The wash

Our washer is on the fritz and every time we do a load of laundry water just pours all over the floor. Being a holiday weekend the repairman can’t come out until next week. So this afternoon I piled all of the laundry into the basket and headed out for the laundromat not too far from our house. I parked, grabbed the heaping basket, and headed inside. Trying to balance the laundry and open the door at the same time, a rough-around-the-edges gentleman blocked my way. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?” he inquired. Resisting the temptation to respond “Well it’s a laundromat so obviously I’m here for your much needed six-month dental cleaning, you idiot,” I simply tried to walk past. He in turn took a step sideways to block my entrance. It was instantly apparent that he had seen this move in Road House, Cocktail, Coyote Ugly, or any other crappy film that takes place in a bar. I started to think that maybe this was an exclusive laundromat where you have to tell the doorman a secret code like “spin cycle” or “What a big load you have.” I wasn’t sure how to proceed because glancing at the man he looked like a cross between Willie Nelson and Tony Danza with the jiggly neck of a 103 year old woman. I held up the basket with both hands as though I were offering up a sacrifice to the fabric softener gods. He must have been pleased with my offering as he nodded and let me pass by.

I set down my basket as far away from the gentleman as I could and went to get some change for the washers. I instantly discovered that all I had in my wallet was a $20 bill, an Olive Garden gift card, and a random spearmint Tic Tac. Strange. So I slide the money in and instantly quarters start spitting out like I’ve hit the progressive jackpot on a slot machine at the Bellagio. Unfortunately the section of the machine that is engineered to catch the coins must have been designed by a moron as no more than four quarters would ever fit. Naturally quarters start spilling all over the floor, rolling under machines and I’m standing there trying to catch as many as I can as though delicate tea cups have started raining from the sky. I looked like some sort of retarded Michael Flatley doing a Native American rain dance. Of course this draws the attention of my new best friend and he rushes over bellowing “What did you do??” I don’t even answer him. Instead I just start handing him fistfuls of quarters to free up my hands to get the rest of them as they bounce out. I finally collect all of the change and walk back to my laundry with my mountains of money with my head held down in embarrassment, looking like a dejected pirate.

I divide up all of the laundry among three washing machines and find a seat to wait for what the display on the machine states will be 43 minutes. I sit down with a book and unsuccessfully try to read a bit. You know it’s not going to work out when you reread a page six times and you still can’t remember what you just read. I close the book and begin to do a little people watching. It is instantly apparent what made my new BFF so rambunctious. As he was folding his clothes with one hand he was drinking a can of Bud Light with his other. After craning my neck to examine a bit more I discover that he has an entire 12 pack of beer. For every article of clothing he folds, he takes two sips of beer. It’s like a drinking game for the Martha Stewart crowd.

Off in the corner near me is a couple in their early 20’s with their arms tightly around each other, giggling and whispering what I can only assume to be their favorite lines from the Twilight books. Something about nightfall and being only human. I don’t get it. It was at that moment that I wished a vampire with rank breath and Hepatitis B would just come down and put me out of my misery. As if it couldn’t get any worse, they then begin to make out right there pressed up against the coin-operated detergent dispenser. I don’t care how horny you are, the laundromat would be one of the last places you should get it on. I’d put it right up there with a Hardee’s restroom and your grandmother’s funeral. I had to excuse myself from this Real World-like scene and check on my wash cycle. Only 37 minutes to go. You can down a lot of Bud Light and another person’s saliva in that amount of time. Trust me, I saw it all.

Where I never wanted to end up

A girl that was in my class two years ago stopped by today after school to tell me that she was moving. Now I’ve gotta admit that this young lady was always quite odd, but I grew to actually like her quite a bit. So as we were standing outside at the playground this afternoon I asked her the requisite questions about where she was moving to and if she was looking forward to it. We talked for a few more minutes and just before she left I wished her good luck and told her that I knew she’d do great at her new school. As she walked away through the crowd of parents she turned back to look at me, smiled, and said “I still have your picture….” Awww, how sweet all this time later, I thought, until she added “….in my underwear drawer.”

Say cheese

Today was school picture day, and each spring we have the same old man come in to take the photos. It’s quite honestly one of the most painful things to endure. Last year when he was taking my picture for the yearbook he said, “Hey stilts, smile into the camera and say ‘Ally the alligator’.” At that moment I’m not sure which would have brought me greater joy, shoving the stilts where the sun doesn’t shine or watching with delight as an alligator devoured his head. I think he mistakenly thinks he’s a stand-up comic that got lost on his way to some seedy comedy club in Des Moines. He tries to make the students smile by using such sure-fire zingers as calling for the next boy in line by singing “John John the brown haired boy” like some annoying pied piper at a renaissance fair.

