Another installation of the continuing drama that is Walmart.
This is the week between Christmas and New Years and my blog post should be one of joy and peace, hope and happiness. But that's not this post. That's not this post at all.
Now you might be wondering why I keep going back to this store. I know I should shop at Whole Foods and eschew gluten and buy things that have no carbon footprint and are lovingly handmade by responsible citizens. But I'm a simple person. Winn Dixie is simply more expensive and it's a bit of a drive to get to Publix. I'll have scruples later, when the kids are older.
Today we stopped in to the store to get a couple things. Just a quick little run-by. A jaunt, if you will. I had to get paint for a dresser we're redoing (boasting pictures to come if it turns out well: if not, forget you ever read that) and potatoes and beans for soup. That was all I had to get. So what if I had three kids with me? We're veterans at this whole shopping thing and they know how to behave in stores (insert maniacal laughter here).
We got the couple foodstuffs and headed to the paint section. The paint section at Walmart is like the Bermuda Triangle. It's full of mystery and people become misplaced. Maybe there will be someone working the counter but maybe there will be no employees within 45 miles of the counter. Hard to tell. As I'm pondering the differences in primer, the kids decide they need to touch absolutely everything they see - playing an intricate and abnormally loud game having something to do with the color of the paint can label. Sometimes it seems to me that every time we go to the store is the very first time. "What should we do? Should we run around crazy? Should we touch anything made of glass? Yes, lets!" It's like amnesia sets in as soon as their feet cross the threshold.
As I'm trying to corral my kids as quietly yet still as menacingly as I can, I spot another mom with kids. She's up at the counter, patiently waiting for an employee. She's so pleasant and patient, I shake my head in sympathy. Must be her first time at the Walmart paint counter.
She has two boys with her, approximately 8 and 5. Their cheeks are rosy, their eyes sparkle with life, they calmly stand next to their mom like a couple of angel statues. Meanwhile, my own children are ferociously debating whether or not a paint can swung at a metal pole would make a high or low noise.
They never discovered the answer, as they were melting under my very authoritative mom glare.
Noah decides he hates his pacifier with a passion so he throws it under an aisle of paint cans. Then he realizes that he loves it more than life itself and starts squealing like a baby pterodactyl being boiled in hot oil and then poked with sharp sporks. Or at least how I imagine that would sound.
He then starts grabbing for me and wailing (while Jack slides around on the floor, hunting for the pacifier). All the while the angel statues are patiently awaiting the phantom employees. I imagine behind their angelic blue eyes they are planning their next charity event.
At this point I flagged down an employee. He pages the paint people. 10 minutes crawl by. He pages them again. Finally, a somewhat disgruntled man ambles over from the hunting section. He begins to work on my request. One measly little quart of paint is all I need.
The pacifier is thrown repeatedly. The children are given a good talking-to. Noah starts to break down for no apparent reason.
I unbuckle Noah and hold him. A horrible sensation comes over me. The jacket of my arm is soaked where he's sitting and so is the front of my shirt, where his legs are wrapped around. Oh yes. It's not like he soaked his diaper with pee. It's...different.
What's the worst place for a baby to have diarrhea? In a megastore...in a person's arms.
Man at Paint Counter: "I can't mix this. It's too dark."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Man: "The computer says it will overflow."
Me: "How do people get that color then? I'm confused."
Man: "I don't work at this station. I don't really know. The people who work here are on lunch break."
Apparently there are multiple people who work at the paint counter but they all take lunch at the same time. 5:12 in the evening to be exact.
So I decided to just check out and get paint somewhere else. Surely, I can endure a few minutes to check out my four items. My jacket is ruined anyway, what's the point?
There are 20,000 people checking out. There are 3 lanes open.
