Friday, July 7, 2017

do you believe in magic?

A good friend of mine recently told me I should write a memoir. To be completely honest, this was kind of a shock because this is coming from someone who recently sent me a text saying,

"Met this old astrologer hippy lady at the market. Older than Betty White- swear to god. She likes me because I'm a Taurus. Gave me her number. Wants to hang out on Monday, go to folk fest. I think I'm going to go."  (it should be known that these random occurrences in her life are totally normal and happen on an unusually frequent basis)

meanwhile, I was sitting on my couch eating my fifth batch of brownies as my son went through the effort of getting completely undressed and putting on a pull up just so he wouldn't have to use the toilet. I mean like, I'm not saying my life isn't exciting... but unfortunately I haven't had any encounters with old hippy ladies asking me to folk fest.

That being said, I think I will try to write more memoir-esque posts. I am pretty sure that was the vision I had for this blog anyway, apparently it just took a random comment on instagram to get me going.

Remember high school? LOL. How awkward of a time was that? Or am I literally the only person who wonders how they had any friends? Nevermind. High School holds some of my greatest and not-so-great memories.

Also, why are high school dances such a weird thing? Thinking about it now, the whole process is weird. Dropping some weird puzzle off on someone's porch with a clever pun that gives them a clue on how to find out who is asking them to the dance (!!!)

I have always been a weirdo, and I have always tended to veer from the conventional. Particularly when it comes to... Oh I don't know, asking someone to a high school dance?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the secret doorstep-asking method, usually the asker will come up with something clever.

Actual real-life examples of ways my sister got asked:
Cheese. Leave a block of cheese on the front porch that says, "sorry if this is too cheesy, but will you go to [the dance] with me?" Write name on block of cheese, or have enough blocks of cheese to make up each letter of your name.

Piñata. Fill the piñata with candy and letters that spell out your name. Leave a note that says, "[the dance] would be a hit with you!"

Actual real-life examples of ways I asked:
Dead plant/bush thing. My friends mom was digging up her garden and had this large bush that was totally dead and upon looking at it, my brain thought, "Hey! This would be a great prop to use to ask someone on a date." So I did. I dug up that dead bush, and wrote a note that said, "My heart will shrivel up and die like this dead bush if you don't go to this dance with me." Also, I have a terrible memory but I'm pretty sure I used that dead bush to ask someone I barely even knew. But we had a lovely time! (He said yes!)

Giant stocking full of dollar store trinkets. I honestly don't even remember what my clever saying was. Probably like, "Ho, ho, ho. You should go, go, go to the dance with me." Also I wrote random letters on all of the trinkets and then wrote my name on the date of the dance on a (cat? or something random) calendar that happened to be mixed in with all of the things. 

Dumping foam letters into a toilet. I actually did this. I wrote, "If you gotta go... GO WITH ME!" What? Ew. HOW DID I HAVE FRIENDS. More importantly, HOW DID I EVER GET A DATE

Apparently my strangeness had some sort of appeal (or the guys I asked thought I'd murder them if they said no), and I was never turned down. 

It's no secret that I am 100% the absolute worst date ever. Forever & Always. If you ever have any doubts, ask my husband. Just ask him. Lucky for me, he rolls with the punches and happened to find my awkwardness and ability to ruin cute moments charming. I'm not sure he still feels that way but hey, I can't help that I ruin every romantic moment ever. (you know, just the big things like our first kiss, our engagement, announcing pregnancies, etc)

There really should be an award for every guy who ever took me out (or let me take him) on a date. My mom tells me she was a terrible first date, and I think she passed on the "terrible every date" gene on to me, because I swear I could never get it right. 

I am so, so off topic. What even is the topic, you ask? NOBODY KNOWS.

actually it was high school dances.

I'm a mess. This post this blog is all over the place. WELCOME, FRIENDS. We like having you here. 

High school dances always have a theme. And expensive photos. Two things of which I am really confused about why this is such a big deal to teenagers (like, one time my date ordered me the small photos and HOW DARE HE), but also I'm really grateful it was a big deal because now I have photographic proof of how big of a freak I was.

Dance themes were a big deal, because after the big reveal, you & your group of friends all got to plan what costumes/outfits you would wear to the dance. Extra points for originality. Much like my methods of asking to dances, the ways I interpreted dance themes was a bit eccentric. My senior year of high school, one of our dance themes happened to be Do You Believe In Magic. People were stoked. Magic. MAGIC. There were so many directions you could take this. Wizards, witches, fairies, magicians, the works. 

