That one time that I stole something from the Wal-Mart.

This post is brought to you by Mama Kat's Pretty Much Famous Writer's Workshop.  And by prison.  Which is where I'll go if any police officers or Wal-Mart loss prevention representatives read this post.



Long ago and far away, I had a high-powered career as a retail bookstore manager, where high-powered equals I worked a lot, career equals I got a 15 year pin, and manager equals I was the one who got to clean the bathrooms whenever someone had explosive diarrhea all over the walls.

It was a glamourous job, filled with travel (twice a year we got to stay in a hotel near the airport in Columbus, Ohio) and rewards unimaginable.  It was leading up to one of the trips that I began, and ended, my life of crime.

Here's some background.  At this point, we had a Regional Director (read: big bucks, no actual work) who believed in building what he called shared memories, which to him meant that at a three day meeting, we got to dress up in three different ridiculous outfits and sit in meetings all day dressed like that so as to lose any shred of dignity we may have once possessed all the while being gently goaded and/or violently threatened to SELL MORE STUFF.  Ah, how I miss those days.

This particular year, Day One was to be Dress As Your Favorite Character From a Book Day, Day Two was Dress As Your Favorite Sports Hero Day, and Day Three Was Hippie Day.

Good times.

I got online and ordered one of these, ironed a red "A" on the chest, and viola, I was Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter.   She's not really my favorite anything, but she's totally recognizable, even to a room full of bookstore managers dressed up mostly as Harry Potter, Hermione, Sookie Stackhouse and Harry Dresden.  I really love Caddy Compson from Faulkner's Sound and the Fury, but didn't want to spend the entire day explaining who I was.  Ok, Day One, check.

For Day Two, since I have exactly zero sports heroes, I - you guessed it - got online and ordered a baseball jersey with "The Beers" on the front, and "12 oz." on the back.  Drinking beer is a sport where I'm from.  Really.  I've medaled a time or two.  Day Two, check.

At this point, I had nearly half a week's salary invested in costumes for a meeting that was designed to tell us there would be no raises that year (true story), I decided to shop for my final costume at Goodwill.  Hippies donate stuff, right?  Anyway, I found some stuff, and used my mad sewing skills, an ugly skirt and a pair of $2 jeans to create these awesome pants:

Home Ec class for the win!

I also found some ugly platform shoes that looked like they were made out of hemp for $2, a vest for $1, and I made myself a headband with the rest of the skirt.  

I just needed a few accessories and I'd be done.

I needed a few groceries anyway, so I stopped at Wal-Mart, a place I typically avoid at all costs, especially after that time I got trapped in an aisle there.  I did my grocery shopping, then wandered over to the jewelry section, where on the clearance rack, I saw a necklace something like this:

It was perfect!  And it was on clearance!  Of course, it was from the Mary Kate and Ashley line, but never mind that.  I've always had tastes that are similar to those of a twelve year old girl.

I tossed it in my cart and headed up front to pay for my stuff.  

After the madhouse of the checkout lane, I headed outside into the bitter cold to load up my car.  

It was as I was unloading the last bag into the trunk that I saw it.

The necklace, the perfect Mary Kate & Ashley hippie necklace, had fallen to the bottom of the cart and was dangling out the bottom, held only by the tag, which was wedged on the side of the cart.

And I hadn't paid for it.

I immediate looked around to see if Wal-Mart security had followed me.  Was there going to be a take-down right here in the parking lot?  Maybe I'd make the next episode of cops.  Whew.  Ok, no security guard.  What about cameras?  Surely they were watching me on camera and getting my license plate number so they could arrest me later.  Plus, they knew my name.  I paid with my debit card and they could track me with that...

Clearly, I'm not cut out for a life of crime.

Ok, think, mj, think.  What would Chuck Norris do?  

I had three options.  1) I could push the cart, necklace still caught in the bottom, over to the cart corral and hope no one noticed.  2) I could untangle the necklace from the cart and go back in to pay for it or 3) I could untangle the necklace from the cart and put it in my bag and drive off like a bat out of Hell and never shop in that store again because my picture would surely be hanging on the bulletin board with the words "Teeny-bopper Jewelry Thief - If Seen Please Detain.  Crazy, Dangerous and Poorly Dressed." under it.

