The Benefits of Membership...

I don't really consider myself much of a "joiner", but I am, in fact, a member of several groups.
I belong to a Church.
I belong to my professional association.
I belong to the PTA.
I belong to Girl Scouts (ha..that one threw you, didn't it? Its true).

Recently, I become a part of another kind of group, though I hesitate to tell you about it because membership is apparently reserved for an elite few, and I don't want it to seem like I'm bragging. On top of that, I didn't even have to sign up. They chose me.

You see, a few weeks ago, when I had just paid at the grocery store and was walking toward the exit, a shift manager walked over, greeted me by name, congratulated me, and stood there smiling at me. I wondered why she was congratulating me. I briefly wondered if I was pregnant and had just been too tired to notice, but she quickly explained that I had been selected to be a member of the Manager's Club at the grocery store.

The benefits, she assured me, are endless. I get three cents a gallon off gas--and all the time, not just when I spend ridiculous amounts of money on groceries. Though, come to think of it, I spend ridiculous amounts of money on groceries all the time. I can also get prescriptions filled any time I want. Well, any time that the store is open. And there's a pharmacist there. I am even part of their concierge service. I have no idea what this means. But it must be good. And get this:  I have the managers direct phone number. They even wrote it on a card for me. I'm sure you could never get this by, say, asking for it. As she congratulated me yet again, I started wondering why there weren't balloons for this huge occasion, or streamers. Or champagne.

As I listened to her describe all these great benefits, and congratulate me a few more times, I was somewhat unsettled by the fact that she had just showed up out of nowhere, knew me by name, and knew that I had apparently just surpassed some standard that now made me eligible for membership in this elite club. I'm guessing the standard might have something to do with the ridiculous amount of money that I spend there. Or the ridiculous frequency with which I shop there. I'm guessing both. In any case, since this was clearly such a huge accomplishment from their perspective, they could have at least had a banner made up, "Congratulations! You have now spent the equivalent on a college education on groceries! And, you shop here an average of twelve times a week!" Of course, they would know all about my shopping and spending habits since I put in my little savings card number every time I'm there. Still, there was something rather big brother-ish about all this. The fact that the shift manager cornered me after I had left the register confirmed what I had long suspected: someone has been sitting in that little manager booth, watching us as we shop.

With this realization, my grocery store life flashed before my eyes.
 B throwing ice cream the length of the frozen food aisle like it's his own personal football field.
 B and O bowling with canned peas down the canned good aisle.
 N pirouetting through the produce section, occasionally stopping only to do the splits in front of the broccoli.
B and O playing catch with the tomatoes, and the lemons, and the cantaloupe. None of which we bought.
B strutting down the juice aisle, loudly singing, "Come on everybody help me raise this roof, raise this roof, raise this roof..."
N and B physically fighting, and screaming, repeatedly, over who gets to sit in the car cart.
B briefly napping on a pile of rolls...and me rearranging them to hide the smooshed ones.
O repeatedly throwing loaves of bread on the floor..and me putting them in the back so no one would know.

I'd always wondered if someone was watching, but this confirmed it. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I took the information on my elite Manager's Club membership as the shift manager congratulated me yet again, and told me to please make sure I let them know if there was anything they could do to make my shopping experience more enjoyable.

Well, since they asked...I'm thinking I'll request the following:

Since you seem to know when I'm there, how much I spend, and when I check out, could you pay closer attention when you see me pull into the parking lot? When you do, please send someone out to meet me, with a cart and a grande vanilla latte from your Starbucks. Preferably bring a car cart, since the kids always drive me crazy wanting those. This way, they will be much easier to handle for whoever is pushing them around the store while I am sitting in the car, drinking my grande vanilla latte.

While you're doing that, if you could keep your eyes out for a few things I've lost in previous trips, I'd appreciate it:

I think I lost my patience in the frozen food aisle. If you find even some of it, that would be great.
I'm fairly certain I lost most of my sanity in the produce section. But maybe it was canned goods.
I definitely lost my mind in the bread aisle. I think I got some of it back, but I'm hoping the rest of it is still floating around there, cause I don't know where else it would be at this point.
And you may want to look for some of my dignity in the feminine hygiene aisle. I think I also lost some of my hearing there--though perhaps selectively--after being asked "What are those? Well then what are those? Why do you need those? and Why don't I need those?" one too many times.

I know I don't need to explain. Of course you know all of this, since you've been watching us.
That brings me to the last thing I'd like to ask you for.
A check for 61, 943.00 dollars.

That's roughly what we've spent at your store over the past six years.
I figure it's also approximately what you would have had to pay a team of musicians, athletes, dancers, and comedians to entertain you the way that we have over that same period of time.
And you've been getting it all for free.