I always brace myself whenever they call our class down. I’m pretty sure a lesser man would be driven to drink copious amounts of alcohol. So today we lined up and waited our turn until he poked his head around the corner and called for the Jolly Green Giant’s class. Yep, he really did. (News flash, I am wickedly tall.) The first boy entered the room and straightened his shirt that had a basketball on it. The photographer proceeded to ask him “Are you a baller?” Okay, when you’re 70 years old you are way past being allowed to say that word. Let’s be honest, even at my age if I say “baller” I look like a schmuck. A few students later he called up a girl who is of mixed ethnicity. He took a look at her and said “Get on up here Miss Mocha.” I know I’m from Pekin and all, but I’m pretty sure that’s racist, right? The second to the last person to get photographed was the sweetest, quietest girl in the class. She sat down and grinned into the camera. Apparently this wasn’t enough for the photographer because he then instructed her to give him her “sexiest smile.” I just stared at him in shock and glared at him with the toughest look I could muster. (Let’s be honest, I’m not very intimidating). I was thisclose to pulling him aside and reminding him that this wasn’t a porn shoot. At this point I pushed the last boy through as quickly as possible, anxious to wrap up these perverted Glamour Shots.

Fire safety

This afternoon I was reading a book with a group of students about historic fires, like the Great Chicago Fire and the Great Fire of London. The end of the book listed a number of fire safety tips which we read through together. One of the boys in the group raised his hand. Now to give you some background, this boy is knowledgeable about a host of topics, but he’s very intense while sharing the information. Throughout the school year I’ve learned what percentage of Jupiter’s atmosphere is hydrogen (89%), which is the smallest Hawaiian island (Kahoolawe), and the name of the Pilgrim baby born at sea (Oceanus). You have to pick the right moment to call on him because if you just call on him at will you’ll be locked into a 20-minute dissertation on the migratory patterns of sea turtles. When I called on him, he caught me off guard because all he said was “My grandpa and grandma moved a heavy piano out of their house once.” We all sat there waiting for the connection to fire safety. It never came so I finally prompted him and asked what this had to do with what we were talking about. Rather nonchalantly he explained that the house was on fire when this was all going. Ah, so now it all tied together. Like we were reading about, make sure you have an escape plan….for rescuing a stinking giant piano. Before getting back into the book, he added “And my aunt and uncle died in the fire.” I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t see that heartwarming ending coming. Let this be a lesson to you kids. When a fire is ravaging your house, make sure you exert all your energy pushing out a large musical instrument while your relatives are burning up like the bad guy in Backdraft.

A birthday surprise

Today was the birthday of one of the girls in my class. She wasn't exactly having a great day. Her mom had yelled at her before school and thus had forgotten her birthday treats at home. Needless to say I tried to be especially nice to her today. When we sing "Happy Birthday" I always let the kids stand on their chairs and the birthday person stand on top of their table. (It bugs the crap out of the older teachers, which I relish.) So today as we finished up singing, trying to make her birthday a little more special, I hopped up on the table with her. I picked her up and held her up to the ceiling, singing "The Circle of Life." We looked like Simba and Rifiki on the cover of The Lion King DVD. In my head I imagined that this would be a moment she would always remember whenever she thought back to her ninth birthday.....until she farted in my face. I'm guessing it was the fried French toast sticks and greasy sausage patty she ate for lunch. An image of panic on both of our faces, she glanced down at me and I craned my neck to look up at her. Remembering the crappy day she was having (literally), I simply held my breath and set her back down at her seat. Our silence spoke volumes.

What's in the bag?

Disclaimer: I am such a third grader. I mean when someone says the word "balls" or farts in class I laugh. I can't help it. So today was the 100th day of school and each student was asked to bring in 100 pennies for a math activity. Later in the day as were passing them back out to the class, one of the students' collections caught my eye and, yes, caused me to chuckle. Needless to say, "pennies" will be on next week's spelling list.

The sketch artist

Yesterday during indoor recess some of the girls were drawing on the board. One of them decided to draw a picture of our student teacher, Miss Philipchuck. The two of us both laughed because it looked nothing like her.
For the record, she doesn't look like a frizzy-haired Julianne Moore, nor does she have a 2 x 4 permanently jutting out of her rear. Oh, and the large, oversized globes on her chest? Those are her poofy sleeves, lest you think otherwise you perverts.

