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reason #21485 to boycott walmart

Yesterday I decided I needed more bread pudding. Yes, more.

I needed vanilla extract, so while I was at Walmart returning movies (redboxxxx!) I popped into the market section and headed straight for the baking aisle.

I walked up the baking aisle, looking left, looking right. I couldn't find it. Surely I was mistaken! It should be in the baking aisle. I walked the length of it again. Still nothing, but where else would they keep it? Looking anywhere else seemed ludicrous. After a third pass, still no vanilla extract.

So I left the aisle, thinking I'd go pick a few more things - you evil bastard, Walmart, I only came in for one thing! and I'm late to pick up my baby! - and come back with a fresh eye. Maybe I was staring right at it, like the mustard in the fridge you stare at and completely miss.

A fourth pass. STILL NO EXTRACT. Of any kind. I would've settled for Almond if they'd had it. I stop an employee who looked friendly enough.

ME: "Hi, can you please tell me where the vanilla extract is? I've looked up and down this aisle four times. It doesn't seem to be here."

FRIENDLY ENOUGH: "Oh, it's here. This is the baking aisle. Let me see."

Friendly Enough walks up and down the aisle a couple times. I lazily scan my eyes because I'm tired of looking for something that isn't there.

FRIENDLY: "Hmm, let me call somebody." She clicks on her walkie-talkie and asks where the vanilla extract is.

ANNOYED VOICE: "It should be in the baking aisle. With, like, the other extracts?" Indeed, ALL the extracts were missing.

FRIENDLY: "It's not. Me and this customer've been looking for it awhile; its not here."

ANNOYED: "Okaaaaaaay...? Let me ask someone else."

Friendly motions for me to follow her down the aisle towards a tiny, lost-looking employee, whom she identifies as a stocker.

FRIENDLY: "Hey, so-n-so! Any idea where the vanilla extract is?"

LOST STOCKER: "It should be in the baking aisle." YES. IT SHOULD BE.

At this point my brain starts to leak out of my ears. I venture out on my own to check out the nearby aisles AGAIN. When I'm good and sure it's not anywhere, I swing back by Friendly to tell her nevermind; she's still looking, has Annoyed on the walkie-talkie, Lost Stocker and Another Idiot Employee has joined the Vanilla Extract Non-Locating Team.

ANNOYED: "It should be there! We don't know. Did y'all check the other aisles?"

ME: "YES. YES, I DID."

FRIENDLY: "Yes, we did." She takes her finger off the talkie and says, without a hint of intended humor, "Maybe there's a vanilla extract shortage." Then my veins popped from the pressure of intense stupidity and I died right there.

ME: "Thanks for your help, but I'm done. I have to go."

I made my way to the closest check-out line. When it was my turn I couldn't help myself.

ME: "You know, I just spent 25 minutes looking for the vanilla extract. Maybe you could mention to your manager that it's not where it should be."

CONFUSED CLERK: "Well...it should be in the baking aisle...?"

ME: "Yes, you'd think so. IT. IS. NOT."

CONFUSED: "Oh...ok...sorry..." Blah blah blaahhhhh. MAD.

So mad, in fact, that it took who-knows-how-many employees and who-knows-how-many-laps and STILL I didn't have the one thing I came for (but still managed to spend $11.42) and was now thirty minutes late to pick up my baby who I hadn't seen in eight hours, I called the number on the receipt.

ME: "Hi. I just spent almost thirty minutes in your store looking for the vanilla extract. In fact, it's the only thing I came for. Since I couldn't find it, even with a handful of your employees helping me, I was wondering if you could tell me where it is? Because I still need it."

IDIOT NUMBER TEN: "It should be in the baking aisle."

ME: "It's not in the baking aisle, OK? IT'S NOT. Can you please ask a manager or something? We didn't spend thirty minutes looking for something that was where it should be!!!"

TEN: "Can you hold? I'll talk to a manager." So I wait several minutes on hold.

IDIOT # EFFING ELEVEN: "Hello? Can I help you?"

ME: "Yeah, uh, did the girl before tell you why I'm calling?"

ELEVEN: "You couldn't find the vanilla extract? It should be in the baking aisle."

