Every few months I forget why I swore off Voldemart, and I make a trek down there, thinking “Surely it’s not as bad as I remember..?” And each time, I leave furious, disgusted and swearing again never to return. That might lead you to think I’m not very bright. But I present  that I am actually just a typical mother, on a tight budget, and the monster mega-store shakes it’s ads under my nose and I cannot help myself from thinking that saving $2 on my bottle of Tide is worth it. It’s not. It never is.

{But there one thing Voldemart has that I cannot find anywhere else: Tampax ULTRA. They’re like 80-mm cannons for your period, and I’ve looked everywhere for them- only at Voldemart. Maybe the ladies that shop at the much cooler Target do not bleed like stuck pigs (or women who’ve birthed multiple babies?) but those suckers, which I discovered in Houston last October (because yes, on top of filing for divorce and showing my stuff to the world, Aunt Flo decided in the air over the midwest was the PERFECT time to visit) are the BOMB.}

Anyway… what was I saying?

Oh yeah. Voldemart. It sucks. And as far as Voldemarts go- mine is nice. It’s clean. The carts are all new. It’s big (is there such thing as a small one?) But it’s still a Voldemart. The quality of things, unless you buy a national brand, is just… icky. And why is it, without fail, that there is always someone screaming at their crying toddler, people smoking near the door, and someone who thought taking their baby out in only a diaper was a good idea? I know I’m playing to a stereotype- but seriously, every. single time. And I only go every few months.

I’m not sure what my point was, except that I need to do a brain dump from today. It was a horrendous day.

***********

Dear Lady at the Stop Sign: We are not in a relationship. The little dance forward and stopping is completely lame and a waste of my time. If you don’t know enough to know the person on the right goes first, that’s not my problem. It’s also the extent of our interaction. The end.

Dear Lady in the Parking Lot Who Didn’t Like My Cart-Parking Skills: Shut it. If I told you I was hemorrhaging and was about to leak through all of my clothes, maybe you would cut me a little slack? But I don’t feel like I should have to explain that to a stranger in a parking lot. So light another Pall Mall and suck it.

Dear Teachers: Yes, I know I was late to my son’s Mother’s Day presentation. You see, I do this gig entirely alone, and your presentation was at the same time my other son got out of school, and I had to organize a substitute for carpool and  had to pull my other kid from his school to even BE HERE ten minutes late. Also, my daughter peed her pants on the way here. But I’m here. That’s all my kid cares about. Quit with the looks. And yes, my kid picks out his own clothes each morning- it’s not a fight I pick. I am not insane.

Dear UPS Store: I will never cross your threshold again. Because of you, I did not get my boxes shipped today, and they still sit, packed and labelled and ready to go, in the back of my car. What, pray tell, is the point of calling yourself the UPS STORE when you cannot accept a UPS shipping account number? Useless. I don’t have time to go downtown tot he UPS hub- you see, I am already late for my kindergartner’s Mother’s Day presentation. Suck it.

Dear Road Construction Disaster at the Biggest Intersection in Town: WHY? I mean, really? Six lanes into ONE? WHY?

Dear Person in the Construction Zone on the Wrong Side of the Orange Cones: Yes, you were driving into oncoming traffic. I know it’s confusing, but usually you want to drive on the right side of the bright orange cones/barrels. You’re welcome. You’re also lucky I was in a good mood and let you in.

Dear Children: I love you so much my heart cannot contain all the smooshy lovey mama feelings. You are the lights of my life, and I would lie down on railroad tracks for each of you. But I cannot bear another pen mark on my table, my walls, your clothes, or your arms and legs. I have thrown all the markers in the house in the outside trash. If you try and find them, I will rip your little arms off and feed them to you for dinner. Also? the next child to give Bean a wedgie is on timeout forever.

Dear Excedrin: I love you. Please don’t keep me awake all night. But if that is the bitter cost of you annihilating my headache, I love you anyway.

Dear Washing Machine: Thank you. Thank you for being able to handle that kitchen rug I gave you, despite all the mud and sand. Thank you for dispensing with the dirty jeans and pee clothes I constantly throw at you, and doing so without a complaint. I love you. Without you I would have to haul all this crap down to the river and beat it on the rocks. And I would also be insane. Did I mention I love you? I do.

Dear Children: The next person who calls their sibling Poopy-Head or Stupid-Face is going to have a soap snack. I promise.

post script…

Dear Children: Thank you for smelling so nice after your baths. Thank you for getting your jammies on, and for not complaining about the doctor cream your eczema needs while I slathered you up. Thank you boys, for coming to kiss your sister goodnight, and for giving everyone butterfly kisses. Thank you Abby, for knowing how to read, and reading me The Little Engine that Could tonight, much to my surprise. Thank you for waiting 12 days past your fourth birthday before asking how long before you could have FIVE fishy-kisses at bedtime. Thank you for reading quietly under your covers with your little blue flashlight Jeffrey, so as not to keep Bean awake. You might have given him an atomic wedgie earlier, but you were sweet to him at bedtime. Thank you washing machine, again, for churching away at the mudpie jeans that came off before the baths tonight. Goodnight children, good night kitchen, goodnight laundry… Good night everyone and goodnight you.