just not done.  This is not to say that Walmart is a bad place.  It is not.  But OUR Walmart is a bad place, with long checkout lines, messy shelves, and the dregs of society perusing its aisles.

Anyhow, I am situating the boys in the cart when we hear a store patron yelling at the cars in front of him, “come on, people!  Learn to drive already!  Especially you up front!”  Tis the season, after all.

As we’re approaching the front doors . . .

Medium:  “who’s yelling?”

Mommy:  “oh, it’s just people in the parking lot.  All the classiest people in town shop here.”

Medium:  “Whas that mean?  Classy?”

Mommy:  “never mind.”

Medium:  "I don't get it."

By the time we got into the store, Medium had a gift in mind.  Lo and behold, we couldn’t find it in the Walmart.  I called Hubby to make we wouldn’t run into them if we ventured over to Target.  Guess what?  He was HOME already.  F*cker.

So we went to Target, where my first order of business was getting Small’s little legs into the leg holder in the cart so I could strap him down buckle him in.  We searched the aisles and found our intended gift, but there was only one left and it wasn’t the variety we wanted.  We asked for help and a nice gentleman checked the inventory and went searching for our choices.  We waited.  Small squirmed and screamed his new favorite phrase, “I wan gitout.”

Mommy:  "Look at Medium sitting nicely.  Don't you want to sit with Medium like a big boy?"

Small:  "I wan gitout."

Mommy:  "We're gonna sit.  We're not getting out right now."

Small:  "I wan gitout."

Mommy:  "I know you want to get out, but you need to sit on your bum."

Small:  "I wan gitout."  

By the time we checked out, Small was standing in the back of the cart where Medium had been riding.  Unfortunately, he was reaching for the gum/candy/ponytail holders/chapstick/batteries from the just-one-last-thing section of the checkout lane.  Once this ceased, he began emptying the contents of my purse onto the conveyor belt.  I put everything back into my purse and turned around to find him pushing all the buttons on the credit card swiper. 

I picked him up, but he, surprisingly enough, did not want to snuggle right now, so I had to hold him outwards.  He was on my hip with my arm in his armpits, swinging his legs and bucking so that he could free himself from my loving embrace.  I tried to maneuver the cart with one hand out into the parking lot, but of course, as soon as we stepped off the sidewalk and were in the middle of the street, the bag opened up and my purchases fell to the ground. 

Mommy:  "Ugh.  Are you kidding me?"

So I’ve got an unhappy toddler – ever tried to hold a cat who does NOT want to be held? – a heavy cart because Medium is just along for the ride, and a Fisher Price dump truck bouncing along in its cardboard package.  Luckily an older mommy came to my rescue and ran over to help me corral my belongings. 

D*mn you, rock paper scissors!  I’m SO picking rock next time.  If it doesn’t win, I’ll just beat Hubby over the head with it until I get my way.  Happy holidays, my @ss.  Where's my wine?