I racked my brain for costume ideas. My first thought was Santa. He's magic! But our group was very large and I wasn't sure how to turn that into a group costume.

Then, it hit me. Magic markers. MAGIC MARKERS. It was brilliant. For whatever reason, my group agreed with me and our costumes were in the works. My friends & I spent way too much time making stencils and spray painting shirts & "marker caps".  I don't regret a minute of it because these pictures never fail to make me laugh because we look absolutely ridiculous.

In all of my dance photos, I have exactly one normal snapshot. (Also my scanner didn't do the best of jobs uploading the photos but this gives you a good idea.)


I think this is how most dance photos are supposed to look. Maybe I'm wrong, because like I said, this is literally the only one I have of this sort... and that's only because the photographer didn't give us a choice.

I also have a lot of abnormal snapshots. This one, for whatever reason, is my favorite.


It's funny because someone left my cap off and I dried out.

Also, this is hands down my favorite group photo. Long story short, none of the guys knew we were going to shove them when the photo was taken. And also everyone looks hilarious in their giant marker caps. These costumes will never not be funny to me.


Thursday, July 6, 2017

a day in the life

This morning at approximately 11:30, I was wandering aimlessly about my son's room. I honestly can't tell you what i was doing because I was so *bleeping* tired. (Charlotte had woken up at 5am. I'm not much of a morning person as it is, but also I was really smart and decided to stay up until 1 am last night looking at memes because I am a productive human being who does responsible adult things with my time. But also I found some hilarious memes, so idk. Maybe this was all worth it?)

So there I was, doing (?????) in my kids room, only semi-conscious, and Jameson walks in. He closes the door and says, "haha! Mom, now you and me are locked in the room! And Charlie is NOT!"

(I would like to take this moment to come clean that yes, the door to my children's room locks from the outside. Judge me a hundred times and then go away because nobody likes a judgemental mom-shamer and this blog is an exclusively  judgement free zone. Good day. I SAID GOOD DAY.)

Back to what my son said.

"haha! Mom, now you and me are locked in the room! And Charlie is NOT!"

The realization didn't hit me immediately.
"Cool, bud."

I picked up a piece of garbage and went to open the door and go about my day.

My hand grasped the doorknob, and I began to twist. The handle didn't budge.

The thoughts that scrolled through my mind went a little something like this:

"Lol." -my unconscious brain not fully grasping what has happened.
"Wait. This is locked...???"
"The door is locked. UGH. JAMESON."
"At least I'm not in here by myself this time."
*Charlotte knocks on the door.*
"DAMNIT! DAMNIT DAMNIT JAMESON DAMNIT!!!!!" -real life me, swearing in front of both of my children because I am an A+++ parent.

I turned and looked at Jamey. "WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?!! you KNOW we don't lock the doors!" (As you may have picked up on, this isnt the first locked door incident we have had)

"It's funny, mom." Jameson said to me matter-of-factly.

"No, it's not! Charlie is out there all by herself and I can't get out!! She doesnt know how to unlock a door!!"

I sat there, mostly composed, and tried to think of a way out of this mess.

I can climb through the window, pop out the screen and get in through the front door. Yes!

...no. I locked the handle AND the deadbolt because apparently I think I live in the ghetto and need that extra protection. DAMNIT. Ok. Next option... I can break a window. LOL. Next... who has a spare key? Yes! Spare key. 

I called my dad. No answer.

"Ok. Hmm, well... this is unfortunate."

I called my husband.

"Hey, so um, I just need you to help me keep my cool and walk me through this for a second."

"...what happened?"

"So, Jameson and I are locked in his room. And Charlotte is not. HOW DO I GET OUT."

We contemplated every option of escape. I was instructed to look for anything small enough to poke into the hole to unlock the door, or something flat enough and strong enough that I could take the hinges off and remove the door completely. (thinking about that now, I'm still not 100% sure that plan would have worked. but thats not the point)

I soon realized my phone battery had 6% left, which is about 3 minutes of use. I was scrambling around the room searching for anything to help me. I unplugged the kids' nightlight and started using one of the prongs as a makeshift flathead screwdriver. It got me nowhere. I started rattling the handle and shouting, "JUST STOP BEING LOCKED AND LET ME OUT OF HERE!!" It seemed completely rational at the time. Also, about this time my daughter started crying.

My husband called me back.

"hey, are you out?"

