Big things are little things and little things are big.

I genuinely like our neighborhood grocery store. The people are super nice, and if you go first-thing in the morning, you're 1 of only a handful of shoppers - which is cool, because I have a problem with cart etiquette, or, rather, other customers' lack thereof. As nice as the employees are, I still kind of hate grocery shopping.

Oh, woe is me, shopping in a well-stocked Midwestern grocery where everything is reasonably priced and I'm not confined by a difficult budget.

The store employs several special-needs folks. The guy who talks to himself constantly is a good fit for bringing carts back inside from the parking lot. And there's a sweet bagger who offers a very practiced greeting every time I go through her checkout lane. Her eyes dance, and she's always smiling. I try really hard to be fully present when I interact with her, because she's giving the interaction 100%. I owe her the same.

There's a new bagger, and he obviously finds his job very challenging. He doesn't smile or otherwise acknowledge anyone, and, truth be told? He's not a very good bagger. He takes forever, and produce ends up underneath canned goods. As That Lady who unloads her cart in the order things should be bagged, it kind of hurts me.

But mostly, it hurts me how I find myself impatient and annoyed.

This is someone's child. This young man concentrates and works really diligently. I should be less focused on his lack of eye contact and my smooshed leafy greens. I need to take the extra time waiting as a moment to send him good vibes and mental thanks. Is it really that big of a deal to spend an extra minute for the luxury of someone else bagging my groceries? Why do I feel so hurried and cranky, anyway? Since when am I such a horrible person?

Today, I decided that my new bagger friend was the Picasso of grocery bagging. Yes, his methods are untraditional, and he has that distant, artistic temperament. But 50 years from now, people will be laughing at my close-minded lack of vision, and how I didn't appreciate the taste explosion caused when tomatoes rupture slightly inside a grocery bag. This kid's got greatness.

So, I smiled. I told him "thank you," even if he didn't acknowledge me. And I moved on.

In which Victoria's Secret strips me of my dignity and will to live.

I'm on the hunt. The hunt for new underwear.

I know, right? It's like swimsuit shopping, but worse. At least with a swimsuit, you can get some ruffles to camouflage the, erm, rolling landscape. But underwear? Well, I want to avoid a pantyline while also avoiding thongs. See also: my post about prom and vaginal discomfort.

So, I'm taking recommendations.

This quest took me to unfamiliar territory. Yes, I visited a Victoria's Secret for the first time since college, when a sorority sister ruled the sales floor and never led us astray. Not that there's much going astray when you're 21 and have the body of a 21-year-old. But still.

So, 38-year-old me went to Vicky's to find some new underwear. And while I was there, they were having a promotion: get a bra fitting, get a free pair of underwear. Pssh! Sure! If I can get my boobs ultrasounded, poked, and prodded on a semi-regular basis, a bra fitting is nothing. And I love free anything.

The little 20-year-old with low-maintenance A cups measured me, and then brought me a bra. If you look up "quadraboob" in the dictionary, it would feature a picture of me in this bra. Sadly, I couldn't find a way to rearrange the quadraboob so it looked like I had abs.

The sales girl assured me that the next size up would be just the thing! And then she brought me another bra which was, let us be honest, pretty much the exact same size. Sure, the tags were different. But the actual size? Total quadraboob.

A different sales girl checked out my ample bosoms in bra number 2 and was appalled. "Uh, wasn't she going to get you a different size," she asked. "She did," I responded. "And I'm starting to get sad."

So, sales girl number 2 ran off to get a different bra style - a style that ended up also making me look like a nursing sow.

After that, I was done. I was like, "I kind of hate all these bras. Can I have my coupon now?" And the sales girls were really nice, and then the manager was all, "Please don't be discouraged! I've been told our bras run small, and we have lots of different sizes online!"

Outwardly, I was all gracious and "Oh, I totally understand - I'm just kind of over it and need to keep shopping." And inwardly, I was all, "GIVE ME MY FREE UNDERPANTS AND GET ME OUT OF THIS HELLHOLE."

So. Nordstrom bra department? You still have my heart. And my boobs.

Vicky's Secret flawless hiphugger? So far, you're OK. But you gotta werk it, gurl, to make up for those bras.

What are your go-to undergarments?

Gynecology and prom fashions don't mix.

Even though it snowed this week, it's basically spring. And that means just 1 thing:

PROM!

I know it's only the end of March and technically I have a few more days before officially freaking out, but ... no one has asked me to prom yet. It might have something to do with the fact that I'm 38 and married, but still. I am a fun time!

Pinterest is all prom this and prom that ... so, of course, that's my excuse for looking at prom dresses online. I'm pleased to see that the whole princess, full-skirt thing seems to be the direction of this year's fashions. Because I'm 87 years old and prefer my high school girls not to look like streetwalkers. However, I did notice a startling pattern in many photos.

These girls all look like they have really bad yeast infections.

Right?