I ran through all the possible scenarios in my mind.  My conscience was telling me to "take the damn necklace back in and pay for it already!" but my super paranoid side was saying things like "They're never going to believe you.  They are going to think you are some sort of attention-seeking klepto with horrible taste."  What to do?  What to do?

So I made my decision, and wore my costume with pride, and even won a prize for second best costume of the day.  

Oh, and I'm not going to tell you what I decided to do.

I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

Reflections while running 10 miles. With Redneck Playlist!!!

So, I ran this race the other day, never mind the fact that I probably wasn't ready for a ten miler.  I did it, and I did it, and that's all there is to it.

The end.

Oh not really, silly.  There's a lot more to it than that.

I thought I'd give you a rundown, mile by painful mile, of everything in my head, and also everyone who passed me.  I hate them all.  Oh, and also what I was listening to on my iPod at the time.

You're welcome.


RACE STARTING LINE:  Me: Ok, I can totally do this. Oh dear - is that the crazy power-walking Asian I saw at the 10k?  I'm pretty sure her swinging arms gave me a black eye.  Lord, save me from the power walkers. Also, it is so freakin' cold I cannot feel anything that is not directly attached to my torso.  On the playlist: 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton.

1/2 MILE MARK:  Oh dear Lord IT IS HOT!  Jacket coming off, getting tied around waist.  Also, first dead thing spotted in the road.  Maybe it used to be a squirrel.  Or a dog.  On the playlist: Have You Left the One You've Left Me For? by Crystal Gayle


1 MILE MARK: Ok, I got this.  9 more to go.  No problem.  I. AM. A. RUNNER.  This is what I do.  On the playlist: Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? by Shania Twain


1 1/2 MILE MARK:  Ok, this isn't so bad.  HEY!  Are those guys passing me on the other side of the street ALMOST FINISHED!  WTH??!?!??!  I'm just getting started.  How is that even possible?!?!?!?  Also, it is HOT.  On the playlist: Trashy Women by Confederate Railroad


2 MILE MARK:  There are sure a lot of people passing me.  What's up with that?  Ok, Grandma, just run right on by me like I'm in reverse.  Also, it is freakin' HOT.  But I'm ok.  This is fun, sorta.  And my time is good, and I'm on pace, and I like to run.  Slowly.  AND... dead thing number two in the road.  A bird, definitely a bird.  On the playlist: Jose Cuervo by Tanya Tucker


3 MILE MARK: OH DEAR LORD.  Where did this hill from Hell come from?  Well, keep positive.  What goes up must go down, right?  Right?  I'll get a break soon because this bad-boy hill will go DOWN next.  Oh, hello guy with a fake leg.  No, you go right on past me.  I don't mind a bit.  I'm just going to hold back a little and conserve some energy here.   On the playlist:  Ain't Going Down Till the Sun Comes Up by Garth Brooks

4 MILE MARK: Ok, this is ridiculous.  How is it possible that this hill is STILL. GOING. UP? Pretty sure I'm going to get hit by an airplane soon at this rate.  Oops, dead thing in the road.  Might be a possum.  Or maybe a giraffe.  Am I drinking enough?  I feel sort of light-headed.   Oh, hi there lady in A SKIRT.  Not a cute running skirt like my friend Dianna wants, but a full-length denim number.  And...  you just run right past me, too.  I don't mind.  Really.  I have plenty of time to catch up.  Plus, you're probably going to trip soon anyway.  Ya know, ON THE SKIRT.  On the playlist: The Bug by Mary Chapin Carpenter

5 MILE MARK:  I am halfway.  UP. THIS. FREAKIN'. HILL.  And I am still going up.  What circle of Hell is this, exactly? Ok, concentrate, mj.  Pull it together.  You are half-way, you got this.  Hi Guy With a Do-Rag, Multiple Tats, an Eyebrow Ring and a WALLET ON A CHAIN.  It's clear sports and fitness are high on your priority list, so run right on by me.  I don't mind.  Really.  On the playlist: Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash

6 MILE MARK:  More than half way.  Hey, if this were a 10k, I'd be almost done now.  Wonder what's for dinner tonight?  I'm burning so many calories I can eat whatever I want.  Or drink.  Maybe a bottle of wine.  Or two.  I really like that Black Cherry I had the other day.  Well, hello, 8 year old boy and Dad.  Just go on, I don't mind if you pass me.  It's probably the kid's bedtime soon and you have to get home, right?  Go right on ahead.  Really.  On the playlist: Gotta Get Drunk by Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson

