Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Racked With Jealousy...

Morning Readers,

     Yesterday afternoon, Husband and I got together and proclaimed our joint "crazy level" to be a ten. We even doodled little, ink hearts on the insides of our wrists. "P+H= Crazy Forever, Can't be at tamed, etc, etc". The ink hadn't dried by the time we decided to venture to the mall...on the day after Christmas....because, again...we lost our sanity somewhere between "I do" and "It's a boy and a girl" and "Here's your mortgage payment" and "All this time he thought Paige was short for Penelope." One of the busiest shopping days of the year, yesterday caused me anxiety for all the wrong reasons. I thought it'd be difficult due mass migration of those looking for Mrs. Field's Cookies...what I got was another affirmation as to why mothers can't dress like the rest of society...

     In scientific terms, the particular phenomena I refer to is called "Strolleriticus Blockadium".

Strol-ler-it-i-cus Block-a-dium
noun
1.) Rack or racks of clothing set up in such a manner as to block a stroller from reaching it's ultimate goal of cute shoes and or jewelry.
2.) A pain felt somewhere around one's rear 
verb
1.) The act of blocking a desperate mother from buying real clothes via metal racks because she doesn't have the raw upper body strength or insurance coverage to shot put her children over the underwear and onto the shoe table, in the attempt to have them waddle back and show her what's on sale.
2.) The act of driving a woman to drinking
3.) To cause pain in the rear (usually marked by a slow, spreading inflammation passed from one cheek to the next)

     Those affected by SB are easily identified and demand a certain level of compassion. For example, don't ever go running up to that lady at church, screaming, "After I saw your bra straps disintegrate, this fell out of your shirt. Sister, you're flying freer than the flag on Labor Day." Leave it under her car and remember that, due to SB, she can't make it to the bra section. Also disregard:

-Underwear that turns to ash and blows away in the wind
-Dresses that shred while walking or shifting weight from foot to foot
-T-shirts that used to read "I love New York" but now display "I York" with a yellow circle around it.

     Another definitive sign can manifest itself in makeshift clothing mimicking the fashion of the time. One afternoon, I saw a sweet woman being interviewed on the serious effects of SB. The shoe boxes on her feet crumpled as she crossed her legs, and the plastic bags in her hair half-suffocated her every time she answered a question.

Announcer: But why the shoe boxes, Marlene?
Marlene: I..er...saw Kate Moss where them on that show.
Announcer: What show was that?
Marlene: Umm...the Box Show....Incorporated...copywrite.

Thanks for taking one for the team, Marlene...

     If you feel you need to check yourself for symptoms of SB, please look out for the following:

-The need to hit single girls in cute shoes or unstained jackets.
-Shoes laces you've been calling your "good belt"
-Bedazzled tuna cans you've been referring to as your "going out jewelry"
-Debt due to investing in cases of air freshener so you can wear your "tuna necklace" out in public
-A rash that looks like Kim Kardshinan's face, on your inner elbow
-A scaly patch that resembles Rachel Zoe, on your ankle

     As for Yours Truly, Butch, Sundance and I circled the shoes for several minutes before admitting defeat. There are only so many times you can tap a teenager on the shoulder and lead with, "Hey, Skinny, if you crawl in there and bring me back some ankle boots, there's a dollar in it for you...I'll even fold it into a pirate hat." Kids these days don't know you can still still buy certain brands of gum for a dollar.

We rolled right back out of the store and watched as another mother drooled down the store window, whispering, "Those were supposed to be my boots....my precious."

Anyone else venture out yesterday?

Until Next Time, Readers!