At which point Eleven was saved an ass-ripping like no other, because my phone dropped the call.

THE END.

Meet the Horses! Vol.1

So I thought you'd like to meet the darlings I take care of every day. I wish I could say I loved them equally, like every mother should, but I don't. Maybe because I'm not their mother, though I certainly see them more than their mothers do.

This is Velvet Illusion, a.ka. Velvet:

She is absolutely the favorite of all employees, and pretty much every female to come through the barn. She's a fairy tale horse, the one every little girl dreams about. She's huge and lovely. Velvet is a Friesian/Percheron cross, so she has a very smooth gait and long hair around her "ankles." Her long, gorgeous mane is braided so it doesn't turn into dredlocks. She's only four years old and very inexperienced. Like every black horse that spends time in the sun, she turns a bit brown. She actually has terrible manners but no one cares, the spoiled brat. Here she is giving kisses, which she'll always do if asked:

This is Beau:

Clearly this is not a good angle for Beau, who is our big gay cheerleader. A sirly one, with a lazy streak - cheerleading to keep the scholarship. Huge, athletic, and always clean. He usually greets us with his ears pinned back, which is just rude. His registered name is Beautiful Mind, which...no. Mostly he's harmless. He has lazy feet; it sounds like he's about to trip and fall with every step. He's the biggest horse in the barn and becomes crazy in the cold weather, though that could be said of most of them.

Except, perhaps, for level-headed Jeno:

Jeno, a.k.a. Bubba, has an enormous head. If Beau is the gay male cheerleader, Jeno is the dumb but even-tempered linebacker. The last manager at the stable sequestered Jeno whenever she let him out because he loves to fight. He lures horses over to him with a sweet expression and a soft nicker, but within seconds they are snapping teeth. His foot's been caught in the electric wire fence several times because of his antics. For some reason, I refuse to separate him. Today I found evidence (scabs on his cheek) that he's been getting his ass handed to him (as much as you can get your ass handed to you over a fence) by none other than...

Baron, The Imp:

His impishness is seriously in question now, what with all the Smackdown. The ears, though, are so cute and pointy that it's hard to take him seriously. Baron regularly takes mid-morning naps, which of course I interrupted with my picture-taking because SHE MIGHT HAVE FOOD OMGGGG I BETTER GET UP!! He came from California and had issues with our hay at first, but I was having none of his high-maintenance ways. NO SPECIAL ORDERS.

See? Doesn't he have an impish face? I can't believe I didn't get him in his fly mask, because he looks like the biggest dork on the planet. Next time. (I guess I should clarify for you non-horsey folks that by "fly" I do not mean "bangin'," or "sexy." I mean flies. The ones that swarm shit.)

This is Andre, who is freaking the eff out about the camera flash:

Which didn't stop me from snapping away. All those spots you see are the dust he raised while circling and spazzing. Andre is a Saddlebred (read: a little schizo) which are the kind that snap their knees up really high when gaiting, which is basically trotting. They're usually quite spirited. He's actually a great horse, one of the lesson horses who belongs to the stable (a "school" horse). Aren't you learning so MUCH? Andre doesn't do any of that high-steppin' shit anymore, and I know he's glad about it.

This is another school horse, Anita:

Are you starting to think they all look alike? You betcha. Just spend a few weeks and they'll look as different as me and Gary Coleman.

This horse just sucks. Sorry, but she does. She is bona fide crazy. And a cow, apparently - again with a terrible picture. She can't take a good picture, however, because her confirmation is terrible and she'd never stand still. She's thrown so many people she's on sabbatical. She gets sick all the time so they put her on steroids, which she rarely eats, so she gets skinny, so they feed her more, so she has more energy to spook at clouds or grass twitching, resulting in a tornado of terror for the barn employees. But she licks the barn cat, Lily, which is adorable. Adorable and CRAZY.

This is H.B., one of the two quarterhorses in the barn:

What does H.B. stand for? I'm sure you're dying to know. His mama had a difficult pregnancy so they put her on all these herbs and out popped a healthy little horsey. They named him Herb Baby. He is ridiculously soft and is like that friend who never has any bright ideas about what to do on Saturday night, but will go along with whatever you have in mind.

