Like the idiot I am..
As a couple we have never shopped well, as individuals not much better, but 'tis the season.
In about 2 hours on Saturday I made some really good headway street shopping down the road but still it seemed necessary to do a family shop Sunday. Big mistake... well mistake anyway. So three stops were the plan. Local birdseed store. Seriously! We know a look of folks who are koo-koo about winged beings. Then large outdoor lifestyle adventure co-op store. Finally, sizable drug store for all forms of candy for stockings along with some basic provisions like poo wrap and the like.
So we made 2 out of 3. Is that respectable?
Le Magasin du Caw-Caw was a down right hit with all the great stuff, the nice people.. I mean this store even had a CAT. I should have got everyone sing-song clocks and suet! I would have had it made.
Stop 2 was to be fair only half bad but that was bad enuf' for us... Sort of uncovered all the weaknesses of this parental team. We could not work together; we had no realistic plan for our time. While we had done 'advance selection' with the online catalogue we still got quite rattled. Not being naturally tough outdoorsy types like our many admirable friends we were disoriented quickly inside the store. P-man was hypnotized by all the tattoos and I was similarly entranced by the many piercings that seemed to somehow connect man and earth in some inspiring new way. Grappling gear seems to be taking a very interesting new turn as the halfway point of the naughts fade. But I digress. I digress, therefore I am, which was the problem.
So here are, a pair of pale, flabby aliens, dropped into this bustling mecca of product supply for adventuresome acts of health we know very little about. Our little one thought the place is pretty cool too until we tried to put her in the 8-in-1 baby-backpack-knapsack-paddywhack-utility muffin kitchen and shower radio device. The shower radio elements were supplied by the baby e as a torrent of baby invective bounced off the interiors of our skulls and the cavernous interior of the outdoor fun store while the inked and the holed were startled out of their reveries for long enough to remember where they kept their emergency store of chronic and why they will fuck only for recreation, filmic, and scientific purposes, while we paused to consider that we will be outnumbered when #2 arrives in July. Mistakes in planning, execution, like the Sunday special were why our quota had been pegged at one.
I do admit the core meltdown was all my fault. We were in the kidswear buying Miss Fancy some togs for Christmas and all was going swimmingly. She had been smiling at everyone and drinking what was left of her milk. Then like the idiot I am I let her out of the stroller! Ahhh... Well not immediately -- at first she tried on one of her new hats, loved it. Ok this is a rare and unusual planet where granola is tasty and toddlers wear hats willingly. Once out of the stroller Miss Fancy nicely visited with other kids produced by the mountain people, in spite of her genetic makeup. But things started to unravel when we had to chose between two coats. The basket of purchases, the snacks spilling from pockets, the potential new purchases, the toys, the purse, and the child with her new found friends. It was too much for rookies like us. Some plan needed to hatched to occupy the child.
Then like the idiot I am I let her play with the stroller. This is a rickety umbrella stroller, like the one the kids pass around on daycare days. I tend to think it is a positive thing to encourage our girl towards all those otherwise gag-inducing gender stereotype mothering games now that No. 2 is due. So I let her play with the stroller. But in the store - what was I thinking? She swiftly took off for the sock aisles and deftly crashed into many many ankles, each time offering a ringing declaration of the fun in the collision -- BING! If not ankles, then merch. displays, where her little craft would run aground. To her credit, she was determined to correct her steering issues herself. To our detriment, any efforts to assist were met with a new, keening, scream which sent the granola-buds to their VW vans for a quick hit.
Gawd what have I done. So what is our exit strategy? I ask. P-man gives me the face George Dubya has everytime Dick Cheney points out that someday US Troops will have to be pulled out of Iraq. Oh no.
Thank goodness daddy takes the child and a snack and leaves me to sort out shopping. We did in fact conclude the shopping, pay, and transport the stuff and toddler to the car with little fuss after.
Needless to say we are out of toilet paper at our house, which in concert with a recent poo blog, puts p-man in mind of a time when he went over 7 hours with a shit in his pants. Like the song goes "I passed out on some old lady's lawn and lost control of my bodily functions." Mmmm.
In about 2 hours on Saturday I made some really good headway street shopping down the road but still it seemed necessary to do a family shop Sunday. Big mistake... well mistake anyway. So three stops were the plan. Local birdseed store. Seriously! We know a look of folks who are koo-koo about winged beings. Then large outdoor lifestyle adventure co-op store. Finally, sizable drug store for all forms of candy for stockings along with some basic provisions like poo wrap and the like.
