Monday, June 30, 2008

things that make you want to drink whiskey out of the cat bowl

Anybody who knows anything about anything knows that i Am Bossy is just plain great. She has a very fun game called Ten-Word Tuesday. Here's last week's. And you should totally check it out tomorrow because it's Big Fun. And it's not About The Winning, people, it's About The Clever.

Also. Because The Mister and I (oh yes, even The Mister is lovin' on Bossy), are all Beyonce' and Jay-Z on Bossy, I am going to flat-out steal her idea. And not just any idea, not that Bossy has Just Any Idea.

Except for the Drink Gin part, which I am respectfully changing to Drink Whiskey. Because I don't know what would actually make me want to drink gin. Just being honest, here.

Things That Make You Want To Drink Whiskey Out Of The Cat Bowl.

Item 1. HelMart. The W variety. There's a SuperHelMart in the Big Town Up North, and it's been open for about a year, and I freaking hate that place. I develop twitches and ulcers and, well, you know about the Cat Bowl, because it's in the stinking title. I rarely enter the horrid place unless it is an emergency or there's a golf tournament. This was an emergency: the short people were exhausted, and I needed four things that only existed in one stop at SuperHelMart. Otherwise, I'd be making stops all dang day long.

Item 2. Making Stops All Dang Day Long. It didn't happen, but since I brought it up, I thought is evil enough to give it its own item.

Item 3. Short People Who Refuse To Listen. I know I only said Don't stand on the side of the cart because it will flip over ninehundredfiftyseventhousandeighthundredfortynine times, but I really, really meant it. And when the two tallest short people flipped the grocery cart OVER ON TOP OF THEMSELVES, they were? Surprised.

Item 4. Old Ladies Who Decide You're A Bad Mother Because You Don't Cuddle Your (not actually) Deaf Babies When They Have Been Duly Warned That The Cart Will Flip Over And Find Themselves Trapped Under A Grocery Cart. Seriously. They came from no where and everywhere. Emerged from cans of ravioli and jars of salad dressing, from the coolers of steak (oh, is that the place to store your unused grandmas?), and under boxes of macaroni and cheese. And. They. Glared. I was definitely Unsuitable Material For Motherhood at that moment. But what they didn't know was that I DO NOT BEAT MY CHILDREN IN THE HELMART. And I was certainly not going to start in the SuperHelMart. Besides, I'm out of concealer. So there. No beatings for anyone. Are your children okay? they asked, not kindly at all. Of course they're fine, I said, not kindly at all, they have really hard, thick skulls. Too much wax in their ears prevents them from hearing me when I warn them to get the heck off the stupid cart for crying out loud, or some other currently unknown item is impeding their ability to comprehend and follow through when I give directions.

Item Five. No. Whiskey. In. The. House. I can't even talk about it. Because remember? I drank it all the other day.

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