7 MILE MARK:  Three more miles.  I can do this.  Actually, I don't see a lot of other options.  I mean, I guess I could just sit down with those nice spectators for a while and text RJ to come pick me up here when he's finished.  OH, HELLO, paramedics on bicycles.  Can you give me a little ride?  Just for a couple miles or so?  Ok, fine, ride on by.  Clearly I don't look near death enough for you to aid and assist.  Didn't you have to take some sort of oath?  Whatever.  On the playlist:  Heaven's Just a Sin Away by Kelly Willis

8 MILE MARK: Two more miles.  I can do this.  Oh, hi dead thing.  I think we met before...  At this point, I'm not sure there is anybody else behind me, because I've been passed so many times...  Oh, guess I was wrong.  Go on Shadowboxing Grandpa.  Rocky much?  In other news, I can't feel my a$$.  At all.  It's likely a blessing.   On the playlist: How Do You Like Me Now?  by Toby Keith

9 MILE MARK:  One Mile Left!  I can do it!  I can do it!  Also, still no feeling in my a$$.  I may have to get a transplant.  Are a$$ transplants mainstream yet, or will I have to have surgery in some jungle in South America?  Sure, Richard-Simmons-Headband-and-Shorts-Wearing-400-Pound-Guy, go on ahead of me.  It's fine.  Really.  On the playlist: A Few More Rednecks by Charlie Daniels


9 1/2 MILE MARK:  OH. DEAR. LORD.  Another hill?  Not ok.  Just not ok.  Whatever, it's almost over.  At this point I'm motivated by the thought that I'll get to stop soon.  Oh, hello lady, just go right on by -  OH HELL NO!  I WILL NOT BE PASSED BY A POWER WALKER.  It's on, bitch.  Don't even think about it.  On the playlist: You've Got to Stand For Something by Aaron Tippin

FINISH LINE IN SIGHT:  I did it.  Where'd my a$$ go?  Where am I?  Oh, wait, wake up, mj and FINISH STRONG!    Hey, is that pizza I smell?   Cause I could totally go for a pizza right now.  *gagging a little* Or maybe I'll skip the pizza.  Whatever.  I. AM. DONE!  I. DID. IT!  On the playlist: Ready to Run by the Dixie Chicks




Also, as I was running 10 miles and writing this post in my head, it's quite possible I was delusional from the dehydration it was much funnier.  In my head.  That happens a lot, ya know.  Sorry 'bout your luck.

THAT neighbor.

When RJ and I decided to become responsible, mortgage-holding adults, we only looked at a couple houses before we realized a)we were picky and b)we were picky, and thanks to the suggestion of a semi-decent realtor, we decided to build.

Our realtor showed us several lots before we hit on just the right one - a couple wooded acres in an established subdivision but on a newly developed street.  As a matter of fact, we were the first house on the street, and we had it to ourselves for almost a year... But it was too good to last. 

Cue ominous music - DUH-DU-DUH!

Then, the neighbors came.

At first, we were ok with it.  Maybe we'd make some friends.  Maybe our kids (I was pregnant with zj by this time) could play with their kids.

Uh, not so much.

As the houses on our street began to spring up like mushrooms and the families began to move in, we noticed they all had one thing in common.  

They were all WAY older than us.  

Not like old folks home age, more like AARP catalog-getting age. 

Which is fine.  I like people of all ages.  But sadly, it meant no kids on the street for zj, then later cj, to play with.  

Which roughly translates to this - we are the only house on the street with a toy-strewn front yard.  We are the only house on the street that lets the children outside to - GASP! - run and yell and play, which is what kids do.  We are the only house on the street with a chalk-drawn rainbow and rocket ship on the driveway.

Most of our neighbors are friendly enough, if by friendly you mean they wave in our general direction if we are outside, and they do slow down to about 70mph when they pass our house because ya know, I shake my fist at them if they drive by too fast.

But directly across the street from us is THAT neighbor.  You'd know her if you met her, because of the fact that there is clearly a stick so far up her ass that it shows when she opens her mouth she is clearly of the uptight sort.   I'm not sure when I first noticed her glaring disapproval of my family, but it's there just the same.