So we made 2 out of 3. Is that respectable?
Le Magasin du Caw-Caw was a down right hit with all the great stuff, the nice people.. I mean this store even had a CAT. I should have got everyone sing-song clocks and suet! I would have had it made.
Stop 2 was to be fair only half bad but that was bad enuf' for us... Sort of uncovered all the weaknesses of this parental team. We could not work together; we had no realistic plan for our time. While we had done 'advance selection' with the online catalogue we still got quite rattled. Not being naturally tough outdoorsy types like our many admirable friends we were disoriented quickly inside the store. P-man was hypnotized by all the tattoos and I was similarly entranced by the many piercings that seemed to somehow connect man and earth in some inspiring new way. Grappling gear seems to be taking a very interesting new turn as the halfway point of the naughts fade. But I digress. I digress, therefore I am, which was the problem.
So here are, a pair of pale, flabby aliens, dropped into this bustling mecca of product supply for adventuresome acts of health we know very little about. Our little one thought the place is pretty cool too until we tried to put her in the 8-in-1 baby-backpack-knapsack-paddywhack-utility muffin kitchen and shower radio device. The shower radio elements were supplied by the baby e as a torrent of baby invective bounced off the interiors of our skulls and the cavernous interior of the outdoor fun store while the inked and the holed were startled out of their reveries for long enough to remember where they kept their emergency store of chronic and why they will fuck only for recreation, filmic, and scientific purposes, while we paused to consider that we will be outnumbered when #2 arrives in July. Mistakes in planning, execution, like the Sunday special were why our quota had been pegged at one.
I do admit the core meltdown was all my fault. We were in the kidswear buying Miss Fancy some togs for Christmas and all was going swimmingly. She had been smiling at everyone and drinking what was left of her milk. Then like the idiot I am I let her out of the stroller! Ahhh... Well not immediately -- at first she tried on one of her new hats, loved it. Ok this is a rare and unusual planet where granola is tasty and toddlers wear hats willingly. Once out of the stroller Miss Fancy nicely visited with other kids produced by the mountain people, in spite of her genetic makeup. But things started to unravel when we had to chose between two coats. The basket of purchases, the snacks spilling from pockets, the potential new purchases, the toys, the purse, and the child with her new found friends. It was too much for rookies like us. Some plan needed to hatched to occupy the child.
Then like the idiot I am I let her play with the stroller. This is a rickety umbrella stroller, like the one the kids pass around on daycare days. I tend to think it is a positive thing to encourage our girl towards all those otherwise gag-inducing gender stereotype mothering games now that No. 2 is due. So I let her play with the stroller. But in the store - what was I thinking? She swiftly took off for the sock aisles and deftly crashed into many many ankles, each time offering a ringing declaration of the fun in the collision -- BING! If not ankles, then merch. displays, where her little craft would run aground. To her credit, she was determined to correct her steering issues herself. To our detriment, any efforts to assist were met with a new, keening, scream which sent the granola-buds to their VW vans for a quick hit.
Gawd what have I done. So what is our exit strategy? I ask. P-man gives me the face George Dubya has everytime Dick Cheney points out that someday US Troops will have to be pulled out of Iraq. Oh no.
Thank goodness daddy takes the child and a snack and leaves me to sort out shopping. We did in fact conclude the shopping, pay, and transport the stuff and toddler to the car with little fuss after.
Needless to say we are out of toilet paper at our house, which in concert with a recent poo blog, puts p-man in mind of a time when he went over 7 hours with a shit in his pants. Like the song goes "I passed out on some old lady's lawn and lost control of my bodily functions." Mmmm.
posted by mo-wo at 11:08 p.m.
2 Comments:
Numner 2 is coming? I assume you mean baby number two, and not more bowel movements...
Yep, baby No. 2 is en route, as opposed to poo. That is incorrect. Poo is also en route, in its horrid ubiquity, but its eventual arrival was not the reference I was making.
Unlike some other posters on the blogosphere, who may at times speak of nothing but the poo in relentless detail, coil upon coil of fetid poo-prose soiling the binary universe, like an overripe diaper left in a car on a sunny afternoon, we here at mo-wo are trying to keep our shit, or baby e's shit, under wraps and in the poo-tower. Of course, should some terrific and mind-bending poo-event occur, we will abandon discretion promptly.
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