Repentance

This weekend at church they had a family-style service, so Ella stayed in with us instead of going to her normal class. So we all sang and played games, and about halfway through my niece Joy came back to sit with us. Now when Ella and Joy get together it’s a bit like a preschool version of Laverne and Shirley. Joy leaned over to ask where the puppet was that she saw earlier. I simply told her that I think it got sick and was taking a nap backstage. Of course this didn’t satisfy Ella who wanted to know what was wrong with him. Like the mature father that I am, I whispered that I thought he had diarrhea. Immediately I realized that this was the wrong thing to say because she began giggling uncontrollably and loudly announced in the middle of the service, “Joy, the puppet has diarrhea!” Please forgive me, Lord.

Change has come...well maybe not.

Just before Christmas break some ladies that work at the bus department generously made stocking caps for every single student at school, some 313 hats to be exact. Needless to say, today was a very busy day at school, with all of the excitement surrounding the inauguration. As a class we watched the swearing in ceremony online, and I strove to explain to the students why it was such a truly monumental day for our nation. So later this afternoon after the events of the day had kind of died down, the students made thank you cards for the hats. As I was looking through them at the end of the day the one below caught my eye.I opened it up to read the letter that the girl had written. It all sounded perfectly fine until I got to the last word.
I mean, really. Did my gripping racial equality speech from the morning not mean anything? Do we still need to be trying to defeat the black man? Disheartened, I called her up to my desk to ask her why she would write something like that. To my relief, she was trying to spell "ninja." Maybe some of that upcoming Obama stimulus money could be spent on some new dictionaries.

Mistaken identity

Tonight we made a quick trip to Walmart to get a few items. As we were getting the everything out of the cart to pay for them, Liam started pointing and saying “Shrek! Shrek!” over and over again. I looked around for a discarded DVD or those Pez dispensers they always have by the check-out. I couldn’t see anything, but he kept pointing at the cashier and yelling “Shrek!” I studied her nifty blue vest for a Shrek button or something but she wasn’t sporting a single piece of flair. I then realized that he might be calling the cashier by that name. She was a rather large woman. So large that she had to sit down on a stool while she rang us up. So large in fact that Bob and Jillian would throw their hands up in surrender. Now I realize that pointing at someone and categorizing them as a giant, oversized, green ogre isn’t the most complimentary title. It’s like calling a person unpatriotic.….or a slut.….or a Holocaust supporter…..or Rosie O’Donnell. These tend not to go over very well. As I was trying to quiet Liam down, of course Curious George’s sister Ella had to pipe in. With a quizzical look on her face she asked, “Daddy, why’s Liam calling that girl Shrek?” I lied and said that I thought he was telling us that he wanted to rent Shrek from the Redbox by the door. She didn’t buy this and pressed the issue further. “Maybe because she looks like Shrek,” she added, as I prayed that the cashier would just eat me and put me out of my misery. I handed the woman a $20 bill and didn’t even wait for my change or receipt. Sometimes you’ve just gotta cut your losses and call it a day.

The slip-up

This afternoon I dismissed tables one at a time to go use the restroom. One boy came back a few minutes later and asked me if he could call his dad to bring him some new socks because his were wet. Now Joey talks so slooooooooooow that the ensuing conversation lasted longer than the running time of Schindler’s List. I asked him how his socks got wet in the restroom. His explanation was that he ran to sit on the toilet “because I had to poop real bad.” While he was sitting there one of his shoes fell off. Unable to poop with only one shoe on, he kicked off the other one. I mean that’s the natural reaction when you’re sitting in a 3’ x 4’ cubicle caked with dried pee on the floor. According to him, he next heard a boy in the adjoining stall that was up to mischief. He himself should know what misbehaving in the restroom sounds like as earlier this year he sat on a urinal like it was a highchair and sang “My Humps” at the top of his lungs. Needless to say, young Joey proceeded to address the matter himself by stepping up on the toilet seat to look over the partition. This wasn’t well thought out because he’s about a foot and a half shorter than the mayor of Munchkin City. As he tried to pull himself up, he slipped and one of his feet landed in the toilet. After listening to his recollection of the events, I looked down to find both of his shoes still off, only one sock on, and his wet pants leg pulled up to his knee like a white, miniature LL Cool J. I sent him down to the nurse to see if she had any clothes for him. In true Joey fashion, he turned back to me in the doorway and asked if he could stop and use the restroom. Um, no.

