It’s quiet here, about 11:30 pm in Ohio. I am reflecting on the day. Though it’s Monday, my house looks like a frat party just took place. I have a passed out boy on the sofa. I look over to the table and see one last bite of an Ikea cinnamon roll, stabbed in the back, laying lifeless on the table. I look over to the ottoman to discover a pair of neon green underwear. Suddenly, I hear hacking. Is it an 85 year-old-man, coughing up phlegm? No. It’s Chichi Barbados. My 400 year old Chihuahua that is never going to die.
After all my fun on Craig’s List scamming a scammer, I found a lovely woman with 2 boys of her own that I sold my son’s bunk bed to. My son is 12 and is ready for a more mature lay out. She came by today and picked up the bed. Originally I had the bed marked at $600. Because she is a fellow soccer mom, I sold it to her for $400. Once I had the 4 Benjamin’s in hand, I immediately text my friend N since she has a pick up truck that is on par with a 52′ semi, to take my ass to Ikea to pick up P’s replacement bed.
Ikea On a School Night….So Naughty!
Once in Ikea, my 8 year old and her 9 year old thought it adorable to run and hide behind EVERY…SINGLE…DISPLAY….including the aisle with 500 wine glasses. About 25 minutes into the jaunt, I was prepared to beat my son, Joan Crawford style.
At around 8:20, I took my place in a check out lane while N took the kids and drove her pick up truck to the will call area. This was perfect as this allowed us just enough time for her to hit up Sears for a patio table she had her eye on. Sears closed at 9 and it would take about 10 minutes to drive over. After about a 10 minute wait in line, it was my turn to check out. The sales associate scanned my products and I handed him 4 $100 bills.
“This is a credit card only lane.” He said.
“Come again?” I asked, as if he had just told me they only accept goats and virgins as forms of payment.
“This is a debit or credit card lane only.” He repeated.
I just went to the restroom as that is my “thinking throne” in an effort to remember what I said to him next and honestly, I can’t remember. I just remember almost mowing down 2 little brats that ran by me as I attempted to steer my cart into one of the 2 lanes that accepted cash.
By now I was so pissed I couldn’t even see straight. I sent the following text to my friend:
It’s true, as I waited in line, I sat on my 3 boxes and looked at the 2 women behind me. Though I questioned their grasp of the English language, I thought ‘fuck it’ and decided to rant.
“I waited for 10 minutes in that line over there,” I said while jetting my chin in the lane’s direction. “When I made it to the front of the line, I was told they only accept credit card. 26 lanes and they have 5 open. What the hell?”
They looked at me like I had just asked for a donation.
The Icing On The Cake
By now my Tamoxifen decided that right now would be a perfect time for a hot flash (I am no where near the age of hot flashes, I just happen to take an anti-cancer medication that causes hot flashes) and the woman in front of me announces she is contesting the scanned price and demans to speak to a manager.
Thank the teenage baby Jesus, the sales associate passes Margaret and Bob (no idea what their names are, they just look like a Margaret and Bob) over to the manager and begins to scan me out.
Once outside, we flag down an associate to help us load up the truck. Poor guy.
“I can’t get this strap on….on,” N giggles.
“Well did you put it around your bottom, tight enough?” I asked, giggling too.
The poor guy either has no idea what we are talking about or wanted to get the fuck out of dodge.
Later, N sends the following text to her husband:
“Have to drop off a huge load to Hot Mess’s. I’ll take the strap-on off first.”
“Oh my God! We are such 12-year-old boys!” I say while rubbing my hands over my face.