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Double Jointed

Posted by Domestic Diva at 1:30 pm Uncategorized

Feb 222011

I was running short on time as usual, so instead of asking a store associate for assistance, I tried to stretch my 5’4″ frame to reach the containers on the top shelf. Stepping on the bottom shelf, stretching my arm as far as it could go, I was just touching the front of the container with my fingertips. Stretching, reaching, stretching, the container spun round but not closer. Without really thinking it through, and just wanting the item, I jumped an inch or so off the bottom shelf, grabbed the bottle, and of course came crashing down on my ass in the middle of the aisle. Wearing wet snow boots, the skinny metal lip of the bottom shelf gave me not a moment of traction; so obviously I fell flat on my ass. Falling down would have been bad enough but when I grabbed the bottle I also knocked several other items from the shelf that wobbled and toppled, almost like dominoes, from nearly six feet above me, landing around me and even a few on my right leg and hand.

I sat, stunned by my own idiocy for a moment, surrounded by the kind of mess I’d expect from my three year old. I felt fortunate in that at least I was alone in the mess. I hopped to my feet, shook my hand which hurt from being hit with the falling bottles, and began to reach to clean up the mess when a small team (there were three) of store associates rounded the corner with great speed. As I began to apologize for the mess and explain nothing had broken (thank God for plastic), they began to assess my condition.

“Miss, are you okay? Did you hit your head? Are you injured? Does anything hurt?” the apparent leader of the pack questioned.

With my face presumably the deepest shade of red humanly possible, I replied, “I’m really very sorry; I thought I could reach the top shelf. Unfortunately, I’m about an inch too short and tried to get it down in a very poorly thought out plan that required some level of skill and athleticism both which I’m clearly lacking.”

The youngest of the group snickered at my lighthearted response, but was quickly silenced by a stern look from the leader. “Miss, I think you should sit down while I assess the situation.” In my mind, for a moment, what I heard was “Miss, I think you’re an ass. Sit Down.”

“Really, I’m fine,” I persisted. “Please let me clean this up and be on my way. Seriously, I’m sorry and I’m fine. I’m also in a hurry.”

“Are you sure you aren’t injured? We can call a ambulance,” he said in a very concerned voice.

“Please, please, please do not do that,” I said noticing shoppers walking slowly past the aisle and trying to determine the cause of the disturbance. “I am totally fine aside now from being extremely embarrassed. I’d love to pick up my mess here and go. Please.”

“We’ve got it, Miss.” the leader said still looking at me like I was going to lose consciousness at any moment. He pointed at the mess and the other two employees began to pick up the items. I bent over too, still feeling embarrassed , but just wanting to remove the evidence of my clumsiness and move on with my shopping trip life at this point.

With the last of the bottles being placed back on the shelf by the tallest of the three, I quickly remembered why this event happened in the first place. “Shoot!” I exclaimed. “Can you hand me one of those bottles right there?” I asked. “That’s what i was reaching for in the first place,” I explained pointing my crooked finger.

“Holy crap! Your hand!” the younger employee said. All eyes were on my red and crooked finger still extended and pointing at the bottle that was still so close, yet so far away.

“Oh, a bottle may have hit it, but I’m fine really. It doesn’t even hurt,” I said nonchalantly, tucking my hand behind my back.

“No, no! Your finger was all crooked! I think you broke it, seriously!” he exlaimed rather loudly.

“I knew it!” the leader spoke out. “Miss, let’s go to the office so I can…”

I abruptly cut him off. “Listen, listen! Calm down. My finger is not broken. I’m double jointed.”

Blank stares.

“Seriously, fellas. My hands are double jointed. I’m fine, so if you could just hand me the bottle….”

They still just stood there looking at me and I knew if I were ever going to get out of there, I was going to have to give a demonstration. So I did. And just like when I was in grade school the “boys” said “ewwww” and “ahhhhh” and thought it was “gross and kinda awesome” as the youngest employee so eloquently stated.

So I may not be very clever, I may have very poorly planned and executed plans, and my athleticism is obviously lacking, but at least I have side show fingers that never seem to fail.

This is my normal

This is what the store employee saw. I wanted something up and to the left, so I pointed to it.

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Hi, Pat!

Posted by Domestic Diva at 4:57 pm Uncategorized

Jan 122011

I buy my diapers and wipes in bulk at Sam’s Club, so please tell me how I ran out without realizing it yesterday just hours before a snow storm. Having no desire to fight the snow-a-phobics, who stock up like they won’t be able to get out of the house until Spring, I decided I was not going to fight the crowds at Sam’s Club today. Instead, while the baby napped and my husband worked from home, I’d take Jake with me to the pharmacy to pick up a small pack of diapers to get me through the rest of the week.