Once you do that, we'll enroll you in our elite club, Parents Tired of Shopping without being Drugged. You can remember us by our acronym, PTSD.

Congratulations!
The benefits are endless.

Jeopardy!

Today I dropped N off at a play date and took B and O to the play area at McDonald's. I was a little anxious about this, given our last experience there...and the one before that...and possibly the one before that. But it was windy and cold and not really an outside play kind of day, given that we had two hours to kill, so I bit the bullet and went.

We stood in line to order their what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-crap-to-clutter- up-my-house-meals, and eventually we were helped by a cashier named Ricco. Or maybe it was Nicco. Who can read a name tag while you're trying to hold onto a squirming toddler while also trying to keep your wandering three-year-old within eyesight. I asked for apples with their meals, thinking that might cancel out the toxins in the cheeseburgers. Ricco/Nicco looked at me and said, "Both".
Is he telling me it comes with both? Or is he asking me if I want both?Why do I always end up confused in this place?

I say "Just apples" and Ricco/Nicco repeats, "Both". I contemplate telling Ricco/Nicco that I really don't want the fries, but from the look on his face, it appears that I will be getting both. Wow, what great marketing. Making parents happy by including apples, while also ensuring that another generation will grow up addicted to large quantities of fat and salt masquerading as potatoes.

I order a grilled chicken sandwich and am looking for my money as I realize that Ricco/Nicco is asking me something. I really look at him for the first time, and I can't focus on his question, because I realize, wow, Ricco/Nicco really does a great job with his make-up. Way better than I ever do. Of course,  he is wearing way more of it than I ever do. Or more than I ever have. In my life.

Oh, he is, of course, asking me what kind of grilled chicken I want.
Why, oh why must this be so difficult.
I tell him just a plain grilled chicken.
He is not happy with this.
I must order by number.
I have flashbacks to the last time I was here.
Ricco says "Five, six, or seven?
Not this again.
Ricco is staring at me, irritated.
I don't want the one with bacon and cheese. I want the plain one. I am looking at the menu, trying to see which one that is. Ricco/Nicco is still staring at me, diva like. He is obviously channeling his inner JLo.
The pressure. I feel like a Jeopardy contestant. I hear the music.
Uh, a freakin plain grilled chicken sandwich for five hundred?

Ricco/Nicco is clearly amazed at the idiot before him, who doesn't even know what number she wants. I'm pretty sure he is also thinking that I have alot of nerve going out of the house without lipstick. I briefly wonder what kind he is wearing. It's a nice shade. I think it's too dark for me, though. Then I remember that it doesn't matter anyway, since the only place my lipstick ends up lately is on the bathroom walls and on my children. I bet Ricco/Nicco doesn't have to share his lipstick. I bet it doesn't end up on the bathroom walls. I bet his lipstick still has its perfect lipstick shape, and isn't worn down to a nub due to repeatedly being used as a crayon. I bet Ricco/Nicco even knows where the cap to his lipstick is.

Feeling pressured with a longer line growing behind us and two increasingly restless boys, and sensing that my time is almost up, I throw some number out at him. I silently hope I got it right.

Dammit! It's the one with bacon and cheese after all.

I should have picked a different category. Next time jeopardy calls me, I'm picking Obnoxious Lipstick Wearing McDonald's Cashiers for a thousand.

Monkeys

Today I took B and O to McDonald's play area. This is a painful subject for me, as I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from a previous trip to the play area with NBO. In fact, I wasn't sure I'd be able to even go into another play area, as I was afraid it would lead to flashbacks and panic attacks. But, in a moment of weakness, I bribed B with a trip to the "inside" McDonald's (see, I've trained them not to even SAY "play area", as it causes me to break out in a cold sweat) if he got his flu shot this morning (which, much to my amazement, he did!).

I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn't give a rat's @$$  listen all that well to what I say. As I'm getting O out, I sense that B is wandering and give him my standard "Parking lot! Stay here!" reminder. This time, he listened, and decided to glue himself to my um, side, as I'm getting O out of the car, with the door still open, and our rather large car parked in the very narrow space very closely to the car next to us. (Disclaimer: yes, our car is way too big, but it holds three kids and all their crap necessary items, so I'm not complaining). While I'm glad B has listened, I am now using both arms to hold an increasingly heavy, and squirmy, toddler, I have a preschooler glued to my um, side, a parked car right next to me, and a car door open immediately in front of me.

"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.

After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.

 I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
 Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
 The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club".  I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.

I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.

We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.

B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.

As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of  McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.

As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".

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