Own It!

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Image credit: pixabay.com

I just saw a woman with the sexiest walk ever.  The kind of walk that stops traffic, which is literally what happened.  She very nearly caused an accident.

I want that walk.  I need it.  Now that I’ve seen it and know it exists, I need to find a way to own it.  Which is why instead of being quick about picking up the few grocery items that I need tonight, I am prepared to sashay slowly through the produce department until either my hips give out, or someone drops their apples.  Whichever comes first.

 

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Originally published on July 23, 2015 by Motherhood Made Me Do It

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This Is What We Do For Fun Around Here

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Last year our dishwasher died.  It was a very long, drawn out and dramatic death, likely brought on by lack of love and attention (we failed to notice that it was leaking, and in dishwasher-land, apparently that’s a bad thing).  When my husband and I finally realized what was happening, we had no choice but to drop everything and spend the day frantically shopping for a new one (if you have kids, shopping for a dishwasher counts as “date night”, so we made sure to wear our fancy clothes).

We took our time, strolling hand in hand through one store after another (most of which, to be honest, didn’t even sell dishwashers).  We were starved for some proper adult time, and it would seem that this was quickly becoming our version of a night on the town.  Seven stores and several cups of coffee later, we finally found the dishwasher of our dreams.  I think I may have even whispered, “It’s just so dreamy!!!”  My husband and I haggled over the price, using our best haggling voices and wiggling eyebrows, but that got us absolutely nowhere, so we gave up and bought the dishwasher anyway.  Not one of our proudest moments, but remember, we were in our fancy clothes, so at least we looked fabulous while trying.

The new dishwasher was delivered a few days later.  The kids and I gathered excitedly in the kitchen, waiting for something magical to happen.  We giggled and fell over each other, clambering for the best spot.  It was around the time when the installation guy began to unhook all the wires under the old dishwasher that my oldest son turned to me and whispered, “I’d like to give that guy a quick hug….before disappears into the dishwasher forever.”  Startled, my thoughts scattered and tripped over one another, searching desperately for some sliver of parenting advice on how to proceed.  Was I supposed to address the super obvious “We Don’t Hug Strangers” aspect of the situation?  But what about the “That’s the Freakiest Fucking Thing my Kid has Ever Said to Me” side of things?  It was confusing, but I finally decided that, “Let’s settle for a high five, and wish him luck, okay?” was the appropriate compromise.

In the end, the installation guy survived, my son got his high five, and I got my dreamy new dishwasher.  Life has quieted down since then, but I find myself eyeing the oven every now and then.  It hasn’t been pulling its weight lately, and I could really use another excuse to put on my fancy clothes.

 

I’m Terrible With Names

Every Monday for the last six months, Emma and I have done our grocery shopping at Loblaws. We always go through the same checkout, with the same cashier. Her name is probably Lynn, but it could just as easily be Margaret (my memory is sketchy on a good day). Today, as I was putting my groceries on the conveyor belt, Lynn (or Margaret) looked up and gave me a great big smile. “I was just asking Charlene about you!” she said. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Have you been working?”
My brain, which had been skipping merrily along towards Small Talk Land, pulled up short. I had no idea what she was talking about. Who was Charlene? Had I started a new job? What the hell had What’s-Her-Name and I been talking about last Monday?!
“I don’t think… I haven’t… I mean, maybe, right?” I stammered, trying to stop my face from scrunching up in confusion.
She tilted her head slightly and stared quizzically at me as I busied myself with the potatoes.
“Well, it has been a long week,” I said, trying to redeem myself. Then I sighed. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what’s happening.”
The cashier forced a laugh, then stopped making eye contact. Suddenly we both became very focused on sorting and bagging the food. Never has there been a more proficient bagging team.
Clearly, it’s now time to switch grocery stores. Forever.

Shopping For Prison Shoes

The other day I was shopping for shoes with the boys. After picking out shoes for them, I tried some on for myself. I slipped on a cute pair of cream coloured sandals, then spent some time twisting, twirling and admiring them in the mirror. Gabriel was oohing and ahhing, so Isaac came up beside me to see what all the fuss was about.

 “Hmmm,” he said. “Those would look great on you in prison.”

 I paused, mid spin. A young sales associate was making her way up the isle towards us at that very moment, and she paused too. Our eyes met, and she quickly looked down, busying herself with her pockets as she slowly began inching away.

 I grinned and picked up a pair of the same pair of sandals, but in black.

 “Would these be a good pair of prison shoes too?” I asked with a wink.

 “YES!” he exclaimed.

 “Then I’ll take both!”

 The sales associate vanished. I have no doubt that the store now has my picture on file, tucked safely away with all the other sketchy characters that they keep track of.

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