Why would the models be coached to cross their legs and put a hand in their crotchal regions if not to give the illusion of intense ladyparts discomfort?

She's smiling to hide the pain, but those crossed legs give her away.

This girl's gonna smile and look away, so hopefully your gaze will turn to see what she's looking at and will miss the fact that she's trying to scratch her ladybits through formalwear.

It's so bad, you guys, that she couldn't even finish bedazzling her dress.

This girl isn't livid about her unfortunate prom hairdo. She's homicidal because of yeast.

By the hammer of Thor, she is in serious discomfort!

Know why this girl has a huge smile? That full skirt is hiding the fact that she's taking care of business downtown, if you know what I mean.

File this under "what cannot be unseen," but seriously. I had to share. What's up with these poses?

 

Coming full circle with poop and puke.

Big Doodle is a good-time kind of dude.

He hasn't met you yet, but he loves you. He wants to be with you all the time. He wants to share everything with you.

This is why Big Doodle always tells me when he's gotten a drink. More often than not, I have gooey, wet patches on my legs, because he's oh-so-thoughtfully let me know when he's quenched his thirst. He has an impressive, sponge-like beard that really gets the message across.

So, it was no surprise last night when Big Doodle sauntered over to the couch and put his wet chin on my lap. But it was a bit of a shock when he coughed.

It was loud. And it was productive.

My 90-pound labradoodle coughed up a rabbit turd. Onto my person. And then just sauntered on his merry way.

At first, I thought, "Oh, look! A tapioca ball from bubble tea!" But then I realized that Big Doodle hasn't ever had bubble tea, and probably didn't drive to the Chinese restaurant to get me a bubble tea because, dude, he doesn't even have thumbs, much less a driver's license.

Then, I had to face the fact that my child had coughed up shit onto my person. And that shit was buoyant, and literally bounced off my shoulder and into my lap before I managed to catch it with my bare hand.

So, that meant multiple poo contact points, plus poo in hand.

My Guy, ever helpful, could not stop laughing. He also couldn't stop laughing when, throughout the evening, I kept turning to him and asking, "Did the dog really puke poo onto my person? Did that really happen?"

Yes, yes it really did.

Like most moments in life, this made me appreciate my mom even more. When I was about 7 years old, I felt compelled to tell her that my stomach was upset. Except that when I opened my mouth to tell her, I kind of barfed all over her ... and the tablecloth she was cross stitching for my cousin's wedding.

You know how you can't wash pre-printed cross-stitch fabric because then the pattern will wash off?

Yeah. We had a long talk about how sometimes, it's OK to take action - like throwing up in the bathroom - without telling Mom first.

Somehow, my mom got the vomit off the tablecloth and finished the cross stitching, and no one was the wiser. My cousin's marriage didn't last, but, well, that can't necessarily be tied to me puking on her tablecloth, now can it?

So, Mom? I'm sorry for the surprise puke attack. At least I hadn't been eating rabbit turds. You're welcome. And I'm sorry.

The week that was.

Monday
Monday is trash day. Big whoop, right? Well ... it has a special significance now. My Guy and I have realized we never see our neighbor Creepy Chuck putting out trash cans. Like, ever. Like, the trash truck never stops at his house.

The husband and I are now obsessed.

Maybe Creepy Chuck just takes his trash and dumps it somewhere. But in my fantasy, he has an entire room of his house that's just garbage. I wish there was an adult I could report this to. Instead, I'm concerned that I will end up being That Neighbor on the local news who is all, "He was quiet and kept to himself ..."

Tuesday
I was going to drop off an old printer at the local thrift store. However, that plan kind of had to wait, as there was an armed robbery at the thrift store.

Evidently, 2 guys came in with guns and demanded cash. And when 1 of the guys tried to shoot his gun? The bullet fell out of the gun and rolled across the floor. Because I guess you use a second-hand firearm to rob a thrift store?

Also? I can't imagine that a thrift store would be a high-dollar robbery target. But, if you're still at the point where you try to shoot and the bullet rolls across the floor, maybe it's good to get some practice in before you go big-time.

Wednesday
I cleaned up 1 too many puddles of pee. Guess who's back in his industrial strength anti-indoor-urination suit?

Oh, Foxie. You rock those Overalls of Shame. Also, you kind of look like Super Mario. I want to kill you, but you're so cute.

Also? I'm sorry I made up that mean song about you wearing The Overalls of Shame and a maxipad and about how you should be really embarrassed and how no ladydog was going to date you now. I was being a bully. But I'm also just really, really over cleaning up your pee. You aren't incontinent. You're just an ass.

Thursday
It's March Madness, meaning that it's the time of year when My Guy and I agree, again, that we must become friendly with the family several houses down the block. Every year, they host an open house orgy of days-long basketball watching. Literally 20 cars line the street, and you can hear the cheering throughout the neighborhood. It seems so fun.

This year, spring break coincided with the party. This meant a gaggle of 10-year-old boys playing basketball in the street, complete with 2 dads in referee shirts. It did my heart good.