We get in the express lane. The minutes tick by. When we finally get to the front, I realize with a sinking feeling that this particular cashier is agonizingly slow. Very, very pleasant but slow. You can become ensnared in a conversation about show tunes or knitting or paper bags. There I am, kids running wild, fussy baby in my arms, jacket arm soaked in horror. He slowly starts scanning the items, pauses and says dreamily "There are so many people here today. People rushing about. The thing is, people are just too impatient."
I nod in sympathy but I'm thinking "HURRY UP! COME ON!"
He says "Sometimes I wish I was retired. Then it wouldn't be so busy and rushed."
Me: "Yes, indeed." SHUT YOUR TRAP! GOOD GRAVY!
We then rushed home, me hurrying the kids through the parking lot. I quickly stripped Noah and just washed him off under the tub faucet. After he was scrubbed and freshly pajama-ed, I ran a bath for myself.
What I really wanted was some chocolate but I decided that perhaps I should stop feeding my feelings. So instead I had sliced cucumbers. Cucumbers. For that decision, I should get a medal. Or at least a robust smattering of applause.
If I'm making resolutions, though, it should probably be not to overshare on the internet so much.
One year at a time.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Christmas Night
Speak the words
World is new
Flowers bloom, air is sweet
Walk the garden with me
Sly glance
Whispered words
A choice is made
The scales have tipped
A dark band encircles the Earth
Choking, pressing
Can't catch its breath
Deliver us!
Deliver me
Far above
A plan is made
Trumpets sound
He is coming
Dark night in a little town
She is tired
She is scared
She is full of hope
Sheep watch with sleepy eyes
Cows yawn
It is late
The room is quiet, the room is still
He is coming
A gasp of pain
A baby's first cry
Whitewashed walls
Fresh yellow straw
Through that quiet sleepy night
She delivers him
Prince of Peace
King of Kings
Deliver us!
Deliver me
The soft scent of clean new life
Mingles with sin and desperation
Ten little fingers
Ten little toes
Hope has been born tonight
Love sleeps on the straw tonight
O little one
He has delivered us
He has delivered me
He has come
World is new
Flowers bloom, air is sweet
Walk the garden with me
Sly glance
Whispered words
A choice is made
The scales have tipped
A dark band encircles the Earth
Choking, pressing
Can't catch its breath
Deliver us!
Deliver me
Far above
A plan is made
Trumpets sound
He is coming
Dark night in a little town
She is tired
She is scared
She is full of hope
Sheep watch with sleepy eyes
Cows yawn
It is late
The room is quiet, the room is still
He is coming
A gasp of pain
A baby's first cry
Whitewashed walls
Fresh yellow straw
Through that quiet sleepy night
She delivers him
Prince of Peace
King of Kings
Deliver us!
Deliver me
The soft scent of clean new life
Mingles with sin and desperation
Ten little fingers
Ten little toes
Hope has been born tonight
Love sleeps on the straw tonight
O little one
He has delivered us
He has delivered me
He has come
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Fingerprinting is a Serious Business - One that Requires a Certain Kind of Shoe
Two blog posts in one week? I must have a statistics final exam coming up. Procrastinate now!
I do have some good news to share on the adoption front. We had to get our fingerprints done by the US Immigration Place (which is probably not its actual name). We were told all kinds of disheartening things. Once your mail in your packet of paperwork, along with about $1000 (to roll each of my fingers for about 3 seconds), they send you an appointment date and time. In other words, you don't get to choose when you go in. Maybe it will be in two weeks, maybe a month. Maybe early in the morning or smack dab in the middle of your work day. Getting your fingerprints done by the government is like a surprise party. That you're charged for. And with fewer balloons. And less happiness.
Side Note: I have to add a little note here so the rest of this makes sense. A couple weeks ago a coworker begged me to work for her on a certain Friday. I don't work during the week usually. I work one day a week, most often on Saturday or Sunday. The rest of the time I stay home. Because I like being a kept woman. This certain coworker was desperate and she was looking at me with sad bunny rabbit eyes so I said yes.
