Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Why Dave Barry is My Hero

When I was younger I never knew that writing could be, well, funny. Sure I had read such childhood staples as Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Super Fudge.  And in 5th grade I anxiously awaited the last half hour of each day when my teacher would read a little of James and the Giant Peach or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Hearing about Grandpa Joe, Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina lying in one bed too old to move, while now I perceive as somewhat creepy, was comical to my 5th grade mind. As was the idea of a garden where everything was edible; lollipop flowers; trees that produced gummy bears; cream-filled mushroom caps and a chocolate river. Who am I kidding, I still think that is as cool as hell and would love to have one. True I would probably gain about 100lbs, but who would know? I mean, if I had all of that why would I ever need to leave my house again?

As I got older, and by older, I’m talking middle school and high school, we got into books such as Of Mice and Men, Sons and Lovers, A Tale of Two Cities, and, what in my opinion is one of the worst books ever written, The Sound and the Fury. (Curse you Faulkner!) I’m sorry, but any book where you have to go through and use 3 or 4 different color highlighters before you even begin reading it because the author drifts from one subject or time period every other sentence or paragraph is not a great literary work. It is a cocaine or acid trip, or at least that is what I hear, but not literary brilliance. Anyway, not exactly knee slapping, belly laughing, tears coming out of your eyes humor.

Then, one day, while skimming through a newspaper, a headline caught my attention: The Easter Bunny Caper. The first line read: 

"Like most people, you probably often ask yourself: ``What, exactly, are my legal rights if I am wearing a bunny outfit?''



Not your typical Detroit News article. I was intrigued. I thought, wow, what are my rights while wearing a bunny suit? This is information that may one day prove valuable.

As I continued reading the story of a man and his friend that were pulled over for allegedly wearing, you guessed it, a bunny suit in a town that apparently frowns upon that, I began laughing so hard, orange juice came out of my nose (did I not mention I was drinking orange juice), tears were streaming down my face and my gut hurt so bad I almost threw up. All of which to me, are tell tale signs that something is really funny. 

I began reading the weekly column of, what to me, was this prolific comedic genius writer named Dave Barry. I eventually moved on to his books which describe such things as the time when he was at a snooty sommelier competition and everyone was critiquing the wine that was being served. Some said it was too oaky; others thought it was too dry. Dave offered up his own description to the pretentious crowd: “Bat urine.”

I love this guy!

So thank you, Dave Barry, for showing me that writing can be funny and entertaining. I like to hope that someday, someone will compare my writing to your’s and in a "She has the writing style and wit of Dave Barry" and not, "This girl's writing sucks! She is certainly no Dave Barry." To this day, you taught me that it is perfectly acceptable to prefer humorous, sarcasm infused literature greats as Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits, Shit My Dad Says and Go the Fuck to Sleepover such classics as Catcher in the Rye, The Good Earth and as I mentioned above, The Sound and the Fury. After all, sometimes I think people read those books so they can say they are well read and appear intellectual when really, like me, they would much rather be reading the funny papers. Will that insatiable Garfield ever get his lasagna? What mischief will Marmaduke get into today?

Now, if you will excuse me, being fully aware of my rights, I am going to go test exactly what I can get away with wearing a bunny suit. Don't worry. I have my lawyer on speed dial just in case.


Sunday, February 5, 2012

Shameless promotion for myself and A-Z Challenge

Good Morning!

Just a quick note. My blog is being linked in a promotional blog on the A-Z Blogging Challenge website. (Wow, that's a lot of "blog" in one sentence.) Be sure to check out the A-Z Challenge page and sign up. You can also click on any of the blogs in there for some advice on the how to tackle and survive the challenge.

Good luck and don't forget to check out my blog about the challenge, as well as my other blogs because, well I said so.