Here's his "brother" Doc (they're owned by the same people):

Doc is an absolute mess. He's a stall-wrecker. He's always got something to say about the goings-on in the barn. He's ugly as shit in the winter because he grows these gangly white hairs all over. He's rude when you try to put the halter on, too. Not a fan.

Petey! This is Pete the Pony:

Pete is the third of three school horses. This picture does not do his perfectly round-bellied pony body, or the lusciousness of his long mane, which we refuse to trim. He's the only one who isn't blanketed in the cold because he grows the most amazing shaggy coat. Pete's so freakin' cute in the winter you just want to put him in your pocket. Here he's pictured licking the grain-infused slobber from another horse's stall. For some reason many of the horses put their mouths on the metal bars when they have a mouth full of food. So odd, so gross. This shall be Sasha's steed when she's old enough to ride. (But don't think I haven't put her on his back many times. She laughs and laughs! Very (financially) dangerous of me. Once you get a taste...)

Thus marks the end of Vol. 1. Stay tuned!

filling space

Things i'd like to say to certain people:
Your cleavage bothers me.
Stop texting me these things.
I wish I had your phone number, but it's best I don't.
You had such potential as a friend.
Those jeans belong in the trash.
Your attitude sucks.
I can see why everyone falls in love with you, but consider me fallen out.
You're not as funny as you think you are.
You're so much funnier than you think you are.
You need help.
I wish you needed my help.
Can I go shopping yet?

Popular things I just don't appreciate:
Paula Abdul
Miley Cyrus (but I did like that one song...don't ask me to sing it)
Lady Gaga's whole schtick
98% of country music (the storytelling. it's just so...literal)
myspace
blue tooth
Law & Order (it jerks around the same way every episode...formulaic...can always tell who did it - just look for the person they slip into the story that seems to hold no real importance)
Apple computers
high heels (at least on me)
cats as pets (SO ANTISOCIAL. except in the obscenely early hours when you least want to hear from them. and totally unappreciative. no sense of loyalty. oh lordy i'm gonna get shit for this one.)
dogs as pets (WHATT???? gabby! shocking, i know. I'm just sooooo loving life without that responsibility. it's like having grandkids when i see other peoples' dogs...all the lovin' i can stand, none of the take-home)
men's cologne (hate. just...hate.)

what don't you appreciate?

I promise it's not cocaine

Some things about nearly-2-year-olds (most of which I doubt will change...ever?):

They like candy and will do anything for it, including shut the freak up already at a restaurant.

You can't ask them to get their shoes unless you are absolutely ready to go, or they will drive you nuts.

You can't do ANYTHING without them under foot.

No matter how many times they are careful in front of you, they seem to forget when not in sight.

Though they used to eat anything you put in front of them, suddenly they like mac n' cheese, cheese pizza, mac n' cheese, and cheese pizza. Anything with cheese, basically, including an entire container of strawberry cream cheese if left unattended. Do not plan on them eating one bite of three-course meal you slaved over.

They like water. Water, water, WATER! Ohmygod ohmygod MUST TOUCH THE WATER AND KEEP TOUCHING UNTIL SOAKED.

Mmmmmedicine! Like candy!

Genitalia is very interesting...and not just their own.

They will taste things just to test you, even if it's disgusting.

They won't help you find your keys, so don't bother asking.

They will find a two-week-old french fry in the backseat of the car, eat it, and choke on it.

They exhibit no fear. None at all. They leave that to the parents.

Falling down only hurts when you are around.

A simple "no" sounds to them like "NO! NO WAY! You are a bad child and I'll never let you do anything again!"

They are absolutely adorable and make up for everything with slobbery kisses.

sweet, sweet home

Finally.

I no longer have to use the "Apt" box when filling out forms on...well, anything.

I no longer have to worry if I'm going to bang my car door into my neighbor's when I'm pulling a squirmy toddler out of the car.

I no longer have to do the Duck Shit Swerve when walking outside with Sasha.

I no longer have to walk further than 20 feet to do my laundry.

I now have a guest bedroom. WITH A BATHROOM. ON A SEPARATE FLOOR. Come, guests. COOOOOOOME.