You can see where this is going, I'm sure. A couple days after I acquiesced I got our fingerprint appointment letters in the mail. Yup, we were due that specific Friday, some three weeks away. The appointment place is about 1.5 hours away from the hospital and they sort of frown on not being in the ER when you're supposed to be there. As a employee, that is. If you're a patient though, the general rule of thumb is if you're not having a heart attack or holding your own head in your hands, stay home.
So yes, of course, our appointment is the one day of the week I had offered to work. Darn my kind heart! A friend of ours who has adopted from China and is in the process again told me that you could try to just walk into the fingerprinting place but it was very iffy. She was turned away cold a couple times and basically harassed by the guards another time and made it by the skin of her teeth once or twice. I'm nothing if not unrealistically hopeful so I decided we should just walk in. I figured that God had this all under control and He wants our little girl to come home quickly like we do. I made childcare arrangements (thank God for wonderful friends!) and we decided to try our luck this past Friday.
Matt suggested we dress nicely so we seem like respectable people. He was going to take a couple hours of vacation time and go during work hours so he was already looking good. For me, though, I had to gussy up a little bit. Makeup, nice clothes, ironed hair. And my secret weapon - fancy witch shoes. These things have ridiculously pointed toes, the kind that make angry red streaks on your feet and make you groan with pleasure when the instruments of pain and torture are removed. That's when you know they're fancy.
Fancy as in "I shop at Pottery Barn and wear pants that button." Not fancy as in "Meet me at Motel 6 in 15 minutes." That's an entirely different kind of fancy.
So Friday morning I dropped the kids off and drove into the big city to pick Matt up from work. We prayed beforehand, that the guards would show us kindness and grace and let us in. I had to admonish Matt to walk more slowly as it's hard for me to hobble along in fancy witch high heels. To which he replied that I might be better off with a broom.
My heart was beating so fast as we stood at the door, waiting for the guard to come out and inspect us. She told me to throw away my gum (oh, government agencies) and took our licenses and appointment papers. She made sure the names matched then guided us in with a smile. That's right. She didn't even look at our appointment date. We went through the metal detector and on into the fingerprinting area. The lady there noted that our dates weren't for a few more weeks but shrugged it off. We were in and out in about 7 minutes. It was fantastic. I managed to hold in my squeal of glee until we were in the car, in case they became suspicious that we had gotten away with something devious.
Really, though, it's so like God to do things like that. He sets before us a task, a purpose and then makes sure it happens. This adoption thing is all God and we're just along for the ride.
Matt and I had a nice little lunch together before he had to get back to work. I drove because it was just more convenient since I was already in my car. Of course, this meant I had to endure all sorts of little snipes about my driving. It's like having the Grand Vizier of Transportation riding shotgun. At one point I was remarking on some architecture across the street when Matt practically screamed at me to turn faster. Really, that big truck wasn't going to hit us. At least I'm pretty sure it wasn't. So when I dropped him off at work he gave me his sexy yet rugged smile and said "Be safe. And aware. So be safe and aware."
What an arrogant punk. A cute punk but a punk nonetheless.
And then I drove out of the parking lot and promptly traveled 7 miles in the wrong direction. At least the Dictator wasn't there for that snafu. Whew.
I do have some good news to share on the adoption front. We had to get our fingerprints done by the US Immigration Place (which is probably not its actual name). We were told all kinds of disheartening things. Once your mail in your packet of paperwork, along with about $1000 (to roll each of my fingers for about 3 seconds), they send you an appointment date and time. In other words, you don't get to choose when you go in. Maybe it will be in two weeks, maybe a month. Maybe early in the morning or smack dab in the middle of your work day. Getting your fingerprints done by the government is like a surprise party. That you're charged for. And with fewer balloons. And less happiness.