Happy Super Bowl Sunday!

http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/

Thursday, February 2, 2012

My Time as a Smurf



Dyed black for Halloween
I have commitment issues...with my hair. If it is blond, I want it brown. If it is brown, I want it red. If it is red, I want it black. If it short, I want it long and if it is long, I want it bobbed. For some reason I have an easier time committing to a house or a boyfriend than I do to a hairstyle.

Red hair -the night I was mistaken
for a transvestite.
My hair, fed up with my fickle behavior, retaliates by being baby fine and refusing to grow long. I have even tried to woo it with lavishly thick lavender/vanilla conditioners, boar-head bristle brushes and refraining from dying it blond for 2 years. (Which, by the way, have been the longest 2 years of my life!) I believe my hair is still getting back at me for the perm I got in 5th grade, followed by years of late ‘80s-early ‘90’s teased to capacity hair cemented with Rave No. 5 hairspray. WTH were we thinking?


90's hair- Sexy isn't it?
Still, one day, my hair went too far.

I was a suicide blond and had been for a while. I decided I wanted to start over and try to build a long-lasting, healthy relationship with my hair. Never partial to my natural color, a mousy brown, I decided to dye it a chestnut brownish-black and have it chopped into an inverted bob. The cut came out great.

Golden blond
Money was pretty tight, so I decided to color it myself. I had always been pretty good at doing that, so I had no qualms about tackling the task this time. I bought my color, which upon examining the box, said it was done on the blondest of blond hair. I thought, Great! This is exactly how it should come out.

Um…nuh-uh.

After putting in the color and rinsing it out, I took the towel off my head and noticed a blue tint. I thought Ok, it is probably just my eyes playing tricks on me. I combed through it, flipped my head over and blew it dry. When I flipped my head back up my mouth dropped as I realized it wasn't black with a blue tint or even blue with a black tint. No, it was Smurf blue!

I sat and stared at it for a moment, then just started laughing. Having to be at my brother-in-law’s work to pick up something before I went to see my sister across town, I did the only thing I could do: Threw on some clothes and headed out the door.

As I arrived at the office, I was greeted by one of the employees, a red faced, tobacco chewing, redneck complete with holes in his 1970’s AC/DC shirt and pants that looked as though if he took them off, they would run away screaming looking for the nearest washer to jump into. He always spoke like he had a mouth full of marbles- a combination of hillbilly slang and poor grammar.

“Yar lrk lrk a smf” he mumbled with a smile.

“What?” I asked having no clue what was coming out of his mouth besides tobacco spit.

“Yar lrk lrka Smurf,” he repeated, giggling.

“I look like a Smurf? Oh, yeah. I know right?!?” I said ducking into the building.

As I walked in, mouth’s dropped and camera phones came out. Gotta love technology!

“I like it,” one guy said snickering.

“I do too,” one of his co-workers chimed, not sensing the sarcastic tone. “I just sent it to my girlfriend and told her she needs to dye her’s like that.”

I grabbed what I needed & headed to meet my sister at the mall. She was arm deep in a sales rack when she glanced up, looked back to the shirt in her hand, then flung her head back up with her mouth agape.

“OH MY GOD,” She exclaimed, “your hair!”

“What? You don’t like it?” I said faking as much disappointment as I could muster. My sister had lived in this rigid Bible Belt community for over 20 years. I knew she would be utterly mortified if any of her conservative, southern, Republican friends saw her socializing with some blue haired freak. I went up and hugged her. She hugged me then quickly pushed me away staring at my coif.

“We can’t go to lunch like with you like that,” she declared.

“Sure we can,” I said enjoying her discomfort. "I can still eat."

We went into a restaurant and were seated. Any time someone came near us -a waitress; other patrons- my sister would make a point of chuckling and saying in a very loud voice, “I can’t believe that you accidentally dyed you hair blue!” as if to tell people that this was a mistake and in no way should anyone think that she would be seen, let alone associate, with someone with blue hair.After the 3rd or 4th time she did this, I chose to act like she was hearing impaired as well and shouted, “I know. I wanted that nice Muppet green color, but I got this. I’ll dye it green when I get my Mohawk next week.”