Maybe I noticed it after I mowed the grass one time and she spent the rest of the afternoon SWEEPING THE FREAKIN' STREET to rid it of grass clippings, sighing loudly the entire time and ensuring that I now ALWAYS mow in a pattern that spews the maximum amount of grass toward her house. 

Or maybe it came to my attention on numerous sunny afternoons when she was on her front porch with a cold drink and a good book, only to get up, SIGHING LOUDLY, and stomp into her house the minute the kids and I came outside to play and now we go out any time I see her on the porch, whether we were planning to or not.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was when she PICKED UP THE LEAVES, one by one, that had blown into her yard from ours, sighing loudly, of course, and gave our beautiful tree the stink eye the entire time and I haven't raked or bagged a single leaf since then.

Or it could be the fact that every time she walks her dog and I try to wave at her, she looks away and pretends she doesn't see me, or the time UPS left their package at our door and when I took it across the street and rang their doorbell, she stood behind the curtain and never answered, even though she knew that I knew that she was RIGHT THERE.

Whatever.

It's not like I want to be friends with someone who, week in and week out, only has one bag of trash on trash day.  How is that even possible?  What does she do with the rest of it?  Never mind the time the lid blew off her trash can and I swerved the car to carefully avoid missing it.

Damn, it always looks so much worse in writing, doesn't it?  

Maybe some of the blame is mine.

But I can't worry about that right now.  She just came outside to vacuum out her car for the SECOND time this week, and I think the boys and I have some leftover fireworks from July 4th...

Your appointment is scheduled for...

In the mad rush to get zj to doctors and dentists and optometrists - OH MY! -  before kindergarten registration, I have made a startling discovery about myself.

I don't like appointments.

For someone who is as structured as I always have been, this comes as a bit of a surprise.

But given the choice between a set, scheduled appointment and a place that will let you show up willy-nilly and take you on a first come, first served basis, I will pick the latter, every single time.

In my head, it doesn't make any sense.  I've always preferred structure to chaos.  I've always had a schedule, and stuck to a schedule, come Hell or high water or whatever.

When I attempted to self-psycho-analyze this, I realized that it's not that I don't like having an appointment, necessarily, it's that I don't like it when the people on the other side of my appointment don't keep their end of the bargain.

For example, if I have an appointment at 8:30am, I will, without fail, arrive at 8:10, all necessary paperwork in order, payments in hand, ready for  action.  That means that by 8:30, I have been patiently waiting for my turn.  My scheduled time.  My appointment.

When 8:31 rolls around, I begin to watch the clock.

By 8:33, I am beside myself, because now I'm running late.  Clearly it's a reflection on me.

At 8:35, I begin to ask questions of the receptionist - did I have my appointment time wrong?  am I here on the wrong day?  - because it doesn't compute that this is about anyone else but me.

Of course, I realize that things happen.  Appointments run late, people run late, things happen to get in the way.

"But I'm always on time" my psyche whines.  "Why can't everyone else be?"

So I find myself more and more often preferring the places where no appointment is necessary - Walk-Ins Welcome.

Even if it means an inferior haircut, a cookie cutter experience, or a wasted afternoon patiently waiting my turn.

The whole intolerance for tardiness is likely something I should work on getting over.

But I'm not there yet.

Maybe I'll schedule a time in the future to do just that.

Unprepared.

Stylish much?

At the beginning of April, I have to register zj for Kindergarten.

I've known that for a while - like five years or so - but it wasn't until this week that it actually started to sink in.  In addition to the panic I felt about all the things I needed to make happen - doctor's visits, dentist's appointments, important paperwork to locate - I began to completely freak out about sending him out into the world.

I don't want him to go to school where I won't know what's happening to him all day and anyway school is dangerous and kids bring guns to class and what if he doesn't make any friends or somebody makes fun of him for something or what if he doesn't do well and what if his teacher is like Miss Nelson from third grade and is mean to him every day and makes him write sentences and OH MY GAH HE CAN'T EVEN WRITE A SENTENCE and clearly he's not ready and maybe I'll just redshirt him.  Or homeschool.  Yes!  I'll homeschool.  I'm a smart woman, surely I can do that, never mind the fact that I have the patience of a gnat and have not been successful this far at even teaching him how to WRITE HIS FREAKING NAME and he is NOT ready I'm not ready and who had the crazy idea that five was old enough to go to school all day long because this is clearly a plot by the government or maybe by those aliens from V that are trying to take over our planet and who regurgitate food into their kid's mouth and I can't send him to school and that's just THAT.

