Another Category Four Death Storm

Yes folks, another Category four death storm approaches. We here at the way out inn are firmly entrenched and at the ready. Groceries are stocked up. There is bread in our house, but not at the market. Cause remember, it will NEVER be made again, so help us.

I took Jessie to the grocery store last night after we bought the new used car and there wasn't a lot of bread there. I so wished I'd had my camera with me, because I'm sure some of you think I'm exaggerating the way I always do about there being a dearth of bread items when a storm is coming. But for once, my rantings are not full of hyperbole.

There is never bread in the aisles... it seriously looks like Russia in there when a storm is en route.

Last night, the market was crowded. Jessie and I were both in fabulously good spirits, and so I did what every mother worth her weight in Nilla Wafers should do -- I did my damn best to embarrass her.

I danced in the aisles. I always do when I shop with the kids. I don't do it when I'm by myself. So before you call Crazy Tracy and demand that she give me meds, just be aware, I do this to make them both completely ashamed to be near me, and to make them laugh.

I put on a little Broadway-esque performance up and down the aisles, dancing around the cart she's pushing, and inserting the items with flair! Music in the grocery store varies from oldie crusties ("Really Want to See You Tonight," by England Dan and John Ford Coley) to newer stuff (Michelle Branch, Sixpence None the Richer...) and now Christmas music (some crappy N'suck stuff was playing where they drag the notes all over the register for the one end note at the end of every fucking WORD).

Feel the supermarket rhythm. Feel the joy!

She pretends to be embarrassed. She looks through her eyebrows much like Charlie Brown when Lucy is talking shit at the Psychiatrist Booth. But under the disdain there is a grin. Her little mouth is trying to hold back the guffaws. She does a good job not cracking up... she claims she doesn't know me as we walk past other shoppers and she shakes her head in disbelief at my actions.

There were some punk kids hanging out at the market. Real punk kids, not the "you punk kids" like Grandpa Simpson yells at people, or that fakeassed "punk" Avril Levigne. We turned up an aisle after passing them (the coffee and baking aisle I do believe) and I waited until I was about 1/3 the way up the aisle and hopefully out of eyeshot before leaping like a gazelle and gracefully pirouetting about with a bag of almonds.

One of the kids called out "Dance lady, dance!"

Jessie said "Oh no! They saw you!" and hid her face.

I called out "Thank you," in a rather Broadway Diva sort of way and turned on my right foot and did a little "West Side Story" Jet snappy thing up the rest of the aisle... backwards.

I'm good.

Anyway... she and I got to laughing our asses off as we walked past a big display of Junior Mints.

"Look mom," she said as I did a very special dance to a Michelle Branch song, "Junior Mints! They are very refreshing!"

I almost fell down laughing. My ten year old, quoting Seinfeld as I prance up the dog food aisle. Too damn much.

I know she claims she'll never go to the market with me again. But. I know she lies. I dread the day when she turns on a heel and goes back to the car, refusing to follow me around the market with a sheepish and embarrassed. smile on her face. I dread the day this girl picks my nursing home. I dread the day she gets really genuinely pissed and demands that I stop behaving like that in public. I know the day will come. For now, I dance like a jackass up the aisles and let her pick out some sweets or special cookies as a reward for putting up with my crap.

Today I was supposed to go to the college for professor MF's last class. The students are all doing oral presentations using powerpoint. I don't need to be there, because the website is not being utilized and I'm not grading them. With the aforementioned Category four death storm coming, I figured it'd be a good idea to just stay home.

We were all going to go out for a beer and appetizers after class, but I think MF is going to reschedule for next week, the "reading day" before finals. They don't have another class session, and they don't have a final scheduled. So this is it. Done. It feels anticlimactic to not be there, and especially to not go out and have a beer with these kids. I've gotten to know them well, and there are quite a few that I genuinely like, who think I'm... a professor.

On the last page of the course section, MF put up a whole ton of "fluffy" inspirational stuff to leave them as final thoughts.

Because I'm a wiseass and I gagged when I read most of the things that she posted (she's got a heart of gold, silver and platinum, but sometimes I think the kids groan when she gets too Stuart Smalley on them), I overstepped my role and put a personal message from ME under hers. I titled hers "Final Thoughts from M___" and mine is:

Final Though from Christine

Remember, being a good communicator means you are a RESPONSIBLE communicator. You are in responsible for your words, how you use them, upon whom you use them and the manner in which you use them. Heed the sign. And be careful out there.

She called me this morning laughing her ASS off and said that it was the most PERFECT thing to leave them with. She was almost crying because she loves the silly crap I bring to the table and put out there for the kids. And I'm glad she liked it.

So I opted to stay home. I wanted to see my Rupa. I wanted to go for beer with the students. I wanted to do a lot of things... but instead I've been cleaning the livingroom and putting joint compound on the ceiling.

Hey, gotta do something productive with the time, right?

I'm going to go take the dogs out again (it has taken me 2 hours to get this written because I've been doing a ton of other stuff mixed in) and I think I'll make some tea.