"NO, GET OUT OF MY FACE, OKAY?! I REALIZE I'M A HELPLESS WRETCH NOW LEAVE ME THE #@%&$ ALONE SO MY PHONE DOESN'T DIE BEFORE I CAN FIND HELP." (to be fair, I am pretty sure I was a lot nicer than that but those were the words I was holding back)

I was trying to think of anyone I knew who could break down a door, who also wouldn't be at work or home with children who probably shouldn't see their parent break down a door.

I called my husband. "I'm going to die in here."

"You're not going to die. Just calm down, think outside the box. What can you use?"

"My dad!! I can try calling him again to see if he can come unlock the front door!"

"That's not thinking outside the box."
"Umm, oh! There's a broken piece of a plastic box that I can try to wedge in between the door and the lock like a credit card!"

It should be known that I have zero street cred when it comes to B&E. So it should be no surprise that although my husband talked me through it, the piece of broken plastic just left me swearing, my phone battery at 3%, and the door still locked. 

"Is there a neighbor who can run a hammer and flathead screwdriver over to you?" (we were back to the hinges idea)

"..Yes!! My phone is dying! BYE!"

I called my cute neighbor Kelsi. 

"Are you home?!"

She was. I explained the situation and asked her to meet me at my window.

A few minutes later I heard panting.

"ALLIE! I ran here as fast as I could."

Normally, I would have been embarrassed at her seeing me in the state I was in. I had fallen asleep with my hair wet the night before (if you are a girl you know this is a mistake), and also had yet to change out of my pajamas for the day, or put on a bra, or even try to look remotely like a human being who had just smidgen of her life put together. But I was 100% pure hot mess. Like, actually hot. I was sweating from all of the stress, pacing, and hard labor of not unlocking this stupid, stupid door. I digress.

Kelsi arrived, and instead of being worried about her seeing me in the awful state I was in, I practically praised the heavens that she got there so fast. In her own words, "You were literally trapped and I climbed through the window with the-night-before mascara rubbed all around my eyes and out of breath from running holding tools I've never even used before."

Guys, get a neighbor like her. She's the best.

Along with the tools she had never used before (really, Kelsi? A hammer? A flathead screwdriver? WHO ARE YOU) she also brought one of those tiny pin-keys that are meant for this kind of situation. You know the ones, usually left on the top of the door frame so that should you ever be in a predicament where your three year old locks you in a room, you don't have to consider how expensive it would be to replace your teeth after you're done gnawing through the door. 

She gave it to me and I fumbled for a few minutes. 

Nobody ever hire me to commit a crime that requires me to break into anywhere because we will get caught and go to jail.

I passed the key over to Kelsi, and after a minute or so of finagling, the handle turned. It was the sweetest sight I ever did see.

"FREEDOM!!!" -Kelsi (lol, guys- she was so happy for me. seriously GET A COOL NEIGHBOR. they make these stories even better.)

And that is how the story ends. Kelsi went home a hero, and I hugged my children like we had survived being trapped in a dungeon with ravenous serial-killer cannibals. And we all lived to see the light of another day. 

Another day in the life. I need to blog more.

Friday, February 17, 2017

p-p-p-parenthooood

I know that most of these thoughts probably aren't original. SUE ME. (don't sue me. I can't afford that right now, and frankly if you're suing me for not having original thoughts about parenting then YOU ARE THE WORST.)

I apologize in advance that I never post pictures and also that this is just mumbo-jumbo. Also I'm sorry that I just said mumbo-jumbo, because that hasn't been socially acceptable since 1492.

+ You know that whole "I don't have a favorite child" nonsense? That's the world's biggest lie, second only to, "of course I don't pee in the shower". I mean, I don't wake up every day thinking, "Well, it really sucks to be Jameson today because he is not my favorite!" but occasionally halfway through the day when he touches his junk and then puts his nasty unwashed hands on my food, I look at my daughter and praise the heavens that she isn't that gross (yet).

To be fair, the whole "favorite child" thing is switching constantly. It's not set in stone. Which I guess is why people can't say they have a favorite. It's not because there isn't one - there is always one. It is because the award for golden child is switching so frequently, nobody can even keep track. I only have two kids, and unless one of them is being a terrorist, I forget who is at the top of the list.

+ While we are on the topic of favoring children, I also have hit this point where I am realizing that my kids aren't always the cutest. It's terrible. You know if you have children, you've looked at other babies and kids the same age as yours and thought, "my kids are way cuter". It's a natural parent thing to do, and that's fine. I usually think my kids are cuter.