I could tell she was trying to decide if she should crawl under the table or just make a run for it. I decided to finally let her in and tell her it wasn’t done on purpose. No longer able to take the embarrassment, she marched me over to the salon.  

“We’re getting this fixed now. I’ll pay for it.”

Now normally, I would have sported it for a few weeks, if for no other reason, than to watch the horror and embarrassment that came over her face every time we went out in public together. I can admit, sometimes, I am the girl that likes to take joy in other people’s embarrassment, especially because I don't get embarrassed easily. However, I remembered that I no longer lived in Orlando. There no one would have even looked twice at my blue hair. In fact, in a lot of places, I would be considered a prude for not having more colors in it. No, now I lived in the uptight, conservative Baptist infused South. If you have been a fan of my blog, then you know my neighbors already thought I was a drug dealer. This would surely send them into a full-blown panic convinced not only was I selling drugs, but also running some kind of weird alternative S&M club out of my house.

Fearing a lynching, as I already had 2 strikes against me: 1.) The drug dealer thing; 2.) Originally being from Michigan I was, (and I have to type this in a whisper)  a Yankee,  I decided  to take my sister up on her offer.

As we approached the salon, the receptionist gasping at the sight of my hair began looking through her appointment book before we even made it up to the counter. She looked at me completely exasperated, “I’ve gone through it all. The earliest we can get you in is next Thursday.” More than a week way.

Smurf me!

I started my journey back home wondering if I should wait for the neighbors to do it or just suck it up and chase my own ass out of town and save them the trouble. Suddenly, my phone rang.

Brown hair-couldn't find pic
with short brown hair
“We just had a cancellation. We can get you in at 10am tomorrow,” the hair salon receptionist exclaimed, unable to hide her glee.

The next day, I was there bright and early having my hair dyed back to a normal, plain old brown. Since then, the relationship between my hair and me has gotten better. We still have our ups and downs, but it has forgiven me for the perm and overly teasing it in the past and I have forgiven it for what has come to be known as the Smurf Incident. We still have a long way to go, and by long way, I mean it still refuses to grow past my shoulders, but at least now we have an understanding: I don’t dye it platinum blond; it doesn’t cause me to almost get lynched by turning blue.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Blogging from A-Z Challenge

Alright all of you bloggers out there. While some of you have been staying on your toes and being good little bloggers, many of you have been slacking since the holidays. Well, it's time to get off your butts and do some actual writing. The time for being lackadaisical and phoning it in is over. I present to you the A-Z Blogging Challenge.

Beginning Sunday, April 1st Blogging from A-Z is challenging all writers and bloggers alike to write a blog for each letter of the alphabet. Don't panic! You can do this. Start getting your ideas together now. Personally, I have a list of all of the letters and every time I have an idea for one, I write it down. Then whenever you have time, you can start writing blogs, keep them in a file and post them on the correct day in April. A-Z has even been nice enough to give you Sundays off with the exception of the 1st Sunday of the month which kicks off the challenge.

So if you have been feeling uninspired or just haven't been able to conjure up something worth writing about because of restricted blood flow to your head as a result of your New Year's diet resolution, here's your chance to dust off the old brain and get back into the swing of things. No more excuses! Going on vacation? Having a baby? Busy with family? No worries. You can set it up so that your blogs post automatically on the correct days.

Go to http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/ and sign up now. Doing this challenge will not only help you learn to meet a deadline, but will also give you the exposure you have been hoping for since you started blogging.

And don't forget to follow my blog Seriously, WTH? at http://shannan-afterwife.blogspot.com/

Good luck and have fun!

Friday, January 20, 2012

What would you do if you knew you wouldn’t get caught?


