That’s one of my very favorite Far Side comics. (My other favorites are I Hate This Horse and Damn The Electric Fence! but that’s not relevant to what I’m discussing.) (P.S. I really miss you, Gary Larson.)
My own brain is full today. Very full. What I usually do when this happens is text my friends. Mostly Sara. A lot. Random bits of this and that, rants, observations, points to ponder, et cetera, et cetera. But today, my brain is SO full that my thumbs can’t text fast enough. And anyway, why should Sara be the only person to revel in my complete and utter insanity?
The problem with letting my brain reach this point of fullness is that there’s no room to organize my thoughts. It’s like those crappy puzzles you get from the fishing booth at the fall carnival where you slide the little tiles and try to put the numbers 1 through 15 in order. Except my puzzle has no empty space so you can’t move a thing. You can try popping them out with a knife but you can’t ever get them to snap back together the right way again and you might cut yourself, so it’s better just to let it be what it is. A random jumble.
And do with it what you will…
My child attends a private kindergarten at our church. The tuition is quite reasonable, but they nickel and dime you to death during the year. I don’t mind spending the money, because I know she’s getting a quality education with a God-centered curriculum and there’s no price to be put on that in this morally bankrupt world. I just wish I could pay one big fat yearly activity fee in August and be done with it, instead of $3 for the hay ride here and $6 for the trip to the dairy there. Mostly because I never carry cash and it annoys me to write checks for single digit amounts. Not because I’m one of those Oh dear, Lord, I can’t write a check because I opened my account in 1972 and haven’t had the sense to switch to free-checking so I’m still charged 10 cents for every deer- in-the-mist adorned check I write people who freak out if you even look at their checkbook. It just bothers me to write checks for piecemeal amounts. I don’t have a good reason for it bothering me, it just does.
The latest financial exercise was optional and included preparing a shoebox full of whatnots to be sent to an under-privileged child during Christmas. They were due today, and somehow, despite my child’s repeated mentioning of it every single day, five times a day, for a week, I neglected to remember to assemble said box. Upon depositing the child at school, I made arrangements with her teacher to bring the box by at the end of the school day. I then set out for Target where I spent nearly two hours (fifteen of which were actually box related.)
People on cell phones in public are annoying enough, but listen up, ladies. If you MUST chat during your entire shopping trip, keep it down. I neither care nor want to hear the sad saga of your son not making the football team. It is something, I suppose, that little Johnny was asked by the coach to be the team manager, as it may mean the coach has an interest in his being on the team one day. The best, though, is your relaying the heart-to-heart you had with Johnny to your phone pal. Especially the part about how it’s a big responsibility not just anyone could shoulder and it was a special opportunity (No, really, I don’t care who wins best picture. It’s an honor just to be nominated.) And that he’ll probably be expected to be in attendance at every game. But hopefully not this week because we have that thing, so make sure you tell the coach your great big special opportunity starts next week.
It really is no wonder so many teens want to commit suicide. What with having nothing better to read than Twilight and putting up with retarded parents and all.
In the checkout line, I realized I neglected to obtain a small notebook for my new job (I need a place to jot down computer stuff, hospital policies, etc. etc. Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do have a PDA, but I can’t enter info into it as fast as I can write it on a piece of good old papyrus, so shut it.) Anyway, I’m already in line behind the woman who, when her debit card is declined offers the lamest excuse for a rejected cared EVER.
I must have forgotten my PIN.
Or…you “must have forgotten” to put some pesos in el banco. Either way, you’re gumming up the works. And I’m pinned in on the other side by some coupon-laden, latte-drinking soccer mom in a baby blue J-Lo sweatsuit. Oh well, no big deal, there’s a Staples right next door. Surely they will have a small notebook to suit my needs.
Or not.
So now, I’m torn between going home (a 20 minute trip one way) or going Super WalMart (SWM) to look for the notebook. SWM is 15 minutes closer to the church than my house. I weigh the pros of home (potentially having e-mail from my friend Josh) against the cons of staying in town (wasting entire morning, don’t get to include never-opened Sponge Bob toothbrush from last dental visit in box, no wrapping paper.) Though it might seem an easy choice, there was actually a bit of deliberation on my part. See, Josh is kind of magnetic. (Not like the mini-calendar from the real estate agent that you can’t peel off the fridge, but like the tiny bottle from World-of-Coca-Cola with “real” Coke inside.) And SWM is not without its own siren song (read: Bob’s soft candy canes for 88 cents a bag.) Josh is magnetic, just not 37-mile-round-trip magnetic. I figure if I just give in and go throw some coin at Sam Walton I can get wrapping paper, tape, etc., and be done with whole thing in time to grab lunch and pick child up from school.
After an oddly not-unpleasant trip through SWM, I return to the car with the necessary items. Thanks to having finally acquired the Holy Grail of footwear (read: size 11 plain black flats sans patent leather, suede, or bedazzling) at Target, I already had a shoebox.
I’ve tried wrapping a present in a car before, and it is why I opt for the gift bag if I’m gifting on-the-go. But in this instance, a bag would not do. Not only must the box be wrapped, it must be wrapped like a present on TV—bottom separate from top so they can just lift off the lid. This particular method of present wrapping is a PAIN. IN. THE. ASS. under normal circumstances. There are no words to describe the process as it is carried out with manicure scissors in the front seat of a Honda Accord. Actually, there are plenty of words, but I won’t repeat them here.
After lunch, I head toward the church. I’m fifteen minutes early, which surely means I will be first in line at carpool, yes? No. I’m beginning to think some of the mothers just circle the drive and wait the whole four hours in the parking lot. They have to. There’s no other explanation for being that early.
As I wait, I punch buttons on my XM pre-sets to find something decent. I have the display set up to show song title instead of artist, so I know right away what’s on. Artist tells me nothing. Billy Joel? So what? Is it a song I actually care about (Rosalinda’s Eyes) or one I can’t stand (Uptown Girl)? Viewing by title makes more sense, but is not without drawback.
For example, Kelly Clarkson. I despise her. Not so much because I hate her music (I do) but because a lot of her songs have titles that are the same as other songs I actually like. Already Gone is one of my favorite Eagles songs. If I Can’t Have You is a great disco song written by the Bee Gees for Yvonne Elliman. Both Miss Independent and Because of You are nice, smooth R&B songs by Ne-Yo. Clarkson suckers me all the time with her me-too trickery. If not for her other craptastic titles (e.g. Behind These Hazel Eyes and Yeah) I’d say she did it on purpose, to lure people with decent musical taste into her putrid pop lair.
Sometimes, the display screen is not long enough for some titles, either, which is also deceptive. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Here Comes The… switched over, expecting to hear, “hotstepper,” but, instead, get Annie Lennox and her nails-on-a-chalkboard warbling about rain.
The worst, I guess, is when there are commercials on other channels and I don’t realize it at first. Boy, that Beta Prostate sure is a popular song. They play it several times a day.
I fetch the kid, drop off the box, and we make our way back home. In the car, she asks me a ton of questions I either don’t know the answers to, partially know the answers to, or have no clue what she is even asking. Who won Battle Octopus again? Why do barber shops have those candy cane things out front? How do people in wheelchairs go potty? Can I have some Halloween—I mean fall—candy when we get home? What would happen if the blindfolded shoe ate an apple? Get it? Apple???
I’ve had too many stimuli for one day. Brain all jumbly and head is hurty. I need to just lie on the couch with my iPod and listen to this great new group called Benecleanse.
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