My new year's resolution

This time of year it seems that everyone makes their new year’s resolutions. Usually it’s something like eating healthier or exercising more. Nah, I’m not interested in either of those. I mean I’m not giving up my Sour Patch Kids and Krispy Kremes. And the idea of jogging isn’t as tempting as say lying on the couch watching back-to-back episodes of Bromance and The City…..while eating Sour Patch Kids and Krispy Kremes. I guess mine isn’t a resolution per se, but simply something I want to accomplish. I have DVD’s out the rear that are sitting in boxes out in the garage. I just don’t have the time to watch them anymore, so I need to just put them in someone’s garage sale and get rid of them. Here’s the problem: I can’t seem to let them go without watching each of them one more time. So my new year’s resolution is to re-watch 400-odd movies by the end of 2009. Now some may scoff and ask where’s the challenge in that. I would respond by asking them if they have ever tried sitting through a second viewing of From Justin To Kelly. Ya, keeping your butt on the treadmill seems like a walk in the park next to that. When I told Rachel my plan, her only objection was to make sure I didn’t get rid of the classics. I, too, would have a hard time tossing aside Casablanca or The Godfather or Field of Dreams. When I asked her what other pillars of cinematic excellence she wanted me to set aside, Rachel had the audacity to utter the words How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days. I almost swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic. After taking a few seconds to regain my composure, as politely as I could I told her that a more apt categorization would be something like “expendable chick flick trash.” That didn’t go over well. So basically we’ll also be saving the entire Kate Hudson film catalog, along with Hope Floats, 50 First Dates, and Runaway Bride. The things I do for the woman I love.

The curious case of Ella Ritchason

Tonight the kids and I ran to Kroger to pick up a few items. Ella is at that stage where she asks questions about everything. It's like living with a three year old Diane Sawyer.

• "Why are we getting chicken?"
• "Why are strawberries too expensive?"
• "Why can't we eat the donuts now?"
  
• "Why did Liam open that new box of cereal?"
  
• "Why is it too cold for popsicles?"
• "Why is that boy in that cart eating his boogies?"

With only one more thing to buy, we headed down the toilet paper aisle. I stopped midway down the row next to an elderly gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to a young (or is it old?) Benjamin Button. He was very kind and said hello to both Ella and Liam. I made my decision and threw the package into the cart. As fate would have it, just as we passed the man, Ella pointed and exuberantly declared, "Look Daddy! That man has diapers just like Liam!" I'll admit that I was tempted to grab the Depends from the man's grasp and shove them in my daughter's mouth. As you can imagine, while we were waiting for the cashier the ring up our groceries, young Katie Couric had a laundry list of questions about the man and his adult diapers. I finally just said that maybe he was getting them for a baby that was at his house. She replied matter of factly, "Daddy, grandpas can't have babies."

Rerouted

This morning I ordered some items from Amazon for some last-minute Christmas gifts. When I received my confirmation email I noticed that I hadn’t chosen our home address as the shipping address. Instead it would be delivered to school. After tomorrow at 3:10 there won’t be a soul in sight around here until January 5. I found the customer service number and dialed. When an actual person actually picked up it sounded like I was calling Santa himself at the North Pole. The line was so full of static that I could barely make out the Indian elf on the other end. I tried to explain what the problem was to which the woman on the other end responded with what sounded like “odor blubber.” I think she mistakenly thought I had ordered a rotting dead whale carcass, which I hear is one of the hot ticket items for the holidays. After the fourth time repeating “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you” I think she was mad and sounded out in her best American accent “Orrrrrrrrrderrrrrrrrrrr Nummmmmmberrrrrrrrrrr.” I gave it to her and she pulled up my account. She said that she could reroute the shipment to the other address I had on file. I told her that would be great and she confirmed that the order would now be shipped to 106 Constitution Drive in Milford, Connecticut. Of course I immediately tried to explain to her that this was not my address and by her silence on the other end I could tell that this completely baffled her. She asked me when was the last time I lived there to which I responded with “never.” I think she was beginning to wonder if I was a battered husband that had gone into the witness protection program. I then had to repeat my address over and over. “No, not Girl Street….Earl Street….E-A-R-L…. No, there’s no B….I don’t live on Barl Street.” Exactly 21 minutes later I ended the call, praying that it would get delivered to the right address. If not, my brother will be opening up a gift of leftover apple juice from our Christmas party today.

