I hate all forms of shopping, except online shopping. I guess the older I get, the less patience I have for crowds of people. And I know that’s horrible, but I’m trying to be honest here. Costco is probably my most dreaded place with its shopping carts running about like bumper cars, food samples I can never eat, and the smell of Polish dogs being the only good thing about the parking lot.
Of course, I had to go to Costco yesterday with my mom to help her out. You know I love you when I agree to go to Costco with you. But know this: unless you’re my grandmother and you need the cart to help yourself walk, I WILL be driving that cart in that crazy store.
So there we are, my mom and I, braving Costco like all the other people who apparently don’t have to work on Fridays. Like, seriously, does everyone work from home like I do or what? Although our Costco memberships don’t expire until next month, and you can renew online nowadays, my mom insists on renewing IN PERSON. Some lady and her granddaughter are taking their sweet time with the customer service rep, who is the only ONE person helping out for membership. I guess that makes sense, because they need all the manpower they can get in Returns.
There are people returning toilet paper because it’s not the right kind of fluffy, someone’s blender broke on the first try, and a lady bought her husband the wrong size socks. The Returns line is like the monkey cage at the zoo, except there are no metal bars. I’m glad we aren’t returning anything, because if we were, I’m thinking that I would need a bar–and not the metal kind, if you know what I mean.
However, our line has some tension for a good five minutes. The lady with her granddaughter is still taking forever (and by “forever” I mean that I am temporarily a 12-yr-old not getting something quick enough) but my mom and I stand by. Then a woman gets in line behind us, but seems to have no knowledge of personal space. She stands in a way that really impatient people–even more impatient than I–do when they think it’s going to get them ahead of other people. You know the type: they think their errand is more important than everyone else’s, and besides, it’s only going to take 30 seconds. R-i-g-h-t.
So she’s standing right behind me, but slightly out of line, and I can hear her muttering and sighing deeply. “Gosh, this is taking so long…” Really, lady? Longer than the 10 seconds you’ve been standing behind me, breathing some of my air?
Finally, the Costco heavens open, two people are helped at once–in less than a minute–and my mom is renewing our memberships. Now that she’s feeling happy about doing this in person, I feel like an ass for arguing that she could have done this all online and saved us time. I mean, seriously? It took less than ten minutes and it’s not like I had anywhere important to go.
Then the shopping excursion commences. We go to get a present for my little sister’s birthday and I’m thinking that the rest of our experience will be uneventful. Wrong.
“You can’t have my apples,” teases an older man in the aisle.
Um, excuse me, but WHAT? We don’t want your apples, we don’t want to talk, and we’re busy. Can’t you see this, sir? But no, my mom–who, by the way, had a medical procedure this morning and is still on meds, at this point, that are equivalent to 3 martinis–decides to answer back. “Oh, why can’t we have your apples?”
And I just lean on the cart and want to shoot myself in the foot, wishing that Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility would present itself to me NOW.
My mom starts walking next to the Apple Fiend and asks where he got the apples so she can get her own later. Meanwhile, I find my sister’s gift and have to shout at my mom 3 times until she hears me. Typically, I have to call her twice, but the meds she’s on today make it 3. “Mom! Is this the one?” She leaves the old man’s side and says yes, and I haul the big box into our cart.
Note: My mom is totally fine, by the way. And if she’s reading this (but she won’t): I love you, Mom.
Next, we get laundry detergent in another aisle, and just when I think we’ve escaped Apple Man, he’s there, staring us down–no, like LITERALLY staring us down, apples and all–so I talk abnormally loud to my mom, making up a bunch of stuff and talking about moving out, so Apple Man doesn’t interrupt us. It works and I’m relieved. Though, I’ve now upset my mom about talking on the subject of moving–and not just out, but to a different city–and she says something like, “Well don’t rush it…” I refrain from using an expletive in my response and Mom just rolls her eyes at me. “Hey,” I point out, “I could’ve cussed.”
