And a mild feeling of Drowning in Overwhelm.
We needed to get some photos printed for a hearing of sorts for the partially functioning house we moved into in late September. We also had an open house to attend, because … well, I have no idea … or maybe I do. Or something.
Thus, our plans for a drive to some quiet, country town, or beach, or somewhere away from here, with a car full of children bitching about having to spend time with their parents and siblings, for a bit of peace and quiet were thwarted.
Instead, I was trying to sort and copy photos to a USB as the screen dulled, the went black entirely and refused to do anything other than remain black, regardless of the number of times I turned the computer on and off, and yelled at people that “yes, I have turned the fucking computer off!”
Some Googling ensued and the old 19 inch square (but thankfully, flatscreen) was located behind several boxes and under fourteen layers of dust and plugged in.
Phew. Just a monitor issue, not a PC issue.
Although, in all honestly, the timing is somewhat shit.
Anyhoo, the children had been nagging, constantly, since about October 20th, to go to Highpoint to obtain some more Skylander Giants (more of that on another page), and Grumpy relented, but only because he needed the photos printed. Off we set, after first viewing a house that half suits our needs, on foot to the local massive shopping / homemaker / technology centre.
Photos first, where we were suckered into being shown the latest and greatest in home computer systems and I was left mind-blown and wishing for something that worked with such speed as these machines.
It was there that I recalled that a) Christmas was fast approaching and we had no idea what was going on, and b) the kids’ guitar concert was approaching even faster and I still had to get them their outfit to wear.
Basic; white button up shirt and black dress pants. One would think this would be quite simple. And, possibly, it is if you don’t mind spending the national debt of a developing nation for such items.
I do object, as they are literally worn this once and never again.
Still, white shirt, black pants, easy peas.
No. Oh, no, no, no, no, NO!
We wander around massive shopping centre, Grumpy oozing a veritable aura of grumpy-arsedness and making the experience much worse than it needed be. We visit all the likely outlets, only to have our hopes shattered each and every time.
(The kids did locate the Skylanders they wanted, however, and I was left feeling a little cheated).
Grumpy and I part ways to see what we can find. I find some men’s shirts, but that’s it.
I walk out, as Grumpy wanders out of the shop opposite.
“They have shirts,” he tells me. “And pants.”
We hugged and skipped around and danced and WOO HOOOed very loudly.
Into the store we go, rifling through shirts to locate the correct sizes, tossing pants at Monkey Boy and shoving him into a change cubicle with a harried “Try these on, hurry up!”
A sales girl, aged approximately 13 wandered over as Grumpy was sorting through the shirts to find one in Godzilla’s size.
“Can I help you with anything?” she enquired. Which we all know is mere lip service and she had already turned away, in anticipation of the standard “No thanks, we’re fine,” response that is, well, anticipated.
“Do you have this shirt in a ten?” Grumpy asks.
“Is there none up there in that size?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Grumpy says. “You asked if you could help, so I’m asking you to help.”
Meanwhile, Godzilla is lying on the floor peering under the door of Monkey Boy’s change cubicle. Monkey Boy, just this year, acquired a strong need for privacy when performing any activity that results in near nakedness.
Thus, he is near having a conniption.
Godzilla suitably chastised, Chippie takes up where he left off, I’m trying to determine if the pants Monkey Boy is allegedly trying on are the right size, and Grumpy Pants is having a debate over who is helping who locate an appropriately sized shirt.
Pants too big. But shirts located and Godzilla is now attempting to pull a partially buttoned shirt over his head in the middle of the shop.
Throw a shirt at Monkey Boy and return pants to rack where sales girl remains.
“Have you got these pants in a ten?” I ask as she hands me a pair in a size 14 and says “here you go.”
“Whoops,” she replies, going through the rack looking for the right size.
“And some valium, if you have any,” I continue, partly to her, partly to myself.
Her forehead creases, as she is not yet the legal age for Botox injections, and she continues shuffling the pants-laden coat hangers along the rack.
“Valium? Valium? Um … no, I don’t think we have any of those pants,” she replies, clearly concerned that I am aware of a children’s clothing brand that she has never heard of.
It’s not the first time this has happened. A few years ago I asked for some valium to be crushed into my latte at a cafe.
“Erm .. not sure if we have that. But we’ve got hazelnut syrup, do you want that?” asked the ‘barista’.
So, tell me … what do the youth of today do for relaxation?
I mean, if it’s not valium while you’re forced to go shopping with the kids, what do I need to be asking for?
And should I be concerned that they have never even heard the word before? What are our schools teaching these kids?