And the day just started

So it’s been a crazy busy morning so far. I was out on playground duty this morning and saw one of my students get out of her car and start walking my way. As she was walking a deep-voiced man in the car yelled her name but she didn’t hear it. It sounded like her mom’s boyfriend who picks her up from school on occasion. So I spoke up and said “Arianna, that guy in your car needs you.” She looked at my quizzically, glanced back at her car, and said “That’s my mom.” My mistake.

As soon as we got inside another girl brought up a note to me. It read:

Sydney has a bad cough. Sucking on things makes it better. I’ve sent her with a bag of suckers. Please let her eat as many of these as she needs to. This will help her throat feel better.

Yes, because having a student eating a never-ending supply of Blow Pops all day isn’t going to create any problems in the classroom.

Fashion forward

I don’t understand Ella’s fashion choices. I’m definitely out of the loop because everything she throws on looks like an outfit designed by an eliminated Project Runway contestant. This morning she came down the stairs wearing this, saying that she was going to Starbucks. Unless you’re Gwen Stefani, I’m not sure that you can pull off that look. Something tells me that Garrett the nineteen-year old barista wouldn’t understand it either.

Tonight Rachel was at work, so the kids and I had a simple meal of bacon, eggs, and English muffins. Ella’s all about helping out in the kitchen these days so I placed her in charge of putting butter on the muffins. She ran off and came back twenty seconds later dressed as a ladybug because we all know that you can’t spread butter without resembling a three-foot beetle. She put enough on one English muffin to kill someone instantly with one bite. I’ve seen Scottish castles that are smaller.

Secret Santa

This last week of school is our annual Secret Santa festivities. It can be a mixed bag because one year I received great gifts (Starbucks every day for a month) but the next year really sucked (a peach candle anyone?). Now I realize I can’t control who my Secret Santa is, but I can conspire to pick out who I want to buy gifts for. So two weeks ago when we had to draw out names I picked over and over until I got someone I was excited about. I made up a variety of excuses for the first seven names I drew out:

• “Oops, I picked out myself.”


• “Oh, I had her name last year.”


• “She wrote down that her favorite snacks are Werther’s and peanut brittle. She’s so old she might not even make it until Christmas.”


• “It says that she collects Precious Moments. I’m against that on multiple levels.”


• “Um, I don’t know what to get for someone who already owns every sequined snowman sweater from HSN.”


• “Her classroom smells like cantaloupe. I’m allergic to cantaloupe.”


• “She’s so miserable that it would be like buying Christmas gifts for Hitler.”

Finally, I drew out the name of one of my third grade colleagues. It only took eight tries. Over the last week I’ve been picking up gifts for her. It’s just small gifts for the first four days like candy bars, potato chips, ornaments, peach candles. On Friday is when we reveal ourselves and present our large gift. (Wow, that last sentence could come across as highly inappropriate. Imagine that Christmas party.) Last night I snuck into school long enough to leave my first gift on her desk. I’ve gotta tell you that the school at night really freaks me out. It’s so dark and of course I had to walk all the way down to the end of the seemingly never-ending hallway to put down my first day gift of Cherry Coke and Dove chocolate, which I’m pretty sure is what one of the wise men brought for the baby Jesus. Before leaving, I coded out on the security system and waited to hear the signal to exit the building. While I was standing there waiting in the darkness, I heard the automatic toilet flush in the restroom right next to me. It frightened me so badly that I almost had to run home to change my pants. I don’t know why or how it happened, but I burst through the front doors and ran like a steroid-raging Marion Jones out to the car where Rachel was waiting. Perhaps it was God’s way of telling me a) not to interfere with the integrity of the Secret Santa drawing or b) not to link someone with Hitler.

Lost in translation

This week we read a story about a gorilla named Koko who is able to understand more than 1,000 sign language signs. Naturally this led into a discussion of sign language and we took a look at the sign language alphabet. Each of the students first spelled out their names using sign language. Then I passed out note cards with the names of different animals on them for each of them to sign for the class. The rest of the students, in turn, would try to figure out what animal it was. The students got zebra, alligator, and giraffe right off the bat. However, the fourth one seemed to baffle them and with good reason. I noticed his mistake and asked him to try it again because he had misspelled his word. Unfortunately once again, instead of “duck” he spelled “dick.” Common mistake. The funniest part about it was another boy raised his hand and said, "Um, Mr. Ritchason, I don't think that's an animal."

