Misogyny and Goldfish Crackers

Today was a little unusual in that I was practically bouncing off the walls, wanting to get out of the house.

I am usually highly content to stay at home. Preferably in bed.

I showered early and put on my face. I dressed in something other than drawstring pajama pants. I actually put on a bra. I meant business; I was going out.

But it was pouring rain.

I have noticed that since I moved to the south, I've become a serious weather wimp. Rain, as well as any temperature below 50 degrees, adversely hinders my daily activities.

So, I waited.

And waited.

The rain finally let up after Maggie's afternoon nap. This didn't leave me enough time to head to Daytona Beach and back before the boys returned home from school.

I settled for Super Target.

For the sake of my sanity, Super Target is now my go-to store for just about everything. Walmart isn't even in my vocabulary, unless I am using it as an example of all that is wrong in the world. That, and Suntrust Bank.

For the most part, our Target visits are pretty uneventful. I have, however had a disproportionate amount of weirdness occur in the check out lanes.

(If you would like your memory refreshed about the time where the cashier implied that I was an complete and utter slob, you can read this.)

I recently dragged Calvin with me on a grocery run. The extra set of hands really helps sometimes.

He had protested wildly about being torn away from Facebook chat. But I put my foot down and insisted.

Along with the dinner items gathered during this particular shopping trip, I threw in a bottle of wine. The wine ended up being the source of contention in the check out lane.

"Can I see your I.D.'s," the cashier asked. I reached in to pull out my driver's license. "His, too," she added.

"You need to see his I.D., too," I asked, incredulously.

She nodded.

"He's fourteen," I exclaimed. "He doesn't even own an I.D.! He just came along to help me get groceries," I said.

I thought about how had begged for everything he laid his eyes upon, from sweaters to hair products, and seriously regretted my decision to bring him along.

"I'm sorry, I can't sell this to you, then," she said as she put the wine behind the counter.

"You're kidding."

"I'm sorry," she said. Obviously she was not.

I was burning up the cell phone lines complaining to my husband before I exited the store.

"Why didn't you ask for a manager," asked Chris.

"I didn't think of it at the moment," I said.

I am not one of those people who has a quick mind to know what to say and do in weird situations. I wish I knew what to say, but I just don't. I just look dumbly complacent and push-over-ish.

I usually think of something pretty good about ten minutes later later. Some people respond slowly to green lights; I respond slowly to stupid comments and situations. I suppose these differences are what make the world go round.

Today was another weird day at Target.

I made a circle through the accessories and shoes to see what was on sale. I rounded the bend through the 75% off clothing rack first, then proceeded to the 50% displays.

I threw a pair of jeans in the cart to try on. They were $6.48. If they fit, they would be a super deal and I would feel like SUCH a winner.

I should have noted the attached tag which read that the fit was "slim through hips and thighs."

I am more of a "weekend jean" or "relaxed fit" jean type of gal, if you know what I mean.

For good measure, I threw in a sweater.

I pulled the cart up to try the clothes on. "You can't take the cart in," said the woman at the counter.

Complacently, I unsnapped Maggie from the cart seat and took her in with me.

I stood in the depressingly unflattering light in my bra and underwear feeling like a jiggly lump. I tried desperately to pull the jeans above my hips. The seams screamed and threatened to rip. I gave up.

Obviously mis-sized. I swear that always happens to me.

Meanwhile, Maggie had taken off her shoes and socks. She climbed up on the bench and threw about the contents of my purse. She took off her shoes and banged on the walls. I gave her the "item number" to play with. As we left, she refused to give it back to the Target employee.

The shopping trip was uneventful thanks to Goldfish crackers. Each time she opened her mouth, I put another one in. Goldfish are brilliant that way.

I loaded my purchases onto the conveyor belt and prayed that Maggie's good mood would hold out. She grinned, made silly faces at the people around her and shoved Goldfish in her mouth by the fist full.

"Momma," she said, mouth full of Goldfish.

"Just a minute, Maggie," I replied.

"Momma?"

"Hang on, sweetie."

"Momma, momma, momma, mom, mom mom? Momma?"

I laughed a little bit to the cashier as I threw the last bag in the cart, then took my receipt.

"She has that word down," I said. Har, har, har.

"Just wait," said the cashier, a tall fellow who appeared to be a little older than I.

"Just wait until she says the "W" word, or the "N" word," he said. Then laughed.

Delayed response time.

Wait a minute....

The W word? The N word? It took a moment for my brain to register.

I say dumb things a lot to cashiers and cashiers have said dumb things to me. Usually Chris is usually with me and we mock them as we leave the store. But that comment had to take the cake as the dumbest and most inappropriate.

I find it interesting that it wasn't the neutral, more socially acceptable "D" word. Or even the slightly more inflammatory "S" word. Instead, it was the racially disastrous "N" word, and the misogynistic "W" word. Who was this guy?

As I thought about it, I wanted to march back up to his lane, stick my finger in his face and say , "She won't say those words, like ever! Not even part of our family's vocabulary. So suck it, WEIRDO."

On my way home, I accidentally ran over the tail of a dead armadillo which made me a little sad. They are sort of cute, in a rodent-ish type of way.

As I pulled in the driveway, I noticed a (unused) tampon on the side of the driveway. I had first noticed it yesterday and thought it was a receipt or gum wrapper ~ you know, items that regularly fall or fly out of our car when we open the doors.

Rather, it was a tampon. And it had been sitting out there for over 24 hours. I looked to make sure no one was looking as I picked it up and tossed it into the garbage can.

I am back in my pajama pants again.

The forty five minutes I was out of the house has emotionally wiped me out. I am a little thankful that I didn't venture all the way to Daytona Beach.

Daytona Beach is only twenty minutes away, but still.

I am confident that my fellow moms will understand. Completely confident.