My Husband's Foray into Shoe Shopping

My husband is hilarious.  And by "hilarious" I actually mean "clueless" but that just sounds mean and I am not a mean girl.

My husband discovered an awesome website that offers fabulously discounted items for those who bike, run, camp, and love being active outdoors.  In other words, it's perfect for people unlike myself.

If you want to learn more about this awesome site click here:  http://www.theclymb.com/invite-from/JenniferSchwirian

My daughter has complained for weeks that her shoes don't fit.
As it turns out her shoes don't fit.

This is at least the third time her feet have sprouted out of her shoes in the last six months. I'm not sure what we are feeding her?

I had the brilliant idea of buying her clown shoes and allowing her feet to grow into them.  My husband had the compassionate idea of buying her new shoes that actually fit her.

He showed me a picture of a pair of shoes from the fantastic website and asked, "Do you think she would like these?"

Isn't that just the sweetest, most naive thing you've ever heard?  Really, my hubby is just the nicest guy.  And by "nicest guy" I actually mean "nicest guy."

I gave hubby my, "Are you kidding me?" look.

He gave me his, "Why are you looking at me like that?" look.

I gave him my, "Seriously?  You don't get it?" look.

He then responded non verbally with his, "What is so strange about the question I just asked you?" look.

Yes, my husband and I communicate much more frequently nonverbally than we do verbally.  After all, we are married. We stopped effectively communicating verbally back in the late 1990s.

The point, seemingly lost on my hubby, is my our inability to predict what shoes our tween may or may not like.  Give me a zillion guesses and I would still guess wrong.  In part, I think my tween daughter prides herself on being unpredictable.  If I think she may like something it only provides her with more motivation to not like that thing.  I just love this developmental stage. I'll let you guess what I mean by "love."

On top of being a tween, she is a future women.  Other than Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, and Steve Madden, when in the history of mankind did a man predict what shoes a woman would buy?

I explained all of this to my dear hubby.

I added that our tween would love, love, love to shop online with him for shoes, but any attempt to guess what shoes she may or may not like would be best left to those who own a magic ball.

As her parents, our magic ball is broken.  From what I understand, it'll be fixed in about eight years.

Adventures in Abercrombie & F#@%!

'Tis the season to grab your holiday shopping list and venture into huge, enormous shopping centers luring you with large, red signs promising "Sales, Sales, Sales!"

My tween wants a hoodie for Christmas.  A very specific hoodie.  I could describe this hoodie for you but why bother?  Just trust me when I say this particular hoodie is seemingly extinct.  Exactly one exists in this entire world, and it happens to belong to my tween.  Since she wears it day and night it is starting to look...well...like an ugly, filthy hoodie.  Now she wants another.

Hours of shopping, and I cannot find a hoodie matching my tween's specific requirements.  Where could such a hoodie exist?

I venture into Abercrombie & Fitch despite the little voice in my head telling me to run away.  Have you been in Abercrombie & Fitch recently?

Even before crossing the threshold of the store, Abercrombie & Fitch immediately assaults my nostrils with the potent smell of cologne. I don't actually have words to describe this smell.  It's as if Abercrombie & Fitch took a nice smell, multiplied it so many times it then miraculously turns toxic. Although I think the intent is for the smell to travel from nostril to groin, instead I feel it go from my nostril to my head immediately.  I am morphed from professional, organized shopper to dizzy, snotty, out-of-place fool.

As I try to clear my head, I realize this is a futile endeavor given the "music."  The music is blaring.  BLARING.  I don't know who is "singing," but it isn't my beloved Rick Springfield or U2. No, this is a very angry singer who is yelling at me.  He is screaming at me while the drum beat goes like this, "BAM, BAM, BAM, BA, BA, BAM, BAM BAM."  I have no idea why he is so angry nor do I actually know what he is saying, but he is not a happy guy.

Although the smell and sounds are distracting, I try to focus. After all, I am a mother.  I've perfected blocking out loud, obnoxious sounds. Any mom knows it's the quiet that is scary.