A few days ago, I was watching the news and heard a story about a North Carolina man in his late fifties that robbed a bank. He woke up, got dressed, called a taxi, then walked into a random bank and handed the teller a note demanding the staggering amount of $1.

Why would a 59 year old man bother to rob a bank and for such a ridiculous amount of money?

Logic.

James Richard Verone was in financial ruin. He had worked his whole life and then, like so many Americans, found himself jobless. Desperate for work but unable to find anything substantial, he was forced to take a job as a convenience store clerk. Soon the heavy lifting and daily routine proved too much for his deteriorating body to handle and he reluctantly had to quit. He lived off of his savings for a while, but with no other source of income coming in, quickly exhausted his funds. That is about the time he noticed a protrusion in his chest.


He tried to apply for state aid, but was only approved for food stamps. Refusing to be a burden on his siblings and not wanting to accept money from a charity, he came up with another option: rob a bank.

His intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. In fact, after the teller gave him the dollar, Verone said told her he would "... sit over here and wait for police.” He was hoping to get arrested which would provide him with food, a place to stay and, the most important thing, free health care.

Because the amount he stole was only $1, Verone avoided a long prison sentence. Instead he would most likely be incarcerated for 5 years. He would receive treatment for whatever ailments he suffered from and be released in decent health just in time to start receiving his social security.

Of course, the story shows the flaws in our healthcare system and is somewhat sad, but I couldn’t help admiring the man for coming up with such a creative solution to his dilemma. My first thought, ok, maybe not my first thought, but one of my thoughts was how would I have done it differently? I came up with the conclusion that I would have asked for a LOT more than $1.

I understand his logic, but here is mine: If you aren’t afraid of getting caught, why not ask for an insane amount of money? I would have the bank give me as much as I could carry, backing up my own semi-truck if necessary. What do you have to lose? If you get caught, you get sent to jail where you receive free health care, a warm bed and 3 square meals, although Verone chose to only eat 2 because eating dinner would mean he would briefly be put in general population.

On the other hand, if you got away with it, you have all this money to get your health back on track, move wherever you want and never have to worry about money problems ever again.

This got me thinking about what else I would do if I knew I wouldn’t get caught. I knew for certain that I would never murder anyone or pay someone to do so. Although I don’t think I would have a problem hiring someone to beat the ever loving shit out of the child molesters and rapists of the world. I may also consider hiring a Dexter or some type of similar vigilante to hunt down serial killers.  

However, none of those would be my first choice. No, top on my list, hands down, would be to rob a bank for the reasons previously listed. A bank insures your account for up to $100,000, so most citizens would get their money back. Anyone that had more than $100,000 should be smart enough to know they had to divide their fortune among banks.

My second crime of choice would be to steal some fabulous art out of a museum. Not because I would want all of this incredible art hanging around my house, but because of the undisputable coolness of the crime. Think the Thomas Crown Affair: the intricate planning, the execution, the brilliance it would take to pull it off. I would steal it, hang it on my wall, drink a glass of Cabernet while I admired it, and then find a way to return it without anyone figuring out how I did it. Now if it was someone’s personal art collection, I probably wouldn’t return it. I would send it to a hospital to inspire children or some physically or mentally ill patients to paint, relax and maybe discover a secret talent.

Next, I would steal from those that steal from others. I would be like a modern day female Robin Hood (luckily, Robin is androgynous enough that I wouldn’t have to change the name). I would steal the funds from people like Bernie Madeoff* and then give it to the poor and struggling middle class and in a fun way too. I would give a waitress a $1M tip or a volunteer charity worker a house or a kick-ass car.  I wouldn’t take credit for the gifts, just be close enough by to see their expression when they received the stuff. I would also give some to charities, but in a smarter way. The more results they produced, the more money they would receive to do more research.

The other things I would do are relatively mild and would be just for the hell of it. I would steal a crazy expensive car like a Lotus, Ferrari or the Bat Mobile just because - although I probably wouldn’t get very far because I can’t drive a stick. I would also break into people’s houses and rearrange their furniture…just to screw with them.