That isn't to say my kids are photogenic. OH, they are the worst when they are newborns. I swear Jameson was a cute newborn, but half of my photos make him look like baby Squidward. And Charlotte, she was a really cute newborn, but sometimes I look at pictures and wonder if the thing that I am seeing is even human. I have a few photos of her that look like they could be the offspring of the alien in Men In Black after he puts on the farmers skin. MORE SUGAR WATER.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is my kids are getting less cute. I'm pretty sure Charlotte peaked at 6 months old, which is really a tragedy. Every human hits an awkward stage in life where they aren't cute for a few years. I think Charlie girl just hit hers about 13 years too early. Don't get me wrong, she is still adorable (to me), but with her hillbilly mullet and her crooked front teeth that would put a beaver's to shame, she is really struggling to keep up with Gerber status. We love her anyway. Maybe when her front teeth come all the way in they will straighten out and shrink two sizes. Or she'll just have snaggle-teeth and a mullet for life, because it's hilarious.

+ Feeding kids is the worst. THE WORST. If you have children, you get it. You spend forever making a gourmet meal (most likely 30 second microwaved chicken nuggets straight from the freezer), only for them to throw it on the floor and eat the EXACT SAME THING off of your plate. Or they just refuse it entirely.

It's moments like those when my kids tell me they don't like something where I think, "Really? You suddenly hate pb&j? That's weird, because I'm pretty sure two seconds ago I watched you pick your nose and eat it, and your sister is literally eating a used q-tip out of the bathroom garbage right now and somehow both of you are refusing real food. WHAT IS MY LIFE?!"

And it is at this moment that I am finally realizing why my husband still makes fun of me for trying to feed a two-year-old filet mignon.





hhhhhhhhhhhnj

^^ well m , b bv the kids found me....

so adios

    u

Friday, February 3, 2017

to the lady who judged me:

This post was originally written in March of 2015. Making Jameson about 18 months. (for those of you who can't do math and need it put into a measurement that makes sense, that means he's just over 78 weeks old. a prime time in his toddlerhood.)

To be fair, I am still the same type of parent now that I was then. 

original post:

I'm not a bad mother. That doesn't always mean I'm the best mother... just that I'm not the worst.



I was getting the car packed up to leave today, and as any mother knows... sometimes you have more things to carry than you have arms for. If my child is one of those things, then I have him walk with me to the car. He is able and willing, and if it saves me a few trips back and forth I am all for it!

As I was putting a few bags in the car, I noticed my son was wandering about 25 feet away from where I was standing. I wasn't worried about it. (I mean, let's be real. I survived losing him in Costco so 25 feet away in plain sight is fine by me.) Just then, I saw a stranger slow down their car. She stopped, pointed at my son and said something probably about my parenting skills, then gave me a disapproving look and shook her head. And then she drove away. The message she was sending was clear.

There are few times I have ever felt so judged. I wanted to go full-Hulk on her and rip her to shreds. Didn't your parents ever teach you it's rude to point?!
Don't look at me like that.
DON'T shake your head.
"GTFO!" (but really.)

So there I was, with my son still 25 feet away, and I thought, maybe I really need to evaluate my parenting style. If a total stranger thinks I'm a bad mother... what do my neighbors think?! What does my family think?! Oh. My son is now 40 feet away. I should probably go get him before an angry mob of strangers comes to point their fingers and shake their heads.

So I stuffed my son in the trunk and told him to sit tight while I re-evaluated my life.
..because that is the kind of disapproving look that lady gave me.

Listen lady. I'm not a bad mother.

I don't abuse my son in any way.
I don't neglect him.
I don't feed my him big bowls of sauerkraut! Every single morning! (it was driving me CRAZY! I said to my mom, I said... hey mom...)

That being said. I am far, FAR from perfect. And sometimes I don't even feel bad about it. I openly admit I am a culprit of bad parenting on a daily basis.

My son just might experience severe hearing loss by the time he is 5 due to the fact that I blast Taylor Swift any time we are driving in the car. Is that the best thing for my son? No. But I do it anyway. That doesn't make me a bad mother.

I have days where neither of us change out of our jammies until dinner time. Some say that's unacceptable. I say it's an all-day pajama party. Who doesn't love pajama parties?

I make him watch Lord of the Rings. It's rated PG-13. And unless something strange happened while he was napping, I'm quite certain he is not yet 13. But he's seen it. And he likes it. And that's okay by me.