I hurried Jake into the store as the first snow flakes began to fall silently from the sky, and we slowly and painstakingly made our way to the back of the store where the diapers were located. Jake stopped and asked me if we needed every other product he saw. “Can we buy this Mom? Why not, Mom?” he loudly asked again and again.

By the time we made it to the diapers, he was already holding a new ice scraper, a container of Elmer’s glue, a new tube of Chapstick and an 8-pack of crayons. I practically shoved him past the tampon aisle, not wanting a repeat of anything close to what happened on Super-Missile Saturday, and quickly began looking for any brand of diaper in a size 4. As I searched for the one item I actually came into the store to buy, Jake began to wander and peek around the corner towards the pharmacy area.

An old woman waved and he took that as an invitation to talk to her about the upcoming snow storm. She smiled, made some small talk, and asked him how old he was…he responded that he would be “four year old on the summer time.” He then proceeded to ask her how old she was, and I quickly tried to shush him. She laughed and said it was okay and that she was 74 years young (I would have suspected more like 112). Jake just replied, “Wooow!”

Realizing he was in a social mood, and what that could mean for me, I quickly pulled him closer as I went back to trying to find the right size diapers. The shelf looked like it had been stocked by one of my children, with brands and sizes clustered together, no one brand or size in any discernible order. Jake, at this point, was still visible in my peripheral vision, and only out of arm’s reach when I began feeling a familiar mother-type foreboding. I struggled as fast as I could through the packages and boxes of diapers. Where the hell were all the size 4 diapers?

A bead of sweat began to roll slowly down the side of my face, as I turned just in time to see Jake, now just at the end of the aisle, yell down to me at the other end, “Mommy, why does that big man have hair like a girl?”

For a minute I considered grabbing his hand and asking him if he was lost and see if he would let me help him find his mother. Fearing what kind of loud retort that might bring, I swept him up and gave a quick glance down the aisle at the 300lb “Biker” frowning in my direction. Upon locking eyes, he must have seen the sheer defeat I felt, perhaps he himself had children, or maybe he once saw the same look from his own mother, because he then gave me half a smile as I retreated back down the aisle.

At this point I was not even considering going to another store for the damn diapers in the right size, so I grabbed a pack of size 5′s and hoped they wouldn’t be too big (and I wouldn’t be scrubbing leaking poop from my daughter’s clothing for the rest of the week). I assisted Jake with his multiple products to the front of the store to pay (and finally exit), while I silently prayed that the rather large and long haired gentleman would be detained in the pharmacy area until after we left the store.

My preoccupation with keeping Jake in one place and the whereabouts of the recently insulted biker had me unaware of much else. As the couple in front of us grabbed their bags and moved out of the way, I placed our items up by the cashier, and was again overcome with a mother of a bad feeling (I mean a mother’s bad feeling).

Jake, silent for the first time in his life since he began to speak, placed his glue up on the counter and just stared at the person across from him. The cashier asked him if he liked to color and glue, and still he stared silently. I felt a knot growing in the pit of my stomach because I now knew exactly what my offspring was thinking. I laughed as I handed the cashier my member’s card and said it was for some indoor activities after we play in the snow. ”Please, God, let this be quick. I’m running out of time!” I prayed as I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to hurry through the barrage of questions that follow swiping your debit card.

Enter your pin number please….

Jake was still quiet…..

Cash back?…

Jake glances up at me….

Verify the dollar amount…..

I ignore his questioning glance….

Now press enter….

Holy shit this couldn’t possibly take any longer….

Then, because insulting an old lady and biker wasn’t bad enough, Jake dropped the real bomb….

Mommy? Does that person have a penis or a vagina?

I closed my eyes for a second, felt my recently flushed face lose color, felt the blood rush from my head, and then my stomach dropped (like when you’re on a roller coaster). The earth stood still for a moment as I looked at my son’s innocent little face just trying to figure out who or what was ringing up our items.

Without making eye contact with Pat (you remember that skit from Saturday night live, right? What’s that? Oh, that’s Pat! Was Pat a man or a woman, who really knows?), I grabbed the bagged items, receipt, my loud and inquisitive child and made a break for the door hoping for the nine hundredth time, that the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

Just behind us, as we walked out the door, was the biker with the womanly locks (actually they were quite lovely)…”Bet the fun never ends with this one,” he chuckled. “You should write this shit down. Give it to him later when he has kids of his own.”