We stumble upon the meats and cheese section, where all the food samples abound. Except I can’t enjoy anything because it’s all breaded or glutenized in some form and my mom tries the samples while giving me sad looks. She refrains from telling me how good everything is, but I can see it in her eyes, and I hear it in her Mmms. Thanks, Mom, I wasn’t hungry anyway. At this point, I’m texting my sister, who is my only form of entertainment in Costco limbo, and I ask her to save me. But she’s no help.
When we near the never-ending lines of carts ready to pay and escape the torture, my mom announces she needs Co-Q10 and I argue that I’ll just order it online for her. But she gets a bit nippy and I respond to the effect of: FINE HAVE IT YOUR WAY AND TAKE CRAPPY SUPPLEMENTS. Yes, I’ve reverted back to being 12.
Next, my mom sends me to grab a packet of organic apples and I pray I don’t see Apple Man. Who knows where he could be looming now? I’ve never gone on a covert apple mission before this and let me tell you: it’s not easy. But I don’t see anyone creepy or familiar, and have success with my efforts.
I find a shorter line somewhere in the middle and Mom finds me. We pay, I grab the loaded cart, and we finally make our way out of the torture that is Costco. I’m feeling like I need a Valium and a yoga session and a puppy, but Mom is happy, so that’s all that matters. Once we get in the car, I can breathe again and am ready to face Whole Foods. Nothing but Namaste and rainbows over there, so I know I’ll live to see another day.
And that’s how I almost lost my salvation at Costco.
All images via Meme Generator.
I’m not a huge sports fan in the least, but I do enjoy baseball. And give me the San Francisco Giants? Even better!
Last night, my dad surprised me by taking me to the Giants vs. Diamond Backs at AT&T Park. We always have a great time, no matter the game’s outcome–which, sadly, our boys lost last night. The highlight of the game for me was when Pablo “Panda” Sandoval made a great catch at the shortstop position and was blowing a bubble at the same time–hilarious.
Typically, we don’t have too many “tools” sitting around us, but last night must have been the exception. It was like the baseball gods said, “Sorry, Tamar, but we’ve been WAY too nice to you for the past few years. Now you get to enjoy mediocre crazy tonight.”
Despite my annoyance, looking at all the interesting folks surrounding us was actually fascinating. Were I not a writer to the core, I may have felt otherwise. I began to think about the “types of fans,” just like any other “types of [insert cliche phrase or descriptor here]” articles. So, without further ado, I bring you…
The 6 Types of Baseball Fans
1. The Awkward Loner: The Awkward Loner typically goes to the game by himself. He is a season ticket holder and wonders where your friend–a fellow season ticket holder as well–is, only to deduce that said friend must have given their tickets to you (the NOT season ticket holder) for the night. (Which is obvious from the long and awkward stare you are given by him.)
The Awkward Loner never says a word–he doesn’t even audibly cheer–but considers himself to be a die hard fan. T.A.L. does clap, however, and will stand tall and proud when a good play evokes the crowd to explode from their chairs. But if the game gets sleepy, T.A.L. will leave early–without a word–and will also leave his water bottle behind as the only sign that he was even there in the first place.
2. The Social Media Mom: This mom is “young and hip,” and knows all the cool social media platforms. She buys her children their favorite treat to give herself at least five minutes of bliss to post said offspring’s ice cream cone and churro to Instagram. She also knows all her hashtags, and has more “following” than “followers.” And, you better believe she’s gonna Instagram that snack and her kid’s (adorable) face to Twitter AND Facebook. The world needs to know that her kid is the most talented ice cream licker this side of the hemisphere.
Even her husband knows the cue for an Instagram or Facebook moment. He’ll avert his eyes from the game–no matter how intense the play–to make sure he doesn’t get yelled at later. He can turn his smile on like a faucet, appeasing his wife, then frowns back to the field. At least S.M.M. feeds her kids.
