Amazed

Some days I'm amazed at my ability to not be a smartass. And every trip to the grocery store is like a test of my will power. I'm not joking. I think I'm being tempted to be snarky by having these people so deserving of the snark placed right in my path, just to see if I can withstand the pressure to laugh, snort, chortle, or roll my eyes.

Ah, the grocery store.

Yesterday, I was going through the refrigerated juice section, and there was a family of five standing around their cart. Three grown children, and the parents.

I probably wouldn't have noticed them if they hadn't been standing exactly where I needed to be.

Anyway. The son was holding up the generic orange juice, and he said, "It says the orange juice is from concentrate. That's not good. We shouldn't get this because they add all this other stuff to the concentrate, and it's just not that good for your body."

That alone is not reason enough to make me pause.

But the fact that their cart was stacked high with soda, Hamburger Helper, chips, and white bread made me do a double take.

I don't care what these people eat. Or drink. Or freebase. I just thought it was a little odd... and silly... to worry about juice from concentrate as opposed to freshly-squeezed when there's so much other over-processed crapola in their cart.

So I excused myself, squeezed past them, grabbed my gallon of OJ from concentrate, and went on my way.

Wordless Wednesday collage

Please tell me if the pictures don't show. I suck at uploading.

Redneck truck:

Look how high I am!

Fatty McButterpants:

I know I promised pictures of redneck trucks, but...

I've been just too lazy to upload pictures from my camera to the computer, from my computer to Photobucket.

But I've seen this super thing around blogs called Wordless Wednesday, and I think I'm going to adopt them for my blog, too (and I'll put the redneck truck in there). Some days I want to sort of update, but I'm too exhausted or apathetic to write about my extrasuperultraboring life.

I try not to complain about my life being boring and routine. Because I have friends who would kill for boring and routine. Boring and routine means that nothing is going terribly awry for now. And that's alright with me.

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I think Bean has been getting fevers associated with mosquito bites. The past few days, she's gone out in the backyard to play and come back with at least three mosquito bites. And an hour later, she's got a fever and a headache, and she'll nap for three hours. Her highest fever was 102.3, so not terrifying, but still high enough to give some medicine to bring it down. But she'll go to bed and wake up with no fever. But as soon as she goes outside and gets bitten again, she's got a fever again.

Our little area is rife with West Nile Virus in the mosquitoes, so maybe it's that. Or, my brother reacted the same way to mosquitoes when he was little. He'd swell up around the site of the bite, and he'd get fever. The pediatrician had told my mom that it was something like mosquito-induced encephalitis. Kind of scary.

So for now, I'm keeping her out of the backyard. I'm sure the bugs are just loving the weeds that have grown to the height of her knees. I've got to get her outside, though, or she'll start to get nutty. Maybe the park tonight.

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Speaking of the park, have you ever noticed how cliqué-y the park is with regards to moms?

I took Bean to the park the other day, and we were swinging.

A couple of (obvious) military moms showed up with four kids between them.

Now, I make a point of calling them military moms in particular because I live in a military town. And the park where I take Bean is very close to the army base, and therefore, a lot of military wives/moms take their kids there. And if you're not also a military wife and mother? Forget about it. They won't talk to anyone outside their little group.

Anyway.

Bean and I were swinging, and I was watching their interaction with their kids. Or lack thereof. They promptly parked it on the bench and talked on their cell phones while their kids called for them to come push them on the swings or catch them at the bottom of the slide. "In a little while!" the moms would call. Now, I understand having children. And I understand the exhaustion. And I understand just wanting to park your ass on a bench and let them entertain themselves. But it's what came next that sort of pissed me off.

One of the women's oldest boy, probably Bean's age, was on the tire swing. You know, they do it horizontally so three or four kids can fit on. Bean had been wanting to ride on it, but she was waiting for other kids to get on so that it would be more fun and more balanced. So she went over there to get on with him. I followed and pushed them so that they could swing and spin and laugh and scream. And because their feet couldn't touch the ground.

So I pushed them for about five minutes, and Army Moms just sat on the bench on their cell phones. Then the little boy's little sister wanted to get on, so I slowed down the swing. And the mom shot up and said, "No, honey, you can't. They're bigger than you and will go too fast." I told the little girl we were leaving in a couple minutes and that she could get on with her brother then.

So it was time to go, and Bean wanted to go down the slide a couple of times so I sat and waited for her. I looked over to the tire swing to see Army Moms piling all four kids on and spinning them and pushing them faster and higher than even I was pushing Bean and the little boy.

And then, as we were leaving the park area, Army Moms went back to their bench.

Huh. This might be nothing, but if felt very... exclusive. Like heaven forbid they might actually have to *gasp* speak to me. Or let their little ones play next to my kid.

I know it probably seems like nothing, but I felt like they didn't want to interact with me OR my child, and they gave some crusty old excuse to their daughter just to avoid the social interaction.

I really try to be friendly to other moms and kids when we go out in the hopes that I might make a new friend. Or that Bean might make a new friend. I don't know ANY moms around here, really. My husband's and brother-in-law's friends' women are slim pickins'. I mean, I like a few of them, but I wouldn't call them friends, and one woman I avoid all together because I just can't NOT stare at her boobs because they are ALWAYS.HANGING.OUT.



So, yes, tomorrow. Redneck truck. And maybe some other photos. Who knows?

Rednecks

You have no idea what I have to deal with on a regular basis.

I live out in a little community out in the country, sort of. And generally I like it, save for the times when I'm walking the dog on a dirt road at night, surrounded by a field that's just a little too "Jeepers Creepers"ish. And the neighbors' dogs. They bark every time I step out onto the back porch like I haven't been living there for, ohhh, 8 months.

But anyway. Rednecks.

I try really hard not to judge people. I do. Honestly. But every time I go to the grocery store, it's an internal struggle whether or not to photograph all of the insanity.

The family of five dressed in hunting camouflage shirts AND hats. Yes, really. Dad, Mom, and the three kids.

The family in which the dad AND two sons had the most spectacular mullets I've ever seen. It was like a man's haircut on the front and sides, all the way to the crown of the head. And then just long, stringy, unlayered shoulder blade length hair. And Mom even sported a femme-mullet.

The family of women, mom being in her 40s and wearing her overall shorts like I did in the 6th grade. In 1994. With the straps all snapped in place, but worn off of my shoulders so that the bib-type part was hanging down in front of my crotch. Don't act like you don't remember. The family of women who bitched the entire time in line, then proceeded to peek into my cart, survey the amount of groceries I had so that they could gauge how long I would take in line. All while standing half a foot behind me.

While all of this is appalling and unforgivable, the worst was the big bubba gas-guzzling extended-cab pick-up truck in the parking lot one day. I should've known when I saw the rear of it going into the store, and there were decals of all the folks' names in the family, including someone named Li'l Bud. On the way out of the store, I had the pleasure of seeing the front of the truck since it was still parked there. Along the top of the windshield, white lettering read "Kill 'em all, and let God sort 'em out."

Really. Really, really, truly, I promise. I said aloud in the parking lot, "Fucking rednecks, I swear." I handed my daughter a bag of fruit to hold while I rummaged through my purse to find my camera and fending off the question, "Mommy, what's a redneck?"

And I snapped a picture of the front of the truck in all it's hideous glory.

But because I'm low on time, I'll leave the photo for tomorrow. ;)

I'll be catching up on blogs tomorrow, too. I'll be full of comment-y goodness.