Wait. What Were We Talking About?

Daughter: What's your name from?
Me: Probably Cassandra. The prophetess who could see into the future.
Daughter: Can you see me as a teenager?
Me: Yep. You're beautiful.
Daughter: Is my hair blonde?
Me: No.
Daughter: So you DIDN'T let me dye my hair.
***

Son, looking through old photos: No offence, mom. But I don't like what you did with your hair in the teen years.

***
Me, having a meltdown, to Hubby: I mean... What's the point in just existing? I come home, I watch Netflix, I'm happy. But I'm going to look up in twenty years and I'll be 63 and then what?
Hubby, wryly: Oh, they'll have come out with more movies by then.

How to Find Management in Wal-Mart

So, herewith the saga of how Friday night robbed me of its promise. I went to WM, in summery skirt, tee shirt and flip flops (cue ominous music here) thinking how lovely it was to be (cough, indisdinct) years old and healthy and with an entire weekend before me, a writing retreat on the morrow.

When the 24-pack of coke zeroes fell off the back of the cart, I felt lucky. They missed my bare feet!

But then I hoisted the 24-pack by its tab and ripped up my big toenail, but bad.

I then stood there for a few minutes staring at my foot, trying to figure out why my nail was all red, and then determine how badly it was going to hurt, and should I seek assistance or not?

I decided it was necessary to elevate it, with ice, and hobbled back to the service area to find someone. It was empty. So I backtracked a few aisles and found a worker who took off to find an ice pack. I told him he could find me sitting in the service area. I was beginning to feel clammy and not very well.

He zoomed back moments later to tell me his manager was fetching me an ice pack.

Then, not one, but ten managers converged upon me. One of them handed me an ice pack, and then they conferred. Then they took an incident report. Name? Address? Phone number? I was so rattled it took me a while to figure out why they were asking me these pointless questions.

Where did it happen? I was asked. I stared at my cart, trying to remember. Eggs? I stammered.

How did the box fall? Which way did it roll? How did you lift it?

Do you think we got everything? asked Manager 1, holding the pen. I think so, replied Manager 2. We could photograph the box? Suggested Manager 3.

I laughed. The box is fine, said I. It isn't defective. (Manager 1 wrote this down.) Three Managers lifted the box and examined it for defects. All clear.

After a while, I was offered bandaids, and assistance if I needed it "with the cart." I hobbled home.

Halfway there, I realized they were probably watching the tapes at that moment. And that it hadn't happened by eggs at all, but rather by sour cream. And I wondered if that discrepancy was being tallied for use by the legal team if required.

I realized that fortunately for me, I had no intention of sueing. Because Wal-Mart and Coca Cola would no doubt be a formidable legal combination.

Soccer Mom Rap

Son, in a cheeky mood, singing/rapping in the van: "She's got her shades on! And her coffeeeeee! In a travel mug. She's got someplace to go! With kids! We're probably late! Waow, waow. Oh no, the police. Just kidding!"

I Swear I Meant To Watch It

But Daughter was given the movie at horse riding for her birthday. And on horse riding days we get home so very much later... So instead, I just put the movie on for her, and then set about making dinner, and school lunches, and emptying backpacks, and probably a load or two of laundry for good measure. Because deep down, I didn't really want to watch the movie then. And neither did her brother.

So when she emerged sobbing, dripping and snotty from her room, saying: "Something's wrong with Flicka! She won't get up! I think she may be dead. Flicka!" I was, officially, the worst. mother. ever.

Thankfully, the horse lived. Note to self: next time, watch the animal movie with the child.

Say It Ain't So...

I just learned, from yesterday's Children's Literature class mind you (Poetry week), that children don't like figurative language, or imagery.

Denotative poetry? Seriously??