3. The Late & Loud Fake Fan: This fan is late and makes a big deal about people being in their seat. Late & Loud “can’t find” their ticket by the time they get to their seat, but has a friend or two to vouch for them. Once seated, they will cheer for the team regardless of what inning it is–or if there are even players on the field. They also obnoxiously boo the opposing team, and ignore glares from the surrounding section of more subdued fans.
L & L really belongs at Happy Hour, but they like to shout and draw attention to themselves. And what better venue than a baseball game? This fan also chastises the rest of the section for not being as enthusiastic as they. Could this person be drunk already at 6:30pm, or did they simply skip their sedative today? The entire section lets out an audible, relieved sigh when Late & Loud decides to leave early to join friends at a local bar. Must be a fake fan to behave like that.
4. The (Wannabe) Gangster Group: The (Wannabe) Gangster Group hails from the nicer part of town, but dresses like they just rolled in from East Side Compton. Hats are on sideways like a 90’s rerun of Fresh Prince, and their girlfriends are sporting the Chola make-up. But everything “gangsta” about this group turns out to be an upgrade of ghetto fabulous. In fact, all they sport–including the home team’s paraphernalia–is designer brand.
The girlfriends become a little too loud and cheerleader status when they run out of beer. And you better believe that the girls will have their way and get a group photo with everyone flashing gang signs with their hands. At least they leave early to join Late & Loud at the bar.
5. The Sign Artist: The Sign Artist comes prepared with every fan sign you can imagine. He rhymes all the players’ last names in a beautiful ballad which he will enthusiastically raise in the air–like he just don’t care. But all of us behind him do care. The Sign Artist learns quickly to keep his masterpiece in the air for exactly 3.5 seconds until the crowd begins to complain. He will continue to throw up those posters until the game gets sleepy. At that time, he does not feel the team is worthy of his beautiful poetry, but will save his works of art for next week’s game.
6. The Avid Aisle Walker: The Avid Aisle Walker makes us wonder if she even knows the score–or that she’s at a baseball game, period. The first time she sweetly says “sorry” while tripping over your half-empty popcorn bag is fine, but by the fifth time, you’ve had enough.
Perhaps A.A.W. has bladder troubles and has no choice but to frequent the restroom. Perhaps she is responsible for feeding everyone in her group. I’d even be willing to throw in Restless Leg Syndrome. But every time she comes and goes, it’s the same: “I’m so sorry; thanks for letting me through…” empty-handed and no better at avoiding your feet just like the last twenty times. The only thing to save one from A.A.W. is to leave the game before she does.
Hope you enjoyed my post today! What are some types of fans with whom you’ve crossed paths? Feel free to comment and share below. Until next time…
Well, guess what this week was? Teacher Appreciation week! Kinda lame that we only get a week, but hey, I’ll take it! I got some really great treats and surprises from my students but that’s not what it’s about for me. No, I enjoy their notes and their giddiness while delivering my gift. After all, I don’t care how far we’ve come as a society; kids say the darnest things and they always will!
I recently gave my students a survey regarding the last academic quarter and asked for their thoughts, etc., basically giving them a chance to “grade” me. If you’re a teacher and you don’t have a teachable spirit/attitude, then I’m sorry to tell you: you’re in the wrong field. While reading through some of these precious, honest answers, I was deeply affirmed AND greatly entertained. Some of the things these kids write…well, I’ll share them with you because you’d have to see it to believe it. I will also share what I’d love to say in response if I could. Ha!
Questions (from me): How can I improve as an instructor? Is there anything I can do to help you be more successful in this class?
Answers (from students):
1. “You’re already a good teacher—I have an A.” So…I’m a good teacher only because you have a passing grade? Wow; good to know.
2. “Have mercy and let me turn things in to get my grade up…but now it’s too late.” Yeah, you missed the boat on that one dear. It’s called life; you don’t get ten years to do something you’re supposed to do on a weekly basis.
3. “Not really sure.” Hmm…I’m not really sure about you, either.
4. “Nothing at all! I think you are a wonderful teacher, but you should rap more—you’re FANTASTIC!” Cute. And yes, one of my hidden talents is making up raps for my students to memorize things.