Diarrhea of the mouth

I just got back from taking Ella and Liam to the library to pick out some Christmas books. They love it there with the birds, the fish tank, and all of the toys and puzzles. It’s always quite the scene when it’s time to leave because Liam screams and cries all the way out of the door. Ella especially loves the puppet theater and every time she goes behind there and puts on a puppet show for us. Liam likes to go back there for one of two reasons. He either quietly knocks over all 38 puppets to the floor or sits in the corner and craps his pants. Today it was number two. Literally. When he emerged from behind the curtain it smelled like he had just finished an 18-hour shift with the sanitation department. I rounded both of them up along with the books and movies and headed for the counter with our library card. Of course, Liam started throwing a fit and I think deliberately arched his body so his butt came two inches away from my nose. Ella asked me why we couldn’t just take him to the restroom and change him. I hate trying to maneuver him on one of those fold-out contraptions on which you don’t know whose dirty butt cheeks were on there right before your child’s. As the librarian was scanning our items, Ella reminded me that “Daddy you went poop in there last time.” I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the woman behind the counter, so I told her thank you with my head hung down in embarrassment as we headed home to change my son and beat my daughter. Just kidding.

The emasculation of Michael

Tonight while Rachel was at work and the kids were at my mom's house, I did some errands in Peoria. Before I left Rach called to ask if I would run past Michael's, the arts and crafts store, to pick up some beads she needed to make some bracelets. I hemmed and hawed for several moments but reluctantly agreed. Before hanging up, I made sure she gave me step-by-step directions of exactly how to maneuver through the store, capture the prized items, and get out without being spotted. Tonight as I got closer to the store I could feel my masculinity slowly being stripped away. By the time I parked and walked through the front door, I'm pretty sure that I was now the proud owner of a vagina. The sign on the door that advertised "Part time floral designer needed" didn't really help the situation. I retrieved the map that I had drawn from my pocket and made my way through the maze, like a soldier trying to avoid the land mines of detached Asian doll heads and styrofoam balls the size of a small African village. I've gotta admit that Rachel's directions were spot-on and I made it to the aisle of choice without any incidents. Unfortunately, there was a woman there looking in the exact same section that I needed to be. From a distance I saw the beads that Rach described, but I didn't want to reach in front of her like a fat girl trying to grab the last ladel-full of moo goo gai pan at the Chinese buffet. So I waited my turn and acted like I was looking at other things in the aisle. Wow, what impressive do-it-yourself gingerbread houses! This just made me look even more awkward and out of place. Finally, I leaned over and said one of the gayest things to ever come out of my mouth. "Excuse me ma'am. Could I just grab two bags of those sterling silver alphabet beads please?" I'm pretty sure at that moment my menstrual cycle kicked into gear. I hightailed it to the front of the store to discover seven people in line at the only register open. I towered over everyone else in line, kind of like that video they showed during the Olympics when Kobe Bryant was swarmed with Chinese fans that were as tall as his belt buckle. I began praying that the Apostolic Christian in front of me wouldn't strike up some conversation about crocheting or the Gaithers or riding around in horse-drawn buggies. (Oh wait, I think that last one is the Amish. My apologies.) The line was moving slower than the plot of The Love Guru so I found myself drumming on the boxes of beads with my fingers while singing along in my head to Celine Dion's version of "Felize Navidad" that was playing throughout the store. (Darn you, Michael's!) The next thing I knew one of the boxes had broke open and pieces of silver were dancing on the floor like a slot machine for tiny Hobbits. Of course everyone turned to look at me and I immediately knelt down on the floor to try to pick up all 100 pieces up. My cover was blown. I was so flustered in the moment that I blurted out that lame "I guess I didn't even know my own strength" line. The lady in line behind me was trying to be helpful and pick some of the beads up but all I felt like doing at that moment was knocking her over to make myself feel better. I then heard the cashier come over the intercom and it began to turn into one of those SNL skits where the person asks for a price check on some tampons. Come to think of it I was pretty close to needing one myself. In an instant a high school aged girl was there with a broom and a dust pan to clean up my mess. Someone else brought up another box of beads and thankfully it was my turn to check out. The smiling lady behind the register joked "I'll double-bag these for you so you don't lose any more" as she handed me a 40% off coupon for my next visit. I dropped it in the parking lot.