An EscheWAL of the MART

Last night, TER and I went shopping for the remaining items required for his upcoming trip to Williamsport, PA for Baseball Camp. I’m almost of jealous of what will be his exciting adventure – playing the game at the Little League capital of the world. Second only to the fervor of counting the days during which I will be childless is my anticipation of seeing the place for myself when I go there to pick him up next Friday. I love baseball and cannot wait to see that Mecca!!

In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.

The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.

Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.

The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.

As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?

Big Bang Befuddlement

If you shot a high-powered rifle off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean at a 45 degree angle, how far do you think the bullet would go?

Yeah, um, I don't know either. This is the question 13-year old TER asked me yesterday. Out of nowhere. Apropos to nothing. While I was sitting at the dining room table clipping coupons for the grocery store food that nourishes his body and mind just so that his surely-larger-than-mine brain can come up with questions like this. To ask me. Why me? My only response was to cock my head to the right, squint my eyes in confusion, laugh stupidly and say "I can't believe you just asked me that!".

The fact that he can even come up with such questions makes it clear that he will, in very short order, be more intelligent than I ever was. As most parents do when presented with an off-the-wall question, I told him to Google it. Or, that he should call his uncle, who was, at that same moment in time, hanging out at a gun shop. His response to this pass-the buck suggestion was to tell me that he didn't really care that much. I don't get it. How can a child possibly come up with such a query, ask it of an adult whom he knows wouldn't have faintest idea of how to even hazard a guess, but not truly be curious enough to hunt down the answer for himself? Then what is the point of asking the question in the first place?

I tried to Google the answer, but still don't know how much ground (or water) a bullet would cover in such a situation, assuming that there was no wind. I'm the one who doesn't give a good gosh damn, yet I'm the one trying to find out. What's wrong with this picture?

However, a random person on http://www.answers.yahoo.com/ who claims to have a degree in mechanical engineering tells us that:

Neglecting air resistance, it would travel 20.66 miles if fired at a 45 degree angle.
Vy = 571.144 m/sVy = Vo + (gravity)(time) 571.144 = 0 + 9.81(t)t = 58.22 seconds Vx = 571.144 m/sX = Xo + (Vo)(t)X = 0 +(571.144)(58.22)X = 33,252 metres X = 109,094.50 feet X = 20.66.

Good to know.

Stop Using Protection

Mind out of the gutter - this is not about ungloved love.

The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.

Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.

While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.

It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.

But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.

I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.

* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.