5. “You’re such an amazing teacher, you can’t improve.” A.K.A. you didn’t want to really think about giving me a substantial answer. Ha! This child also drew me an alien ship abducting a stick figure, right in the “additional comments” section.
6. “Gimme the answers.” The answers to what? Life? The quizzes? Your homework? Sketchy…
7. “You are good enough.” Oh really? Because that sounds mediocre and I don’t strive for mediocrity. This child put a large smiley face in the “additional comments”.
8. “You are cool!” Umm…thanks? THIS child wrote, “I want pickles!” in the comments section. I don’t know if I will acquiesce to this request.
9. “Give me a hug.” Uhh…maybe.
10. “Meh.” Well, meh to you too.
Those are my top 10. Pretty funny, right? I can’t even begin to comprehend what goes on in their brains. I was a strange junior higher myself, but I don’t know that I thought the way kids do today—at least, in the case of my students. However, I absolutely adore them all and wouldn’t trade any of them for the world. Here’s to all my silly students and fellow teachers out there. Keep plowing through and find the humor and blessings in every day.
Pictures from heygirlteacher.tumblr.com.
Thought I’d post something on the lighter side today. I truly think it is important to be able to laugh at oneself and let me confess that I laugh at myself all the time. Seriously. I am one of the biggest goofs I know. Were I to be stranded on a deserted island, I would know how to entertain myself. Now, that doesn’t mean that I really am funny and that people find my antics amusing. For all I know, they may think I’m a complete psycho. Regardless, I am positive that at least someone will find these mishaps pretty damn hilarious:
There I was, getting ready for a coffee date. I had pinned my hair in tight coils the night before, securing each piece with two bobby pins. My hair is naturally curly and I thought, why don’t I help my curls along and do an overnight “set?” Then I’ll have fabulous ringlets when I unfurl each piece! What was a great idea turned out to be a hair disaster. See exhibit A:
After the initial freakout, I calmed myself down and thought, I bet a blow dryer would help this situation. Let’s see what happens. This is what happened; see exhibit B:
At this point, I was laughing hysterically. I mean, who DOES that?! I took pictures of each stage and sent them to my sister. Pretty sure it made her day. Well, the Lafawnduh look wasn’t for me, so I decided to wet my hair and see if I could scrunch pieces back into semi-normal curls. The only look I achieved was “wet rat”. Attractive. See exhibit C:
Finally, I busted out the blow dryer again and things were much better. Then I straightened my hair as quickly as I could since time was running fast. Still not my best hair day, but at least it wasn’t out of control. Sometimes I send those pictures to friends/co-workers randomly to bring smiles to their faces—especially if someone is having a bad day. Works EVERY time.
One more mishap I specifically remember took place almost ten years ago. We were having some of my friends over for lunch that day—cute, high school boys, mind you—and I wanted to make a lasting impression. What does a sensible teenage girl do to impress? Why, bake an amazing chocolate cake, of course! I followed the baking instructions to a T. Well…sorta.
I still don’t know what I really did, but…somehow, I added in too much butter. When the cake was ready to pop out of the oven, I opened the door and shrieked. About a half inch of melted butter was swimming over my beautiful cake. That couldn’t do, of course! Enter: good ole Mom to the rescue. Who knows if this is a real thing or not, but my mom said, “No problem, we’ll make it Texas Cake.” Huh? WTF is Texas Cake?? (It actually is a real thing; I Googled it. Click here for a recipe.)
Mom grabbed a bag of mini marshmallows and simply threw them on top of the butter cake. Because everything was so hot, the butter melted the marshmallows and the marshmallows absorbed the butter which=win/win. The cake itself was very good and oddly enough, the marshmallows on top (with all that butter) added a nice balance of taste to the cake. Though it turned out well in the end, I have been extremely cautious when measuring butter to this day. Lesson learned.
Does anyone have any mishaps they’d like to share? =)