All Aboard the Crazy Train

Ever have one of those days where you put your hand into the pocket of your hoodie and pull out several pieces of wilted lettuce?

No?

Huh. Well, maybe that’s just me, after allowing Mr. E to run around the house shredding lettuce. This was, of course, after initially having handed him the entire head of lettuce, which he proceeded to throw like a ball. Maybe that was a bad idea.

Yesterday was a constant test of my patience. E was giving me whiplash with his going from screaming and crying to talking and laughing and back again in under five minutes. There was a lot of yelling on his part, mostly because I kept accidentally saying the word ‘cookie’ in a conversation with my sister.

Yeah, E knows all about cookies, and once the idea is introduced in our home, there is no peace until a cookie has been had. It’s the same way if someone says the word ‘bath’.

Instant melt-down mode. Cripes.

Of course, we didn’t have any cookies available, although even if we had at that point, E wouldn’t have gotten one just for screaming his head off about it.

Then again, there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do to avoid hearing him scream like that, so maybe I’d have given up and given in. I did, late in the day, take E to the store for a cookie. After the fits seemed to be over.

On Tuesday, I had a tummy-check appointment. Everything looks fine with our little girl, and I’m scheduled to do the horrible glucose test in a couple of weeks, plus getting a Rogam shot. That one is thanks to my blood type being negative, just in case baby girl’s is positive. Not fun stuff, but it’s kind of whatever at this point.

After the doctor, I took E to Walmart (of course I took him with me, what was I going to do, send him to work with his dad? That’s actually pretty tempting…). Amazingly enough, there were zero issues inside Walmart that were Walmart’s fault. The worst that happened in the store was…well…

Waiting in line to check out, there was a tiny, shrivelly old woman standing nearby. She had on a thick, fuzzy brown coat, and super-sized round glasses, and a red hat. I didn’t even notice her until E started pointing at her and saying, “Monkey? Monkey?”

Um, no kiddo…and don’t point, it’s rude!

The lady might not have heard what he was saying, but she saw him pointing at her and so she smiled and came over to pinch his chubby cheek the way old women seem unable to resist doing.

Outside at the car was where the trouble started. We have automatic locks. We don’t have a fancy new car or anything, but everything is automatic. I unlocked the doors, and while I was buckling E into his seat, I heard weird clicking sounds. When I stood up, I saw the trunk had popped open. I wasn’t even using the trunk, so that was odd. Then more clicking, and I watched the locks pop up and down on all of the doors for a minute before I went and slammed the trunk closed.

Just as I turned to get in the car, there went the trunk again. I slammed it, it didn’t even latch. I slammed it, it popped open. The doors were still going psycho. At that point, I realized I should probably pull the fuse that controls the locks, so I opened the glove box and was immediately overwhelmed- way too many fuses. No idea which one to pull.

So I settled for getting back out, slamming the trunk of my obviously possessed vehicle again, kicking the door, and yelling, “Where’s an exorcist when you need one?!”

Funnily enough, as soon as I started the car, all the craziness stopped.

However, unbeknownst to me, there was a lady sitting in the passenger seat of a truck just one space away from where I’d parked, and as I was getting into the front seat, she asked if I was okay. Quite aside from scaring me half to death because I didn’t think anyone was around to see my little episode, I didn’t know how to answer that. So I smiled sheepishly and drove away.

Thank God it was just a Walmart parking lot, instead of the one at the grocery store I generally shop at.

On a completely unrelated note, how much bacon is acceptable, or rather, necessary, for one BLT? Two slices? Three?

And, if you cook up most of a package of bacon, and there are complaints that there is not MORE bacon available, so you cook MORE bacon…

Is it acceptable, or rather, necessary, to kill the person who requested MORE bacon and then only ate ONE of the extra slices, leaving three behind that nobody else will eat?

It was shortly after this that I discovered the lettuce in my pocket. Really, it’s no wonder I’m losing my mind.