I use every ounce of strength I have to pin all of his limbs to the ground when changing his diaper. He screams like a banshee. Torture? Uhh, yeah. For ME. You go change his diaper. I'd like to see you do it without using both of your arms and legs. Level 2 is getting his clothes back on before he escapes. (but sometimes I let him escape on purpose, because what is cuter than a baby running away with no pants on?)



addition:

so, reading this is a little bit hilarious because few things have changed.

I was telling my dad earlier today about the time Jameson (when he was around the same age as the original post) climbed into the large basket part of my grocery cart and started hucking cans of food at an old lady in the same isle as us.

Not that that makes me a bad parent at all... but it's sad and hilarious at the same time.

On a more related note, just a few months ago I lost my son in Target. LOST him. As in, I actually started panicking. I was literally running through every isle to try to find him. I won't tell you how long it took me, but eventually I found a swarm of ladies circling around something. Unless Target started a women's fight club in isle 17, my son is probably in the middle of that circle.

I reached the circle, completely out of breath and a woman looked at me. Completely disregarding the fact that I had obviously been running around the store and could barely breathe, she said, "Oh, THERE you are! I was about to go get security!!"

OKAY. I get it. I'm a terrible person. Now please, hand over my son so I can go cry in the bathroom while he drinks water from the toilet.

As soon as he spotted me, Jamey dashed away laughing. The lady who so lovingly judged me tried to run after him, but she was unaware that my son is 1/80 cheetah and can outrun every judgmental person on the planet. He fell, and as she reached to grab him, he turned and yelled,

"NO! STOP! You don't touch me!!" (waving a very angry finger at her)

I wanted to turn and yell, "Yeah! you hear that?! Don't touch my son or I'll be the one calling security, mean lady!" but instead I thanked her, picked up my son and left.

Parenting in public is so fun. You guys should all have kids and take them to the store.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

guess who's back, snitches?



new blog posts. dropping sometime in 2017.


in the mean time, look at pictures of stuff I never wrote about!













Tuesday, September 27, 2016

thanks for playing, try again

I swear my intentions are never bad. I mean, as long as we're not talking about the time my friend Ally & I made up a club called the EAK -evil alysa killers- and started making her beauty products out of bad perfume, velveeta cheese & all other things horrific.  Or the time Haley & I hacked into another girl's MySpace account and made it look like she was in love/obsessed with a boy that I liked so he would stop talking to her. These happened in my adolescent years, and when it came to "good intentions", my track record wasn't great. I'd like to think I've moved past that.


I try to be a good wife. You know, things like keeping my word when I say I won't watch another episode of Master Chef without The Hubs (ew. who says that? oh, that's right-- me), or shaving my legs for date night. Occasionally I even go as far as to make him lunch to take to work. Usually this consists of leftovers of whatever we had for dinner the night before.

We had spaghetti for dinner. I was exhausted, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend any more time in the kitchen than I had to. I told myself as long as I got lunch packed for Taylor, I could go to bed and finish the dishes the next day. 

The next day came. Not that I can remember, but I'm 99% sure the dishes weren't touched. Because who wants to touch day-old dishes when you can leave them in the sink for a week until your husband cracks and cleans the whole house? I really am a stellar wife. Taylor came home after school  (night classes) and mentioned he was starving.

"Did I not pack you enough food?" I asked, slightly panicked. 

"Oh, no... you did." he laughed.

I had packed plenty of spaghetti noodles. I just forgot the sauce. Apparently, when there is no sauce or liquid added to pasta when you reheat it, it hardens right back up. I don't know what was funnier to me-- the fact that he heated it up anyway, or that he ate nearly half a bowl of dry, plain noodles before calling it quits. That's true love.

I had this moment of NOOOOO. You know, like in the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, where Boromir finally gets his shiz together and starts fighting, and then BOOM.


It's like the universe's way of saying, "Thanks for playing, Boromir. Try again." And he DOES.  He keeps fighting, with an arrow in him. Because Boromir is B freakin A. 

The moment I realized I had forgotten the sauce was my first arrow. But I would do anything to work on set with Viggo Mortensen, so you know, I gotta keep fighting until he comes to kiss my forehead when I die. 

I had a moment today when I decided to keep fighting. Ironically, we had spaghetti for dinner. I am just now realizing that and am blown away. IT'S A SIGN.

