Possumblog

And Sunday?

Well, everyone was still tired and grouchy!

Imagine that.

(Jim Smith, noted college professor, says I need one of these.)

Went to church, Reba got degrouched when everyone made a fuss over her cute hair, headed home, which engroucherated Oldest, who wanted nothing more than to eat out. Which was out of the question, seeing as how we'd spent the equivalent of the GDP of Senegal the past couple of days. Best just to go home and eat the food we had.

Yeah, I know--I'm a heartless bastard.

On to home, and had just got stuff put away when the telephone rang. Yalping and screeching and hooting and clamor in the background, which I figured meant it was Boy, checking in finally.

"HELLO? JONATHAN!?"

The next few minutes were spent shouting into the phone like I was Andy trying to talk to someone in Mt. Pilot.

They were at Six Flags. He was bored. They had gotten a plaque for participating in the band competition. He was okay. He was being good. He talked to Mom for a while. He was bored. He was okay. He was being good.

I think someone was homesick.

Hung up, ate lunch (yes, even Oldest decided it was fit for her gullet!), went upstairs and found that Boy had already tried to call home twice that morning. Poor fellow.

Oldest had an event to attend, so she took off for that, with only the slightest idea of where she was going, while the rest of us took off for Riverchase to go to the Target on 280. Why? Well, the handy rain check I had said that this store might have some of the gazebos in stock. We figured we'd go ahead and get it and then fix the wood platform, rather than the smart way. Why? Because I'm a moron.

Missed the turn, doubled back, missed the turn again, finally got there, admired the flocks of Canada geese (and their horse-sized piles of goose poop) that had taken over the parking lot. Went to the service desk and asked the girl if they could have someone bring me out one of the gazebos.

No.

I'm sick to death about hearing how customer-friendly Target is, you know it? I have never been impressed, and they invariably treat me like a horse-sized pile of goose crap whenever I go to customer service. How goldanged hard would it be to call to the back to a) check and make sure they still had some in stock, and b) have one of their mouth-breathing gits put one on a float and bring it to the front?

Pretty danged impossible, I suppose.

"Ahhhm, you'll, like, have to go back there? and go get it yourself? Mkay?"

Bee-eye-tee-cee-haitch.

Grabbed a nearby cart, and went back to where the gazebos were, and of COURSE, they aren't out on a shelf, because they're the size of a Buick even boxed up. Called on the red courtesy phone, got an associate who had to go to the register, type in the stock number, see if there were any in stock, then go back and get me one out of the stockroom.

Idiots.

As I waited at the electronics counter, Rebecca and I watched the long haired slack-jawed kid behind the cash register take a great deal of interest in adding rubber bands to a giant rubber band ball. Several customers came and went, but fortunately, none of them disturbed him in his important task. Heaven forbid he would have had to look up and ask them if they needed some help.

The girl came back with my gazebo, rang it up, and I was on my way, hating every single second I'd had to spend in there. Wouldn't be nearly so bad except Target has that veneer of snooty designer superiority that somehow is supposed to make up for the indifference and disdain of the "help."

Home, unloaded, got another call from Boy, who, it turns out, had spent nearly fifty dollars on garbage, and had wound up having to borrow money from his chaperone. YET ANOTHER LECTURE to come when this one gets home.

Back to church, and right as we were standing up to sing the last song, I felt my phone vibrating. Danged rat was calling AGAIN!

I walked out and found an empty room and he was calling to say they'd just left the rest stop at the state line. And as with each time before, I found myself shouting into the phone to try to get him to listen to me. Especially when he said that he didn't think he was supposed to pay his chaperone back for the money she'd given him. Long loud conversation ensued about not abusing people's good will and that yes, we WOULD be paying her back, even if she'd said he didn't have to. ::sigh::

We left the older two girls at the building for the young folks to have supper and a devotional and we headed home to await the triumphal return of Boy. Which actually wasn't long after we got home. I'd just gotten off my church clothes when the phone rang for the umpty-jillionth time, with the same insane asylum roar in the background, and he was about ten minutes away from school.

Got in the car, putted over to the school, pulled in just as the buses were parking, parked, got out, walked across the quad and waited. Found him, got his garment bag, gave him the five to go give his chaperone, who'd apparently alreadly left, so we came on home. He was worn slap out.

BUT--he did learn a valuable lesson. He'd gotten a Spiderman glove at Six Flags, and after getting it, wasn't really that pleased with it. "How'd you get that, son?"

"Someone guessed my age--and they said I was fifteen."

"So you won the Spiderman glove, huh? And exactly how much did it cost you for this person to lose his guess?"

"Five dollars."

"So, even though he got it wrong, he still has your five dollars, and you got a crappy toy out of the deal?"

"Yes, sir."

My mother calls these little incidents "learning experiences." I intend to make sure my children will be as sick of hearing it as I was growing up.

"Well, then, son--I guess that was a pretty good learning experience for you, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

Darned right.

And next time--if there is one--he knows there's going to be NO money for garbage. I've got a gazebo to pay for, after all.

Home, dropped him off, he looked quizzically at Mommy, who had hair when he left for Georgia, then I was back to the church building to get the girls, then back home, and I was just about to tell Reba the Ostrich Joke, but she got sidetracked and I wound up going to bed without telling her.

Anyway, that was my weekend.

Posted by Terry Oglesby at May 7, 2007 12:54 PM