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Earmuffed.

April 6, 2009

In the world of Why does this shit always happen to me? (Or maybe it should be: This shit could only happen to me) I totally got earmuffed this weekend.

It was our turn for snacks for T-Dub’s baseball team on Saturday. Candy Ass (my sister) in her utmost anal retentiveness must have thrown out the soft cooler we own specifically for such events like snack duty while cleaning the garage at some point because when I went to grab it, oh say, 30 minutes before we were supposed to be on the field, IT WAS NO WHERE TO BE FOUND.

This is where I should pull off to the side of the proverbial road on a tangent of a turnout and explain that I do not like to be late to anything. In fact, I like to be early. I am always early. If I am late at being early, I am stressed beyond repair. Candy Ass, on the other hand, must have been born late, thinks it’s fashionable to be late (and believe me, the woman knows nothing about fashion) and likes to remind me that “we’re the first ones here” every time, well, we’re the first ones… every where. I DON’T CARE. WE’RE ON TIME, AREN’T WE?

Anywho, no cooler means the Gatorades T-Dub picked out in fifteen colors were going to be hot and gross by the time the game was over AND WHAT IN THE HELL ARE WE GOING TO DO I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU THREW AWAY MY GODDAMN SOFT COOLER YOU BITCH! NOW WE’LL NEVER MAKE IT TO STARBUCKS TO GET MY **DECAF** TALL-IN-A-GRANDE EZ MILK, EXTRA SHOT, EXTRA ICE, ICED CARMEL MACCIATO ON THE WAY TO BASEBALL! MY PLAN! IT’S BEEN FOILED! This is when Candy Ass says calmly, “Why don’t we get everyone in the car, swing by Target, WHICH HAS A STARBUCKS IN IT, you can get your coffee and get a cooler, then we’ll go straight to the game?”

I look at the clock and I weigh my options: none. I look at the clock again and start barking orders. In the car now! Who cares about shoes! OK fine, yes bring your baseball cleats! Get! In! The! Damn! Car!

I white knuckle it all the way across town in my ginormous SUV while Candy Ass repeatedly tells me to “get off that guy’s ass” on the freeway as I shoot her “you got us into this mess, just let me drive” death looks. By the time we enter the Target parking lot, I have a plan. I leap out of the car, leaving Candy Ass to sock-and-shoe all six boys as I make a beeline for the Target version of Starbucks and the cooler aisle. Oh, and Candy Ass needs Blistex. And we’re out of gum.

She’s so goddamn needy sometimes. Jesus. It’s like I’m married. Hahahaha. Wow.

I’ve got like 15 minutes to do this whirlwind shopping spree in Target, no less, and make it to the baseball field back across town. That’s like telling a six year old they’ve got 15 minutes in Disneyland and that’s all. So not fucking fair.

Of course a good five minutes are wasted at the Target Starbucks, which I have to say was very disappointing because the guy working the bar just didn’t get me. He didn’t understand my drink needs even though I was very specific. Or maybe he was just fucking with me because I was very specific. Either way, dude effed up my drink. Does he not understand that I am about to be LATE for something? The alert level has been raised the RED, bitches.

Good thing I was multi-tasking by talking to Tamara in CA on my cell while I waited for my drink. I know, I know, I was that lady in Target, talking on her cell waaaay too fast, hauling ass through the aisles, grabbing whatever I needed and hurrying to the next thing. I normally don’t talk and shop, but this was important (although I can’t remember what we were talking about now) and when I got to the coolers, I needed a second opinion. I mean, no, technically she couldn’t see the coolers, being 3,000 miles away and all, but I was like, “Do I get the one that holds 38 cans or the one that holds 60?” And she was like, “What color is it?” And I was like, “You’re so right, I’ll get the blue one. It’s prettier.”

I hung up before I got to the checkout (thank you Ms. Manners, geesh) where I was shaking I was in such a goddamn frenzy, adrenaline-a-pumping knowing it was going to take a small miracle to make it to baseball on time now; we could forget about getting there early now. *sigh*
As I quickly swiped my debit card, the machine asked me forty million question to which I quickly tap-tap-tapped “no,” and “no” and “no” and suddenly realizing I had just told that stupid little machine I didn’t want it “all on the card,” (Like what? I’m going to put some of my purchase on my debit card and pay the other portion with cash? I’M IN A HURRY MA-CHINE!)

I said, “Oh shit!” to which the lady behind me in line, standing there with her 15ish and 14ish year old sons says to them “Earmuffs! Earmuffs!” as her boys snickered.

My head swiveled a full 360 degrees, finally stopping to look at her incredulously and say, “You know what? I’m sorry. But if you know what movie ‘earmuffs’* came from, I’d say that’s probably inappropriate too.”

Then I ran like a mutha fucka out of there, because you know what? I don’t like to be late. It’s rude.

:::

*Old School = Best movie ever

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