Wishing for a swift death

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

So, "bah humbug" may not be in my repertoire of catch phrases, but if you thought I was making grumpy faces the other day, well, I must have looked like I had Ebeneezer Scrooge superimposed on my countenance last night.

Slow, painful misery.

The presents have already started coming. I. got her second Barbie in a week (and she knows very well that I would never, ever get one for her). Of course leveraging the opening of presents against her completion of homework tasks was minimally successful, but alas, we had to brave the ice-storms of consumer hell for other reasons.

A hair cut. She didn't want it and I had to bribe her with the subsequent shopping trip (which of course was already a foreseen necessity, but I never fail to get mileage out of necessary evils - parenting tip #213). She wanted new shoes, but I did the proverbial "we'll see". Horrible, horrible holiday music. Gaudy lighting. Bad haircuts. I.'s wasn't so bad, but the stylist seemed to be agressively criticizing the fact that she had a cold. Yes? She has a runny nose, what do you want from me? Please don't piss me off with obnoxious small talk. Ok, so I said none of those things, but I was thinking them. Some people just don't know when to stop trying. And I hate that you have to tip for haircuts. It isn't about the money, just that it seems so counterintuitive. Here, thanks for not shearing her scalp... so what if it is a little uneven... yeah, my kid can't keep her head still, if you had let her face me, she wouldn't have kept turning.

Then on to the unnamed huge chain store of torture. My throat begins to close and the Salvation Army bell, that doesn't stop ringing in my ear no matter where in the store I am splits a hole in the side of my cranium. Meanwhile I. is in her element. "Shoes!" she declares. "No, we need to get your costume." Damn school play. That is what I get for having my child do enrichment activities. And you would think that in such a store they would sell simple white shirts for girls. No such luck. I got the LAST PAIR of black tights, and ended up buying a white leotard because there was not a single shirt without gaudy pink writing or multi-colored sequins. So much for simple classic lines and solid colors. Then of course there is the law that no matter what line you choose you will be made to wait the requisite half hour, regardless of whether there are 2 or 22 people in front of you. There should be a motto "Ineptitude is our claim to fame". GAH. I contemplate leaving all the merchandise behind, including the gum that my child has wangled, as we stand in the stagnant check-out line. But where would I go? No, I am bound by motherly duty, even though I managed to avoid the purchase of yet another pair of shoes.

And the bell grows louder as we draw near the entrance. "Merry Christmas" calls the woman. Yeah Merry #@$%! x-mas. I have given up on correcting people's religio-imperialistic assumptions, and simply grumble, "You too."