BRAKE!

Oh, Sweet Jesus. I almost had my arms ripped off this morning.

I was minding my own business at the Return desk, managing to not put off the "die die die" vibe.

This woman came in, tried to unplug the entire Seasonal department while getting onto one of the motorized carts (those're starting to be a theme, aren't they? Worse than the hanging baskets of yore) She gave up trying to wrench the orange cord out of the wall, and decided to do it the easy way--she'd just drive off on the thing, and it would unplug on its own.

I manage to get her attention, and tell her that I'll make sure she's unplugged. Problem was, she was already unplugged. BUT she had her overly large purple sweatpanted ass on the cord for the cart next to her.

Without a word, she waited until I was behind the cart she was on, and then tried to speed off.

I say tried, because, well, my body weight works as a brake when the cord your fat ass is sitting on is also wrapped around my arm.

I holler for her to stop. She does. I say, "Ma'am, the cord for the other cart is wrapped around this cart. Please give me one minute..." and she tries to speed off again.

She stops again. I explain that she's SITTING on the plug (the fact that she can't feel it justifies my call her a huge-ass moron now.) I ask her to lean forward so I can remove the plug. She shifts her shoulders. WOW. Big help there, toots. Thanks.

She tries to speed off again, and again, I'm yanked around. Hell, at this point, I'm lucky I'm only being jerked around behind the dammed cart--if I were in front of it, she'd be searching for a manager to ask why there are speed bumps in the entryway.

I finally manage to apply enough pressure on the cord for the plug to pop out from under her enormous ass.

She speeds off, this time for reals. I can only assume no one else was harmed in the making of this post.

Oops! I Forgot!

The Cry-Me-A-River update:

A week or so ago, she was in to the store on her day off. Of course, she brought her spawn, and probably hung out in the breakroom with them for at least an hour.

Anyway, when she left, she was following another employee out of the parking lot. The light was red, but he did the smart thing: he stopped, looked, then made his right hand turn. CMAR? She just followed him out. Never looked at the light, never bothered to stop, didn't even expend the effort to LOOK to see if anything was coming.

She got T-boned (yes, kids in the car.) Oh the DRAMA! She did break her arm and of course, an ambulance was called. Kids were A-OK, because God watches over fools and little children.

The kicker? Turns out she doesn't have a license, either.

Yet Another Weekend

spent with the ILs. It was fun; it was busy; it was Dad's 80th birthday.

But what I want to share today are some pics of the World's Crappiest Parking Lot. Yeppers. WalMart, in Inlawville:

It probably doesn't show up here, but there are cement islands, which would normally help the flow of traffic, but which basically create dead-ends and narrow throughways.

There are no less than 4 angles at which you may park, all of which are used in every aisle.

There are "one way" aisles and "two way" aisles occurring with no discernable logic--usually a two-way becomes a one way in the middle of the lot, with the only indication there is a change of direction being the cement island which appears of of nowhere.

How we have managed, in several trips over the course of several years, to not end up with a car that is metal hash, is beyond me. Every driver in the place is so busy screaming to him- or herself about how stupid the parking lot is, I'm surprised anyone gets into the store to shop.

Oh, one last thing--there's ONE way in and ONE way out--and all the lanes converge at the traffic light.

We're going there in a month, and I'll try to get better, clearer pictures of this planned fiasco then.

Driving Me to Distraction

Toad turned 18 yesterday. YAY!

First, I want to say that he is old enough to be 18. I don't think (or feel) old enough to be the parent of an adult. Not that he's overtly adult anyway.

There is, apparently, a grace period for those who have trouble with reality--that would be the Toad. He doesn't graduate from HS until June, so he's got a 6 month grace period in which to become a functional adult.

Yesterday, he also took his driver's test. He passed. He's now sanctioned by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to handle a vehicle weighing several thousand pounds.

It adds another dimension to my role as *Damage Control.*

You see, when he was younger, say, about the Howler's age, I discovered that my main function as a parent was Damage Control. The difference is that now, it really is as much "Damage to the world as well as damage to him" in meaning.

Pray for me; coupling this with turning into my mother does not bode well for my life, either.

Less Than 30 Seconds

It takes less than 30 seconds for your entire life to flash before your eyes.

I learned this today when I was sitting in the passenger seat, doing a very good job of not hitting the fake brake.

Toad was driving, and doing rather well--for a beginner. Really.

Then, we come to the Blinker Light (known because at some long ago time, it blinked all the time.)

He's going to make a left hand turn, and he does, dammit! Right between moving vehicles. How I didn't soil myself, I do not know. How I did not swear I do not know. How he didn't see VERY VERY large vehicles bearing down on him as he swung into the turn, how he didn't see the cars that just swooshed past him as he swung into the turn, I do not know.

His glasses were clean (I checked 'em before we left the house.)

I was still shaking 20 minutes later.

He was wondering, shortly before this, why I insisted on telling people, "Toad is driving. PRAY FOR ME!"

Toad on Road

Theo finally got his learner's permit. Yep, the boy is driving. Mostly in parking lots, and not over 35 miles an hour, but he's driving.

God help me.

I've managed, so far, in the little time we've spent with him behind the wheel, to not turn into my mother. It's not easy.

He's actually not doing that badly, but I remind myself, "it's early yet."

The worst thing I've shouted so far is "BRAKE!!!!!" and I think I've only grabbed the dashboard twice. That's pretty good; I've got issues.

Great big fat control issues. Even the Nut Guy wouldn't touch them. Smart man. Anyway, I do have control issues. I like to be in control. I like to be the one deciding whether or not I'm going to go headfirst through the windshield and I like knowing that if I do end up embedded in a hillside, it's because I put me there.

Luckily, after 17 years, The Toad has figured this out. He can't figure out how to do homework and pass English, but he has managed to figure out that I like to be in control. And that I can only take so much of his tromping on the brake (even at 1o mph it can be rough on you) and he's been understanding of that.

He's also been nicer to be around.

I hope it lasts--his nicer attitude, my nerve, and the brakes on my van.