I mean, seriously, WTH?

What would you do if you knew you couldn’t get caught? 

*(OK and on a personal note, whom invests with a guy whose last name is Madeoff?)

Monday, December 12, 2011

Let's All Go to This! The Annual Tallapoosa Possum Drop

Every year most people tend to do the same thing for New Year's Eve: Get together with a bunch of friends, drink a little too much, or in some cases, a lot too much and end up making out with someone you would have never gone near sober, but being three sheets to the wind and wearing a really nice pair of beer goggles suddenly makes that Steve Buscemi troll look like Colin Farrell.

*Side Note: What is "three sheets to the wind"? Where does that expression even come from? Are we talking three sheets of paper or are we talking about bed sheets? Why three? Can you be two sheets to the wind? And what does the wind have to do with it?

Amount of sheets aside, this year I am considering doing something different. Very different. I give you the Annual Tallapoosa Possum Drop. Yes, Possum Drop.

Before I get into the possum drop, first I must tell you a little bit about Tallapoosa. The official city website boasts: "Travel to Tallapoosa for True Tales, Tasty Treats and Toe Tapping Tunes." Tallapoosa, GA is a small Southern town in an unspoiled rural setting nestled in the foothills of the N.W. GA Mountains.

Which of course is translation for Hillbilly Paradise. Don't miss main attractions include The RV Park and Bud Jones Taxidermy and Wildlife Museum. So you can imagine the excitement that the Annual Possum Drop generates around the town.

To fully understand the possum drop you must first be familiar with New Year's Rockin' Eve where an array of drunk New Yorkers and other people that have completely lost their minds, gather in the freezing cold huddling shoulder to shoulder in Times Square with no chance of escape to drink, watch the hottest music acts, eat traditional delicacies, be groped by fellow onlookers and countdown as a huge, beautiful, electronically illuminated Waterford Crystal ball moves down a poll for everyone to see.

The Tallapoosa Possum Drop is very similar to this except it usually isn't cold, the music includes Elvis impersonators and local bands with the main headliner being Rhubarb Jones, a former radio personality. Mouth watering treats include Subway and Chick-Fil-A and although it doesn't say so on the website, I am certain there is some type of bar-b-que roadkill available.

There is a Possum King and Queen. A title currently being held by Midge Baxley and Ken Barkley. And, while I have no idea how one is considered worthy enough to become possum King and Queen, I can only assume it has something to do with one person finding the possum and the other one stuffing it.

You are probably thinking that with such draws as Rhubarb (not the pie) and the crowning of the annual King and Queen, how could anything possibly top that? I would now like to introduce you to Spencer.

Spencer is a stuffed, taxidermy possum that died of natural causes (the towns' people want to make sure that is known). On New Year's Eve, Spencer is encased in a large, twig like ball covered with Christmas lights. A pole is then shoved up his ass and he is hoisted high atop Tallapoosa's oldest building. OK, maybe the pole isn't exactly shoved up his ass, but the rest is true. One minute before midnight Spencer is slowly lowered down the pole as the residents begin the countdown which I believe goes something like this: Ten, eight, nine, semin, six, fi, four...

Breakout the moonshine!

In case you are worried that you won't be able to purchase any souvenir special enough to mark this grand event, you can have your picture taken with Spencer, himself.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to drive along the side of the road and look for a new Spencer if I want to stand a chance of being crowned next year's Possum Queen.

http://www.thepossumdrop.com/

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

RIP Common Sense

Common sense is making me crazy.

Why? Because I have it. Every day that goes by I become more aware of the shortage of common sense in the world. Everyone has heard the age old adage: The problem with common sense is it isn't common enough -Unknown (Maybe it was even me that said it.)