I try to continue shopping, but Abercrombie & Fitch thinks I should shop in the dark. I cannot see a gosh darn thing.  It's so dark that when I run into a table, suck in a large amount of poisoned air, and cry out in pain, no one in the store takes notice.  How can they?  It's pitch black and too loud to hear anything above the sound of that angry, screaming "singer."

By now I am too far into the store to easily escape.  I've completely forgotten why I have ventured into this funhouse, and I start to think I'll never find my way out.  I look around frantically for an exit sign.  All around me I see young, skinny people.  Although my pupils are undoubtably dilated to the size of golf balls, these young people look calm and unaffected by the sensory overload. I'm reminded of Children of the Corn.

Why is Abercrombie & Fitch torturing me?

Perhaps I'm drunk on the smell of overpowering cologne or perhaps my brain is bleeding.  I don't really know.  However, once I finally escape the store, I realize Abercrombie & Fitch's master plan...

Abercrombie & Fitch wants me dizzy, deaf, and blind so I won't care or notice that they sell ugly t-shirts for $40.  If only they had hoodies!


Tony Hawk Painted Plaid Hoodie (Google Affiliate Ad)

Walmart Drama

I routinely text "I'm in hell" to my husband while in Walmart.

I have a strong love-hate relationship with Walmart. I hate it, but where else can I buy a loaf of bread, a coffee pot, and a can of paint under one roof?

I believe it is a scientific fact that no one can leave Walmart spending less than $17.96. Even if you just run in for a gallon of milk and band aids, you will discover Walmart has rolled back prices on random items like citronella candles, toothpaste, and flip flops. Before you know it your cart is full of forty-two dollars worth of products made in China and shipped to the U.S. for your convenience.

Inevitably, I take my odd assortment of necessities to the checkout line where I am reminded that hell exists on earth.

Hell is being in a Walmart checkout line with three carts ahead of you and a price check going terribly wrong at the register.

Looking around at the other lines you discover they are moving, albeit rather slowly. You're trapped in your lane because you are committed to it. You are superstitious enough to believe if you move to a faster lane, you will cause it to halt immediately.

There are no express lanes in Walmart despite the fact that several are labeled that way. This is just Walmart's way of instilling false hope in your heart before crushing it like a bug.

Damn you, Walmart!

No matter what line you choose, it will come to a dead stop as some walmartian insists the sign for live bait said $2.50 and not $2.99. Of course, the clerk at the counter has no idea so she needs to call the pimply faced, high school student worker to go find out.

Of course, the live bait is sold in the camping and fishing department which is a mere 2.5 miles from the register. As the pimply faced, high school student saunters off at a pace slower than your 92 year old aunt Erma, you begin digging in your purse for 49 cents. You are willing to make this donation to Walmart on behalf of Mr. I-Cannot-Dig-Up-My-Own-Worms just so the line moves. You can only find 27 cents at the bottom of your purse.

At this point, you have an out of body experience. You realize there are people not in Walmart, and you imagine what they are doing with their freedom.

You start to understand the desire to shoplift, and you know serving time would be less painful than standing in the Walmart checkout line from hell. As you consider shoving a gallon of milk up your shirt, you catch the eye of a 4 year old girl in the cart ahead of you. Her nose is running and she has Doritos stains on her cheek. Her look brings you back from your fantasy of shoplifting and you remain rooted in the line from Hell.

You look around for others who feel your pain, but there is no one willing or able to make eye contact with you except that 4 year old girl in the cart ahead of you. She begins eating her boogers and you realize you're hungry. When did you last eat? Will you ever eat again? Oh my! You might actually die in this line.

Panic sets in. You need to say goodbye to your loved ones. Your blood sugar is dropping and you know you aren't going to make it. You root around for your cell phone and text, "I'm in hell!" to your husband and a few other random people. At least they'll know where to find your dead body.

Aisle 27. Walmart, U.S.A.