Side Note: I have to add a little note here so the rest of this makes sense. A couple weeks ago a coworker begged me to work for her on a certain Friday. I don't work during the week usually. I work one day a week, most often on Saturday or Sunday. The rest of the time I stay home. Because I like being a kept woman. This certain coworker was desperate and she was looking at me with sad bunny rabbit eyes so I said yes.
You can see where this is going, I'm sure. A couple days after I acquiesced I got our fingerprint appointment letters in the mail. Yup, we were due that specific Friday, some three weeks away. The appointment place is about 1.5 hours away from the hospital and they sort of frown on not being in the ER when you're supposed to be there. As a employee, that is. If you're a patient though, the general rule of thumb is if you're not having a heart attack or holding your own head in your hands, stay home.
So yes, of course, our appointment is the one day of the week I had offered to work. Darn my kind heart! A friend of ours who has adopted from China and is in the process again told me that you could try to just walk into the fingerprinting place but it was very iffy. She was turned away cold a couple times and basically harassed by the guards another time and made it by the skin of her teeth once or twice. I'm nothing if not unrealistically hopeful so I decided we should just walk in. I figured that God had this all under control and He wants our little girl to come home quickly like we do. I made childcare arrangements (thank God for wonderful friends!) and we decided to try our luck this past Friday.
Matt suggested we dress nicely so we seem like respectable people. He was going to take a couple hours of vacation time and go during work hours so he was already looking good. For me, though, I had to gussy up a little bit. Makeup, nice clothes, ironed hair. And my secret weapon - fancy witch shoes. These things have ridiculously pointed toes, the kind that make angry red streaks on your feet and make you groan with pleasure when the instruments of pain and torture are removed. That's when you know they're fancy.
 |
| Note my calves are not pictured. Nor will they probably ever be again after the boots fiasco of 2012. |
Fancy as in "I shop at Pottery Barn and wear pants that button." Not fancy as in "Meet me at Motel 6 in 15 minutes." That's an entirely different kind of fancy.
So Friday morning I dropped the kids off and drove into the big city to pick Matt up from work. We prayed beforehand, that the guards would show us kindness and grace and let us in. I had to admonish Matt to walk more slowly as it's hard for me to hobble along in fancy witch high heels. To which he replied that I might be better off with a broom.
My heart was beating so fast as we stood at the door, waiting for the guard to come out and inspect us. She told me to throw away my gum (oh, government agencies) and took our licenses and appointment papers. She made sure the names matched then guided us in with a smile. That's right. She didn't even look at our appointment date. We went through the metal detector and on into the fingerprinting area. The lady there noted that our dates weren't for a few more weeks but shrugged it off. We were in and out in about 7 minutes. It was fantastic. I managed to hold in my squeal of glee until we were in the car, in case they became suspicious that we had gotten away with something devious.
Really, though, it's so like God to do things like that. He sets before us a task, a purpose and then makes sure it happens. This adoption thing is all God and we're just along for the ride.
Matt and I had a nice little lunch together before he had to get back to work. I drove because it was just more convenient since I was already in my car. Of course, this meant I had to endure all sorts of little snipes about my driving. It's like having the Grand Vizier of Transportation riding shotgun. At one point I was remarking on some architecture across the street when Matt practically screamed at me to turn faster. Really, that big truck wasn't going to hit us. At least I'm pretty sure it wasn't. So when I dropped him off at work he gave me his sexy yet rugged smile and said "Be safe. And aware. So be safe and aware."
What an arrogant punk. A cute punk but a punk nonetheless.
And then I drove out of the parking lot and promptly traveled 7 miles in the wrong direction. At least the Dictator wasn't there for that snafu. Whew.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Random Ramblings
Once again, a mixed up jumble of random things.
You're welcome.