Ok, BREATHE, mj.  Just breathe.

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Zj will be fine.

I'm the one with the insecurities.  Have I done enough?  Been enough? Taught him enough?  How will MY parenting abilities hold up under the scrutiny?  How will I compare to the crazy-ass Mamas who have taught their five year olds how to conjugate Latin verbs and multiply fractions?

Not so great, I'd imagine.

But for once, I'm going to have to let it go.  This is SO not about me.

It's about zj, and HE WILL BE FINE.

But I reserve the right to freak out in private, any time I want to. 

Badass.

Here we are in 2000.  I'm not even going to begin to explain what we were doing.  Also, in looking for a picture of the two of us, I can safely say that in 95% of the photos of the two of us together, we are dressed in some sort of costume.  Ah... good times.

My friend Natalie and I have been through a ton of things together, including but not limited to: several marriages, one divorce, six children, some unfortunate hair dye that resulted in one of us having hair the color of a baby chick, more moves, bloody Marys and business plans than I can count, craft projects from Hell, a roller blading incident or two, and several road trips that required hourly bathroom stops because SOMEBODY has a bladder the size of a pea, and the last time we saw each other we showed up with the same hair cut, which is no small feat considering she has naturally curly hair and I do not.

However, it wasn't until recently that we separately, but nearly simultaneously, decided to get into shape, lose some weight, and begin an exercise program.

We have been supporting each other and maybe competing a little, because that's how we roll - both of us are Capricorns - and most of our talks and texts turn to the topic quickly.  I mean, what's more interesting than how many calories I consumed for lunch?  Our workouts have gone in different directions, though, with me focusing on my running and Natalie beginning the P90X program, which I tried for about a minute and hated.

She sent me a text the other night that said, "These exercises make me feel all badass."  That text was immediately followed by another one that said "Wait, is badass one word or two?"  Two seconds later, she sent me another one that said "You're Googling it, aren't you?"  I totally was, by the way. 

I responded with "It's one word.  When it's two words, it just means your ass isn't good."

Since then, "badass" is our new mantra.  When I ran 7.61 miles last week, I was badass.  Her 500 calorie burn on Kempo, TOTALLY badass.  There has been talk of bench pressing children, making snooty ladies jealous of our cute little behinds, and shopping for a new summer wardrobe together.

All of those things sound great, and I look forward to each and every one of them.

But really, it's just nice to have someone who is in the same place as I am, supporting me.  Because having a friend who will support you through all your craziest schemes, plans, setbacks, failures, successes and dreams, now THAT'S badass.

It's just between you and I.

Mama Kat told me to write about my pet peeve.  Really, you only have to ask once.


Hypercorrection: Hypercorrection is what occurs when someone deliberately tries to avoid making an error in the use of language but overcompensates and in so doing makes another error.  Basically, it means you use grammar that sounds all fancy-like but is totally wrong.  

I literally got chills typing the post title.

I'll admit, I'm a bit of a grammar freak.

Now don't go at my post with your red pen and tell me I use too many commas or use an occasional sentence fragment or a run-on sentence or paragraphs that are too short.

I know.

I know the rules and break them on purpose, which is totally acceptable.

It's called a VOICE, people, and I'm slowly finding mine.

Anyway, bad grammar makes me wince, but nothing is as absolutely grating as hypercorrection.

When I hear that, it says to me that you WANT to sound educated, smart, and grammatically superior, but that you cannot be bothered to LEARN THE FREAKIN' RULES.

Let me give you an example.

"He invited Susie and I to the party."

 WRONG.

It should be:

"He invited Susie and me to the party."


Since we're on the subject, let me give you a few more examples of what NOT to do.

"Hypercorrection is the most irritating thing to we grammar freaks."


"A message came for he and I."


"Whomever said that you couldn't go?"


Should be:

"Hypercorrection is the most irritating thing to us grammar freaks."

"A message came for him and me."

"Whoever said that you couldn't go?"

Ok, I'll stop for now.  On the off chance that you haven't already quit reading this post and clicked over to something that's actually entertaining, like Charlie Sheen's latest antics, I'll leave you with this.

The shirt I just happened to be wearing as I wrote this post.
Be afraid.  Be very afraid.