I laughed, apologized, and wondered if I’ll make it through their adolescence let alone their adulthood…

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Rinse and Repeat

Posted by Domestic Diva at 4:19 pm Uncategorized

Dec 142010

I’m not a cuddler, I don’t like snuggling, and I need my own space in order to sleep. Some people prefer to be coddled and held not just at bed time, but also when they’re sick or not feeling well. Perhaps there was a time in my life when I was like this too, but in my mind, it’s been since I was a young child. When I’m injured, sick, or generally not feeling well, it’s best to leave me be. Even when I was in labor, I didn’t want to be held or comforted, I just wanted to do what I had to do to get it over with and make the pain go away. To be honest, I am surprised my husband didn’t find me off in a dark place like under our deck out back when the time came for me to deliver. I sort of have a sense why animals do it. If under our deck was air conditioned and had drugs for a pain-free delivery, I probably would have snuck off alone to give birth.

With that being said, I’m not a total frigid bitch and there are times when human touch makes me feel better. During times of sadness or stress (or even anger) having my hand held, back rubbed or hair stroked will help me calm down and bring me some solace…when I know the person comforting me anyway.

I didn’t even attempt to find or fight for a reasonable parking space at the mall today. I pulled my giant Suburban to the back of the lot, and stopped myself from cursing as I crossed the 6.2 miles through the cold and windy parking lot to the mall’s entrance. I told myself to remain calm as I made my way through the busy stores while being hit with shopping bags, stuck behind super slow mall walkers, and even when a mother hit the back of my ankle with a stroller while she chatted on her cell phone and paid no attention to where she was going.

As I stood in the longest department store line in history and waited as three people ahead of me filled out credit card applications, I silently sang Christmas songs in my head in an attempt to ignore my surroundings. This became particularly difficult because the old man behind me was standing a little too close for comfort, and was apparently stricken with tuberculosis or pertussis based on his thick, hacking, persistant cough.

Finally, after what felt like forever, I was on my way back to my car. As I made my way down the long mall corridor, I spied several people with coffee, and remembering the long journey and single digit wind chills that awaited me just outside, I decided to wait in just one more line.

Standing in the food court, I began to second guess my decision. Nearing lunch time, these holiday shoppers were hungry, rude, and growing in numbers. Again, I found myself in a line a dozen people deep and the “help” at the counter seemed moments away from quitting (not that I would have blamed them). People continued to cut through the line, and after the fourth person squeezed between me and the lady in front of me without an “Excuse or Pardon me” I felt my holiday cheer draining from my body. If not for the dull roar of the wind whipping outside, I would have left the line. I just hate the cold. “Just hold on, Susan. Just another few minutes of madness…” I told myself silently. I stood there with my teeth clenched, took a deep breath in, and closed my eyes.

Standing there I tried to calm myself and remember if ever there was a time to remain merry, this was it. Just as I was about to let it all go and find my happy place for a moment, I thought I felt the back of my hair move. Eyes now opened, I remained perfectly still. After thirty seconds, and not feeling any further movement, I relaxed a bit again and took a step forward as the line moved up.

There it was again. My hair definitely moved that time. This time I took my hand and brushed the back of my hair, too afraid of what I might find and subsequently say or do if I turned around. Before I could even process what was happening, because trust me when I tell you my mind was trying to come up with a plan of attack, I felt a whole hand (as in palm and five fingers) enter the back of my hair and what i can only describe as “swoosh” around then gently pull my hair as it exited again.

I spun around faster than the woman could put her hand back down by her side and loudly demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. The older woman, and by older I mean old enough to know better, stood there arm extended and mouth open but silent. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “Is there a reason you are touching my head?” I loudly questioned. She stuttered a moment and said “I saw a piece of red fuzz stuck in your hair and I was only trying to get it out. Then I thought I messed up your hair so I just tried to fluff it up. I was only trying to help.”

Now there are very few times I have ever been speechless, and standing face to face with this stranger who was looking at me as if I were the crazy person, was one of them. Realizing we now had an audience and that the entire line plus two employees were now staring at me, I lowered my voice and said, “You must be off your meds or from another place where it’s acceptable to fondle a stranger’s head. If it wasn’t Christmas I would….” and I trailed off. I just stood there for a moment and looked at this stranger’s dumbfounded clueless face and stomped off coffeeless and feeling somewhat violated.

I hoped, as I made my way to the car, that anything gross from the woman’s foreign hands might be blown out by the time I reached my car. I mean, who the hell knows where’s else her hands have been if she’s willing to stick her hand into my afro (which I totally had thanks to the wind)…As I stood in the shower for the second time today, I just assumed that this is what I get for going to the mall during the holidays (remember what happened last time!), and then I rinsed and repeated.

One of my favorite Gary Larson cartoons

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