Lamont's Pile

I freaking hate Wal-mart. I guess there’s just something about those stupid, antagonizing smiley faces and cheap plastic wares that bring out the people who observe no semblance of societal rules. Now, if I wanted to see hoards of people dressed in inappropriately sized clothing, or say I enjoyed coming across a poopy diaper roll in the discount DVD bin, or perhaps being blocked into an aisle by several adults and their combined 78 dirty, screaming children having a conversation like they’re sitting on the porch, then I would go every day.  But alas, I do not enjoy this. Not even a little.

Unfortunately I live in one of those little towns that Wal-mart has killed. There is simply nowhere else to go for certain items. For this reason I find myself, a head cold dampening my normally chipper attitude, headed toward the giant blue W with a wad of tissues in my pocket. When we arrive, the parking lot is nearly full. Terrific! I try to psych myself up.

“Now, Molly, it’s only going to be worse if you go in with a bad attitude. Be calm, be patient and this will be over before you know it.” I take a deep breath and head into the store. It is strangely empty given the number of 15 year old minivans in the parking lot. Ok, so maybe this won’t be so bad. I look at Dewie. 

“What do we need?”

“Well, you wanted to get some garland and maybe another string of lights and we need toothpaste in the big bathroom, you wanted to see if they have that Diva Cup knock off thing here, and while we’re here we might as well get bread and we’re out of butter.”

“Ok, so we make a circle? Get toothpaste first?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As we round the corner into the toothpaste aisle, we encounter a child, probably 9 or 10 (WAY old enough to know better) pulling random toothpaste off the shelf and making a pile in the middle of the floor. His name is Lamont. I know this because his father keeps saying it. His father has his back turned, looking at the deodorant on the opposite side. Without even turning around to look at him, he keeps repeating, “Lamont! You better not be into anything over there. I mean it. (He apparently means it.) Lamont! Are you making a mess? Lamont! Lamont! Lamont!” Unable to get the giant, probably unnecessary cart through the aisle, I can feel the rage bubbling up from my guts.  Dewie grabs the sleeve of my shirt and whispers, “We’ll just go around.” But this is not to be. Evil Molly takes over my body. Well, my mouth, anyway.

“AY! Lamont! You serious with this crap?” Lamont looks up like he’s just come out of a trance and the dad finally turns around.

“Damnit, Lamont! Where is your mother?!” The man grabs the boy by one arm and starts to pull him down the aisle. “RITA?! RITA!? Where you at??!” It’s like a tic. He can’t stop repeating it. Loudly. The boy looks a little shell shocked, shuffling behind with wide eyes.

As he passes, I can’t help myself from saying, “Ooooh. Lamont, you in trooooouble. “ I know, sometimes I’m temporarily taken over by a five year old. I’m working on it. Well, not really. I kind of like her.

We pick up our brand of toothpaste from the pile in the floor and head over to the Christmas decorations. I found everyone. They are huddled over bins of wrapping paper and crowded around shelves of glittery ornaments. I stop dead in my tracks. I notice a couple of varieties of garland on display on an end-cap, well away from “Santa’s Workshop.” I grab the best of the choices. “I like this one.”

Dewie looks confused. “Thought you wanted something with brighter colors…”

“I LIKE THIS ONE!!”

We quickly acquire the remaining items on our list without incident and leave the bright lights and smell of corndogs behind us.

In a related note, if you’re female and menstruating, check out the Diva Cup. It looks awesome. (I just lost 80% of my male readers right there.) PERIOD!! TAMPON!! (Ok, there went the rest of them.)

Food and Me. I'm Thinking a Fall Wedding...

I was surfing the internet recently when I came across a format for keeping a food diary. It’s an idea that’s always intrigued me because I really have no idea what I put in my mouth during the course of any given day. There wouldn’t be any excuses, I couldn’t explain away that extra half a sandwich or just pretend it never happened. It would all be right there, in black and white. Terrifying.

My relationship with food is somewhat unnatural. I have never understood those little skinny girls that claim to “forget to eat.” Really? So that gnawing pain in your gut didn’t tip you off that you might be hungry? Let’s get real. No one forgets to eat on a regular basis. It’s a just a convenient excuse for you to explain away those size zeros without disclosing your incredibly dangerous eating habits. I’m exactly the opposite. I convince myself that handful of chips didn’t count because I was looking for some lunch when I ate them. They weren’t on a plate, so it wasn’t actual eating. Food comforts me and excites me. As much as I like to drink (that’s a totally different blog), food is my drug of choice. I’m beginning to realize that as much as I love it, it might be best if we started seeing other people. You know, before I start wearing sweat pants not just out in public, but exclusively.

So. The food diary. I guess the whole point is to see how many calories you’re consuming in addition to acting as sort of a determent since writing it down would make it real. So here we go. I wake up and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. During this normally routine act, one of my cats decides that my bare leg is a scratching post and I accidentally swallow some toothpaste. Does toothpaste have calories? Do I need to write this down? It’s not a normal occurrence; usually I’m really good at brushing my teeth. I make my way into the kitchen and make my coffee. I splash in some flavored creamer and a spoon of sugar. I put an Eggo in the toaster. When it pops up I smear some peanut butter on the hot waffle and take it, my coffee, and my food diary and sit in front of my computer. I start to write down what I’ve had so far, and it looks something like this:



Yeah, I licked it, and I did a little dance too.



Midway through trying to find out how many calories are in a “smear,” I realize that I’m on my third cup of coffee and I did not enter it into the diary. Apparently I would have to measure stuff if I were to effectively do this. I say, “would” because I have no intention of actually doing that. I’m not turning food into a chore. Maybe I’ll just stop eating while I’m deciding what I want to eat. That will probably help a little. Now where’s my drawstring pants? No the really comfortable ones with the knot set on “lounge?”