I know we all have lapses in common sense every now and then. Take for example, my niece. She is a beautiful, intelligent girl that has not yet developed any common sense. Not too long ago, a friend was giving her directions to his house. He told her to "turn left at the fork in the road" to which she very innocently and with all seriousness replied, "The fork? But what if someone moves it?"

To be fair, she was fifteen at the time, so her lapse is understandable and even forgivable. What kills me is the adults that have none, leaving you to wonder how they have gotten this far in life without ever being hit by a car because they didn't know to look both ways.

Several years ago, I owned a pizzeria in a little town that hadn't been discovered yet. It's main claim to fame was that the "famous" Ma Barker shootout took place there and was re-enacted yearly. This place would still need a horse before you could consider it a one horse town. Needless to say, when it came to hiring it was slim pickings, so when a sweet, bubbly girl named Suzy* came in, I thought she would be perfect to answer the phones. *(Note, names have been changed to protect the stupid).

One day, Suzy strolled in late looking quite perplexed. When asked what was wrong, she replied, "My car broke down again." Shortly after, her father came in to visit and noticed her somber mood. The conversation that followed went like this:

Dad: "Hi sweetie. What's wrong?"
Suzy: "Oh, my car broke down again."
Dad: "It did?"
Suzy: "Yeah."
Dad: "Did it break down just like last time?"
Suzy: "Yeah."
Dad (with a soft sweetness and a great deal of patience): "Why don't you try putting some gas in it?"

And yes, that is what was wrong with the car. I would like to point out the most important words in the above conversation: "...like last time." Suzy's lack of common sense provided much entertainment for us. There was the time that she mopped herself into a corner and sat there until the floor dried. Then there was the time that she was grossed out by cleaning the windows because of the spiders that were on there. When we told her the spiders were all dead, her reply was, "I know. I wish they were alive so that they could run away from me."

Then there was Madison, who was given the simple job of  filling up the newly purchased salt and pepper shakers, but decided when she couldn't unscrew them and get them open, the best thing to do was to just throw them away.

Good times. Seriously, you can't make this stuff up.

However, as intellectually challenged the staff at the pizzeria may have been, no place demonstrates the absence of common sense more than good ol' Wal-Mart.

Let's start with the parking lot. If someone is kind enough to let you walk in front of their car without running you over and making you roadkill, the decent thing to do would be to give them a thank you wave and hurry across the road. The wonderful Wal-Mart clientele seems to disagree with me. In fact, not only will they walk in front of you while your car is moving, but, if you stop to let them cross, they will mosey as slow as possible, even stopping to light up a cigarette or take a phone call.

Next, we have the people that have completed their shopping, are leaving and know you are waiting for a parking space. These idiots are particularly frustrating during the holiday season when drivers speed around corners like Indy racers and would run over their own mother in an effort to beat someone else to a coveted spot.They see you, sitting in your car with your turn signal on patiently waiting as they load their bags. Then they have to buckle their children into the car seat and of course, get them a juice box and a toy to entertain them. Finally, they get into the car, pull out their checkbook, write a few things down, put it away, then decide to fool with the radio. Once a station is agreed upon, the driver will check hair, make-up and whatever else, completely oblivious to you and the 12 cars that are waiting in line behind your vehicle and getting pissed off because you haven't just given up on the parking spot and continued on your way.

Once you have parked and managed to actually get through the parking lot without being run over by some driver that is talking or texting on the cell phone, you walk into the store where you are met by a greeter. OK, it stands to reason that if you are hired at a place to be a greeter, you should, and maybe I'm going out on a limb here, greet people as they come in the door. Just a thought. However, I don't believe I have ever entered a Wal-Mart where the greeter actually does this. As a matter of fact, it is almost as if they train them not to greet you. They look at you as though you have just interrupted a vitally important conversation or thought process that had them on the brink of figuring out cold fusion, but, thanks to you and your inconvenient timing, have now caused them to forget their epiphany.