I now have a garage. It's like a walk-in, double-wide, of-Kimora-Lee-Simmons-standards-sized storage closet! (ok, the floor is crappy concrete that I can tell is impossible to keep clean. Whatevs. Can't have it all.)

I now have a yard. And I mean, a yard.

I now have horses across the road and horses in my backyard.

Hello, Zen. You're a little battered but mostly charming.

garage sale bandit

Saturday morning I didn't have to work. Usually when I'm off Sassy and I go on some kind of mission just to get her out of the house - the playground, the store, the mall - and that day our mission was a new stroller, one that she could fit in without sitting sideways. I began my search for the cheapest one possible without being the crappiest one possible (I'm pretty sure that's always my shopping M.O.). After reading some dismal reviews on the Toys R*Us website, I decided to look on craigslist.

The second thing on the page said POWER WHEELS - $40. All plans for a new stroller evaporated.

Micah's been trying to convince me for months that Sassy needs a car. The type that can't go very fast, but fast enough for me to break a sweat thinking of my baby plowing away from me in a motorized vehicle. I mean, I think can run faster than it, but who knows?

I knew Micah wouldn't be mad if I pursued this. I called the number and it was still there. The owners of this Jeep (Barbie!) had turned their many craigslist postings into a garage sale. They lived about fifteen minutes away, and yes, the Jeep was still there. The power wheels Barbie Jeep for FORTY DOLLARS. Of course, I had just put our pizza lunch in the oven, and we were nowhere near ready to go. If you know about craigslist (or garage sales, for that matter) you know it's first come-first claim. You can't hold something for someone who might never show.

I went into overdrive. I sloppily dressed us both, managed a couple swipes with a hairbrush, and sliced the super-melty pizza, which I hate to do, and put it in a container. Out the door. Shit! No money! But there was an ATM on the way! So far, so good.

As I turned onto the street of destiny, I saw the Barbie Jeep. I literally did the pull-a-fist-back YYYYYES! Mine. Uh. Sassy's.

I told the woman I wanted it and then I started looking around at other things in her driveway. Sassy busied herself in her new ride as if she knew it was hers. The woman and I shared that we are old enough to remember Weebles, which have made a comeback recently. I decided to buy a Weebles tree house to accompany the Weebles farmhouse Sassy'd been bored with of late.

Suddenly the woman turns, her eyes on an SUV speeding down the street.

"They must be here for the Barbie Jeep. My husband's been getting calls all morning."

The SUV bumps along into her driveway way too fast, and she mutters "whoa" under her breath. Yeah, dick, slow the eff down. Don't you see the child in the driveway? Or are your eyes focused on something else?

He jumps out. "Hi, yeah, I'm here for the Jeep?"

"Sorry, she just bought it." Yeah, you effing codpiece.

"Great. I drove all the way here just for that."

"Yeah, me too," I said a little too snidely, not giving a hummingbird's hiney about how far he drove. Did I mention he drove a BMW SUV? GO BUY A NEW BARBIE JEEP! He walked away to examine the other merchandise. He lingered a few seconds on the Weebles treehouse.

"She just bought that, too."

At that point I thought I'd better just take our booty and go. I have never experienced such pride in a purchase - nay, conquest - it was meant to be hers!

When we got it home, Sassy climbed right into it again. I showed her how to use the pedal, and she actually held her foot on it for a few minutes. She's a bit young to understand the concept of forward vs. reverse and how one might switch between the two, but she seemed to be enjoying it and kept her foot on the pedal even after driving into a wall. I couldn't believe she was getting it! I thought she had at least another few months before she'd have a handle on it. (Which...she didn't really "handle" it. She refused to put her hands on the wheel if her foot was on the pedal.) While I was cleaning it I saw the original price tag - $150. Awwww yeah.

Now, a few days later, she is inexplicably terrified of the "gas" pedal. Terrified. Won't put her foot near it! When I push it with my hand, she jumps out. GREAT. Probably karma for being so smug about my victory.