Wanderings
Recently, Jack got lost in a store. He became engrossed in a kids' movie on one of the tvs and failed to follow me down an aisle. When I realized he was gone and came back, he wasn't there. My heart started to race as I frantically searched for him, all the while Kate was begging me to allow her to stay and watch the tv while I looked for Jack. Um, no. Jack is a fairly responsible 7 year old and sure enough, I heard my name summoned over the loudspeaker. He had went straight to customer service. After a few hugs and tears, we went over the scenario. I asked him what he said to the employees at the counter. He said "My mom is lost" and gave them my name. I asked him why he didn't say he was lost and he replied "Well, I knew where I was the whole time." Indeed.
What probably helped is that he also wore his doctor outfit to the store that day. I had bought him a coat a few months ago and a friend embroidered his name on it with the words "Cardiovascular Surgery" under it. He will not wear a t-shirt under the coat, only a collared, button up dress shirt. And he almost always has a stethoscope around his neck too. So perhaps this only gave Jack an advantage as a misplaced child. Any would-be kidnapper would think "Oh, it's just a tiny (midget, little person, etc) surgeon, here on lunch break." Dougie Houser at Wal-Mart, just buying some post-it notes or something.
Statistics
Of course, a little update on the most horrendous math in existence. I swear that on the last test, she was just making things up. Because really, who's going to call her on it? A student stands up "Uh, excuse me, I believe it's Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta and the Y-value, not Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta squared and the Y-value."
So on the last test I didn't know what any of the wording meant and I had forgotten all the equations I'd ever learned in my entire life. I basically just started square rooting things and multiplying them together, hoping she'd give me credit for all the hard work I did in making things up.
While at the library the other day, I was checking out some sitcoms and joking with the librarians that it's the only way I can handle doing my statistics homework. The elderly gentleman at the counter said "My wife didn't finish her PhD because of that class."
I hope you're happy, statistics. You're ruining people's lives.
Boots
Boots are incredibly popular nowadays. If you're not convinced, look down. Chances are you'll see some boots. Maybe they'll be on your own feet. If you didn't realize that before, you have some serious problems, my friend.
Anyway, I thought I'd get some boots. I usually stay away from trendy things (although my childhood of curled bangs and miniature backpack purses say otherwise) but I happen to like the way boots look. With skirts, leggings, cute skinny jeans tucked into them.
Let me back up a minute here and begin by stating that I've never really given much thought to my calves. Stomach? Yes. Thighs? Absolutely. Weird little packets of fat behind the arms? Sure. But my calves? Eh, haven't really thought of them much.
I do now.
In my quest for boots, I've discovered something rather disheartening: My calves are simply too fat for cute boots. Pair after pair of mid-calf or knee-high boots were discarded in a pile of broken dreams. Guess me and my big ol' legs are sticking with flip-flops.
Speaking of legs...
Treadmill
We recently acquired a used treadmill. I'd rather run outside (well, not really) but it's hard enough to force my body to run when it's just me, let alone a jogging stroller with a toddler inside. What do I do with my arms? Do I push the stroller ahead and run normally until I catch up? Do I run with one arm on the stroller and one pumping for the run? Those are the only options I could think of, and neither worked. So I decided to get a treadmill and then I could run inside. Well, the first two weeks we had it were rough. I could only run for maybe 20 minutes (the length of an Office or something) and my legs would be burning. Now, I'm not in the best shape (see above paragraph) but good gracious, I didn't think I was that bad. After two weeks, I noticed that the back of my thighs were really sore when I walked. Normally it's my calves that burn (hey, maybe my calves are just athletic!) so this was really odd. An idea came to me. I went to the treadmill and son of a buttered biscuit! Look at that incline!
My best friend told me that it was a good thing. Think of all the calories I had burned without even realizing it! But the elation is short lived. What does that say about me that I didn't even notice my treadmill was slanted so much?
Nothing good, I can tell you that much. Nothing good.
You're welcome.