Friday
I've mentioned the player piano in the lobby of the building where I work. It's a beautiful baby grand that evidently has a very limited range when it comes to songs it can play magically by itself.

"Rosanna" by Toto is a good song. It's not as good when performed on player piano. And it really doesn't hold up the 20th time you hear it on a player piano in the span of 3 hours.

The hallway from the lobby to the office where I work acts as kind of a sound vacuum. And I sit right by the door. So, when I sit at my desk, I hear the piano, loud and clear. Meet you all the way! Doo doo doo! Rosanna!

I finally cracked under the pressure.

I didn't want to be suspicious, so I didn't Google "Honda Accord vs. player piano" at work. But I Googled it at home ... because they never check the personal laptop, right? You know what came up? That Honda ad with Michael Bolton. Sadly, there's no research on Honda Accord/player piano showdowns.

Basically, the takeaway is that Michael Bolton sent me a sign. A sign that I need to push the player piano into parking lot and ram into it with my car. Because what else would he say? He wants to be my soul provider? No! He wants me to run over that fucking piano before it desecrates 1 of his songs!

And that, my friends, is why it's good that the weekend is here.

I got your scary right here.

I get some random-ass e-newsletters. Sometimes I signed up in the hopes of getting a coupon (I'm not cheap, I'm thrifty.). Other times, it's obvious that my poor, innocent e-mail address was viciously ripped from a professional directory or my blog.

I have 1 simple request.

If you're going to farm my blog or BlogHer for my e-mail address, please take the time to actually read my blog, and make sure that I might conceivably (heh) be interested in your e-newsletter.

Scary Mommy, I'm looking at you.

As far as mommyblogs go, this one looks pretty righteous. There are sections for folks trying to conceive, and folks with babies, and folks with kids with allergies, and the whole deal is a nonprofit that fights hunger. Right on.

But seriously? You just look like a jackhole when you send a Scary Mommy e-newsletter to the barren lady. The barren lady who has no recollection of signing up for the e-newsletter, and who doesn't take Ambien and so is not prone to such unconscious online shenanigans.

Sigh.

I will unsubscribe. And I'm not even really mad - I'm just disappointed. I'm disappointed that it's assumed that because I'm female and I'm in my 30s that clearly I also have kids. Because to have value as a human being outside the realm of female reproduction and nurturing other people? Well, that would be redonkulous!

And then there's the photo my cousin posted to Facebook. It shows all 8 of us grandkids, circa 1982. The hair was feathered and we were tan as hell. And we were so full of it - you could tell just by the photo that once we were free from posing for the paparazzi that we would have such fun together.

I couldn't stop looking at the picture. And when I saw my gorgeous little niece this weekend, I couldn't help but apologize to my brother. His daughter won't have cousins on this side of the family.

Yeah. Sorry my ladyparts are broken! Hope it doesn't inconvenience you too much!

To his credit, Poochie was just like, "Uh, yeah, it's fine. Here, hold the baby." And then we all drank more beer. Well, the baby didn't drink the beer. You know. Because even as the clueless nonparent, I know that babies can't drink beer while they're still nursing. Duh.

Most of the time, not being a parent is just fine. But there are days. Scary days when my brain goes a tiny bit bonkers.

Marriage is a process.

Where have I been?

Well, I've been in Michigan. It was cold.

I got to make eyes at your favorite president and mine, Gerald R. Ford.

Don't we make a cute couple?

Jerry's presidential museum is the coolest. It's basically like, "Gerald R. Ford was the greatest human ever. Gerald R. Ford invented oxygen." And by the end, you're like, "I laughed. I cried. It was better than 'Cats.' I'm going to see it again and again."

Also, stopping by the museum gift shop gave me the opportunity for what educators call "a teaching opportunity" and what I call "training my husband."

See, My Guy is brilliant in many ways. But knowing which former presidents are alive and which are dead? Well, it's not his strong suit. We once got in a fight over whether Nixon was alive or dead. And I was all, "I remember watching his funeral my freshman year of college." And he was all, "I have no recollection of this at all." And then I was all, "That's because you were, like, 12."

Sometimes, when you're married to a younger man? You look old and crotchety even if all you did was know that Nixon is dead.

So, at Gerald R. Ford's presidential museum gift shop? I bought my husband a bookmark with all the presidents on it. And we can draw an X over the ones that have passed on to the ol' oval office in the sky.

I really wanted to buy the presidential flash cards. Imagine - hours of flipping through cards, just like when we learned multiplication tables. 4 x 8? 32! Millard Fillmore? Dead!

However, I thought that might be a tiny bit too pushy. Also, the flash cards were $10, and the bookmark was $2. So, I went with the subtlety of the bookmark / Sharpie combo.

My sweet husband laughed, and was appreciative of his gift. He then proceeded to tell me that he was pretty sure Jimmy Carter was dead.