So there we are, at the dinner table eating spaghetti. Spaghetti. Both times! I can't get over this, you guys. Jameson was practicing his audition for the scene in "A Christmas Story" where the little boy eats like a pig. He was doing a marvelous job, but Taylor was unimpressed. 

"Jameson" he simply said.

For whatever reason, the mention of his name made him stop eating. He looked up, and began wailing. WAILING. 

"Bud, bud, it's okay! you're not in trouble!" I tried to reassure him. 

It was then I remembered we still had the TV on, with some foreign show about horses Jamey had picked on Amazon Prime. I waited for a scene that showed horses, and made my move.

"Jamey, look!"

I directed his attention to the TV, and was reminded that foreign shows are weird as the scene cut to a couple of horses mating. 

"No! Wait! Don't look!"

I had this flashback to the time I turned on a documentary about animals for him, and fast-forwarded to the cow part. (Cows are his favorite animal.) This also happened to be a foreign film. I didn't know it at the time, but it was about animal cruelty. We have a gift for picking top-notch foreign films about animals. We sat and watched a beautiful panorama of cows grazing in a field, when suddenly a guy with a machete enters the scene and starts a cow massacre. 

Because I was so consumed in this flashback of the 4629847 time I ruined my son's life, I have absolutely no recollection as to how he reacted to seeing his second favorite animal mating on screen. 

My intentions were pure. I was trying to cheer him up. But pure as my intentions were, I was hit with my second arrow. (In reality it's probably my seventeenth arrow, but for the sake of this post, it's two). 

One more arrow, Viggo. I'll be waiting.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Walmart is the worst.

"You're on the market for a new dishwasher? Don't even bother going to [insert dishwasher store here]. I have a guy, I'll hook you up."


"You have a dishwasher guy?"

- ^^ not a real conversation. ^^ -

Are there actually people out there who "have a guy"? I mean, is that actually a thing that is happening in the world? I'm pretty sure I've seen it on one of my Netflix shows. I mean, just the one time I turned on Netflix for a half second. We all know I'm way above spending 4 hours a day staring at a screen while my children eat paper and week-old crumbs off the ground.

I need a guy. 

I mean, I have a guy. He's my husband. What I need are shelves. (Floating shelves.) Is there such a thing as a shelf guy? Does anyone have one of those? Help a sista out.

I thought I could make my own shelves. But then I remembered that time 3 years ago when I started refinishing a table, and how it's still sitting in my in-law's shed. These shelves need to get put up like, yesterday. This is where my shelf guy would come in handy.

Going to the store with Jameson is hard. For some reason, though, I always take him with me. It's like the whole bit about getting pregnant a second time. You're thinking, pregnancy wasn't that bad, and nine months flies by! I could totally do this while taking care of a demon toddler.

Then, the second you get pregnant you're thinking, WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS?! as you're barfing up the Cafe Rio burrito you just scarfed while your toddler is trying to push you out of the way so he can have a turn "coughing" into the toilet. 

Just like when I got pregnant, each time I take Jamey to the store I vow to myself NEVER AGAIN.

I took him to the store today.

I took him to Walmart.

I thought it would be a good trip. We were off to a great start. I grabbed a cart, and the first thing I noticed: NO HAIRBALL WHEELS!

Don't act like you have no clue what I'm talking about. It's a Walmart thing. There is this unwritten rule among the wheels of all the carts that they have to snatch up as much hair as possible, and let it wind around and around until a nice little hairball starts to take form. This hairball makes the wheel defective, so your cart is always veering one way or the other, and you've got to use your super-strength to keep from looking like a crazy person who has never steered a hairball cart before.

My cart didn't have any hairballs-- I checked. Every single wheel was clear. It was a Christmas miracle. I thought to myself, Nothing can stop me today! and then realized how much that didn't matter because it was 8:00PM and I was about to go home and go to bed.

I waltzed into the store, confident that I would find exactly what I was looking for. I mean, no hairball wheels. It had to be some sort of premonition. 

But like any trip to Walmart, I walked around for about 15 minutes trying to dodge sketchy fat people wearing leggings while seeking out my floating shelves. 

I was unsuccessful. In the finding of floating shelves, I mean.

I decided it was in my best interest to ask an employee for help.

"Hi, um excuse me"

She stopped.

"Do you by chance know where I could find shelves? Preferably floating shelves."

She looked at me, and snorted.

"Floating shelves?! I suppose you expect me to find you a flying pig, too!" and she walked away.


Since that moment, the only thing on my mind have been these two dogs.






You guys, Walmart really is the worst.