Unfortunately, the greeter is just the beast that guards the gate. Your next obstacles are the wonderful Wal-Mart shoppers. We have all seen the emails of the fashionably challenged individuals with their clothes five sizes too small. *Note to these people - If you are over 25, you are no longer considered a junior! No one thinks it is cute when you wear booty shorts stretched to capacity that claim you are "Hot Stuff." You're not and you may be sued for false advertising. Still, I digress.

There are no words...
Yes, the fashionably challenged ranging from the mullet having, Confederate Flag t-shirt wearing rednecks, fur coat, hat adorned pimps with more gold in their teeth than Mr. T wore on his whole body, men dressed as women (and ugly women at that!) and kids dressed in all black with holes in every visible orfice sporting the trademark skull or tribal tattoo that they got to show their originality...just like everyone else, are an obvious example of people that have no common sense, or mirrors apparently. You must try to avert your eyes from these spectacles and continue towards your goal of grabbing the things you need and making it out of there alive.


But your tests are not over yet. You then encounter the ones that really burn my butt -the people with the carts that stop in the middle of the isle so that no one else can pass.You say, "Excuse me," once in a normal tone, then if they do not move, you say it again, louder and with a bit more irritation in case they are hearing impaired or just plain stupid. People with some common sense will generally be startled back into reality, apologize and move their cart. This is acceptable and can be and shrugged off. After all, sometimes we have so much going on we get a little self involved and don't realize we are being idiots.

Then there are the assholes. You know the people I am talking about. The ones that usually have a kid or two running up and down the isle screaming or climbing on shelves while they ignore them and talk on the phone, tossing you a dirty look like you have just asked them if you could have sex with their boyfriend. No common courtesy or sense whatsoever.

Now, as a person that does have common sense, I feel it is important to tell you that it is your right...no it is your obligation to show them how rude they are being. I recommend doing this by effectively ramming your cart as hard as possible into their's causing it to go catapulting down the isle and maybe even knock one of the unruley little brats off of a shelf in the process. To me, this is a perfectly acceptable and dare I say, rational, thing to do.

As you go merrily on my way, you realize that at some point, when you were in the isle, someone had stolen the "Little Wendy Wets A lot" doll out of your basket and put it in their's because to them, that was a perfectly rational thing to do. You of course, steal it back, then put some of the essential items like milk or diapers that were in their basket on the shelves and haul ass out of there. Later, they will see you in the store, notice the doll in your cart and give you a dirty look because you stole it back from them.

Finally, you make it to the checkout where you stand behind twenty people because although everyone and their uncle are shopping this time of year, their are only two lanes open. You wait patiently as the woman currently being checked out sends her child to run and get the marshmallows she forgot to get bringing the checkout process to an abrupt hault. Junior comes back and the cashier realizes there is no price on the marshmallows and calls for a price check... three times. Then after someone with the lightening speed of a turtle brings up another bag of marshmallows with a price on it, you watch the shopper, completely oblivious to the line of frustrated people behind her, ask that the items be rang up in two separate transactions, then bitches because one of the items that should have been rung up on this bill was actually rang up on the other one. You would get out of line and choose a different lane, but you are sandwiched between ten other people and have already placed your items on the conveyor belt.

The cashier calls a manager and they begin to go through each line on the bill trying to figure out how to remove the item from the transaction. After fifteen minutes of trying and failing, they decide to open a new lane and ask everyone to move to that one, instead of just voiding the transaction and taking the pain in the ass shopper up to customer service. ( I have actually been in line when this happened).

At last, you get through the checkout, pay your bill and get the hell out of there. You race to your car and in an effort to make sure that you are more conscientous than the person that left you sitting, waiting for the space, load up your bags as quickly as possible, get in your car and peel out of the parking lot. As you drive home trying to shake off the ordeal you just went through, you realize that in your haste you forgot to pick-up the one item you went to the store for: Toilet paper!

I'm no expert, but something isn't right here...
Common sense says next time, make a list!