Wanderings
Recently, Jack got lost in a store. He became engrossed in a kids' movie on one of the tvs and failed to follow me down an aisle. When I realized he was gone and came back, he wasn't there. My heart started to race as I frantically searched for him, all the while Kate was begging me to allow her to stay and watch the tv while I looked for Jack. Um, no. Jack is a fairly responsible 7 year old and sure enough, I heard my name summoned over the loudspeaker. He had went straight to customer service. After a few hugs and tears, we went over the scenario. I asked him what he said to the employees at the counter. He said "My mom is lost" and gave them my name. I asked him why he didn't say he was lost and he replied "Well, I knew where I was the whole time." Indeed.
What probably helped is that he also wore his doctor outfit to the store that day. I had bought him a coat a few months ago and a friend embroidered his name on it with the words "Cardiovascular Surgery" under it. He will not wear a t-shirt under the coat, only a collared, button up dress shirt. And he almost always has a stethoscope around his neck too. So perhaps this only gave Jack an advantage as a misplaced child. Any would-be kidnapper would think "Oh, it's just a tiny (midget, little person, etc) surgeon, here on lunch break." Dougie Houser at Wal-Mart, just buying some post-it notes or something.
 |
| Please don't bother the good doctor; he'll be late for a triple bypass. |
Statistics
Of course, a little update on the most horrendous math in existence. I swear that on the last test, she was just making things up. Because really, who's going to call her on it? A student stands up "Uh, excuse me, I believe it's Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta and the Y-value, not Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta squared and the Y-value."
So on the last test I didn't know what any of the wording meant and I had forgotten all the equations I'd ever learned in my entire life. I basically just started square rooting things and multiplying them together, hoping she'd give me credit for all the hard work I did in making things up.
While at the library the other day, I was checking out some sitcoms and joking with the librarians that it's the only way I can handle doing my statistics homework. The elderly gentleman at the counter said "My wife didn't finish her PhD because of that class."
I hope you're happy, statistics. You're ruining people's lives.
Boots
Boots are incredibly popular nowadays. If you're not convinced, look down. Chances are you'll see some boots. Maybe they'll be on your own feet. If you didn't realize that before, you have some serious problems, my friend.
Anyway, I thought I'd get some boots. I usually stay away from trendy things (although my childhood of curled bangs and miniature backpack purses say otherwise) but I happen to like the way boots look. With skirts, leggings, cute skinny jeans tucked into them.
Let me back up a minute here and begin by stating that I've never really given much thought to my calves. Stomach? Yes. Thighs? Absolutely. Weird little packets of fat behind the arms? Sure. But my calves? Eh, haven't really thought of them much.
I do now.
In my quest for boots, I've discovered something rather disheartening: My calves are simply too fat for cute boots. Pair after pair of mid-calf or knee-high boots were discarded in a pile of broken dreams. Guess me and my big ol' legs are sticking with flip-flops.
Speaking of legs...
Treadmill
We recently acquired a used treadmill. I'd rather run outside (well, not really) but it's hard enough to force my body to run when it's just me, let alone a jogging stroller with a toddler inside. What do I do with my arms? Do I push the stroller ahead and run normally until I catch up? Do I run with one arm on the stroller and one pumping for the run? Those are the only options I could think of, and neither worked. So I decided to get a treadmill and then I could run inside. Well, the first two weeks we had it were rough. I could only run for maybe 20 minutes (the length of an Office or something) and my legs would be burning. Now, I'm not in the best shape (see above paragraph) but good gracious, I didn't think I was that bad. After two weeks, I noticed that the back of my thighs were really sore when I walked. Normally it's my calves that burn (hey, maybe my calves are just athletic!) so this was really odd. An idea came to me. I went to the treadmill and son of a buttered biscuit! Look at that incline!
 |
| Ok, it doesn't look that high. But it is! I swear! |
My best friend told me that it was a good thing. Think of all the calories I had burned without even realizing it! But the elation is short lived. What does that say about me that I didn't even notice my treadmill was slanted so much?
Nothing good, I can tell you that much. Nothing good.
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