On the other hand, she's already taking ownership of her new vehicle. When I flipped it over to look at the battery, she ran into the other room and got our screwdriver, which just blew me away. The connections she makes! She knows everytime I flip something over I'm going to need a screwdriver to change the batteries. My little mechanic.

any stroke'll do

Today we took Sassy swimming. It was the hottest day of the year so far, but we couldn't tell. At first she was very shy about it, acting like she could care less if she ever put more than a finger in the water. I believe she acts more reserved when I'm around, and it drives me nuts. It should be the opposite - mommy's here, I can be brave! - but when Micah tells me stories about the swimming party they went to, it sounds like she was the star of the little swimming show. Today it took fifteen minutes to get her in the water, and that was the baby pool. Like a big bathtub! Get hep, chica!

What has definitely changed as of late is Sassy's interest in other children. She attends daycare part-time and evidently it's helped her. Now she focuses on what the other children are doing, no matter where we go. If they are screaming, she screams. If they are playing with toys, she wants them, which is a potential crisis every time. Try explaining to a less-than-two-year-old that those toys aren't hers. Does not compute. Not when any and every toy she's ever seen (besides at a store) is hers if she wants it. Quick, let's have another kid so we don't raise a brat! AHA! That was the most kiddingest that I ever kidded. Because seriously.

So Sassy climbs out of the baby pool eventually and tears off toward the big pool, lured by the happy shrieks of bigger kids. Immediately she decides she'd rather be in her daddy's arms than mine, which...harumph. I wanna swim with her! I had visions of throwing and swishing her! When I most want her, she wants her daddy. Harumph.

I got her attention with the ol' George Washington "wig." You know, where you flip all your hair to the front and then fold it back? Well. She stared at me like I'd grown a second head, one with bloody fangs and pussy boils, like she was disgusted and genuinely concerned.

"Ha ha! Isn't that funny, Sass?"

Nothing.

"Ha ha! Mama's hair is so funny!"

Nothing. Eyes bugging.

"You don't like the hair?"

"Uh-oh," she finally says, very slowly, pointing at me.

And I proceeded to laugh so loud and long I think I made a spectacle.

something new

Welcome to the new blog! When I saw the postpartum depression-soaked entries that I ended with on the old blog, I thought I'd best just move away. Quickly.

Little Rubber Feet is an homage to my daughter. No one told me that a child's feet feel like rubber when they drag across your skin. This dragging is especially painful when it happens on your own feet. I can't properly describe the pain so I won't even try. Henceforth Little Rubber Feet shall be known here as Sassy.

I manage a stable full of expensive, spoiled, over-fed dressage horses. (Dressage is kind of like horse ballet. It's all about making the horse do very pretty, controlled movements.) Working in a stable is a dream come true, but the compensation is a nightmare. My list of responsibilities stretches on for four (single-spaced) pages. I defy anyone to show me a manager who must do so much for so little. That said, I hope to be there for years and years. I can wear dirty clothes to work. I can bury my face in a horse's soft mane and cry when I'm having a bad day. These are the little pleasures. Did I mention the tractor? I get to drive a tractor! And, you know, do stuff with it!

Besides that I mostly just clean up horse shit. No better shit exists, though, I'm telling you. They eat grass. How nasty can that be? I'd rather muck 20 stalls than clean one litterbox.

In exactly one month we will live in a house at the front end of the gravel driveway that leads back to the barn. "Gingerbread" is how I'd describe the modest, two-story brown house. The living room ceiling is the roof, creating the most lovely, airy feeling. Windows on every wall burst with sunshine. The yard is so big we'll never use it to its full potential (unless we held two simultaneous softball games) though I think I'd be content to fill a small and busy niche with a fire pit, chairs, and tiki torches. A propane grill will be cleaned and moved from the front to the back, and used regularly, for cabobs and pork steaks. A baby pool, one big enough for a few adults, will be off to the side. A hose will stretch perfectly straight out into the yard with a sprinkler at the end. Sassy will never want to come inside. Neither will I, come to think of it.

I'm ready to kiss apartment living good-bye. More like kick it in the nads goodbye. Auf wiedersehen to neighbors yelling, stomping, and feeding the shit-tastic ducks outside our door. Hello, living 300 steps from work! Howdy, little gingerbread dream.

Something new. I need it.