Three words: Desperate retail associates.

I've never worked retail, but I'm sure it's not the easiest gig in the world. You're on your feet all day, folding, hanging, fetching. And even with your measly commission, the pay is lousy. I get it. 

Nevertheless. 

BYE BYE GO AWAY NOW.

Seriously. Down, girl.

You, too, peppy gay man in the Britney Spears headset. Step off.

Everything in the store is 40% off. It's written on huge posters outside the store. There's signage over every shelf and rack that says "40% OFF YOUR ENTIRE PURCHASE." And still you inquire breathlessly "Did you know you get 40% off your ENTIRE purchase today!?" 

NO. YOU DON'T SAY.

The sign said "40% off your entire purchase", but we all know how fickle printed signs can be. They say one thing one minute and ... THANK GOD YOU WERE HERE.

No.

I don't need you to start me a fitting room.

Granted, I'm no Rocky Balboa, but I think I can carry a sweater. This one doesn't even have sleeves, so I'm good.

I recognize that landing me a fitting room is the retail associate's Holy Grail. I realize that the person who trained you probably told you that if you can just "get her to try stuff on", you increase your likelihood of making a sale by XYZ percent, and that's how you nab the commission. But let me give you a tip: I am trying to put together an OUTFIT, an endeavor for which I have little aptitude even when I'm holding two pieces up side by side. So if, busy little retail squirrel that you are, you take the top half of my outfit and scurry off into the dressing room with it, my odds of finding an appropriate bottom half are I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. SHOPPING IS HARD ENOUGH. JESUS. 

I don't hate you. That's mean.

I don't hate you, I just wish you'd give me a little bit of breathing ro--

Doing fine! No, I don't need you to get me another size! A moment to set down my purse and remove my pants would be good, but other than that, THINGS ARE GOING GREAT IN THE DRESSING ROOM. And should they take a turn for the worse, I know you'll be checking in at least 75 more times before this is all over.

Which is why it strikes me as odd that when I finally make it to the cash register, the first thing you ask me is, "And who was helping you today?" 

The title of this post sucked you right in, didn't it? The air of mystery. (What is the post about, you wonder?)

It's a gift of mine, this writing thing.

But it's true, we did get a new television--the christening of which I detailed last week over at Her Nashville. 

I go off, in that post, about how much I hate television.

Hate it.

Can't stand it.

Won't waste my time.

That was Saturday. On Sunday, because we got a new television and it's big enough that I can now see the characters walking around on the screen, I forced myself to sit down and watch one episode ofParenthood on On Demand. I'd seen a preview once. It looked like something that might be up my alley. Four episodes later, I was like which one of these bastard remotes has the "MORE! MORE! MORE!" button? 

You guys.

YOU GUYS.

This is why I don't watch television. 

I can't stop thinking about the Bravermans. I LOVE THEM.

I LOVE THEM SO MUCH. 

I can't live without them.

AND THERE ARE NO. MORE. EPISODES. IN. MY. ON DEMAND. QUEUE. MOTHERFUCKER. 

I love TV.

People are always asking me if the boys get along.

Are they kidding? 

Of course they get along. It’s in their contract. Right there next to DON’T PEPPER MOMMY WITH QUESTIONS WHEN SHE’S TRYING TO FART OUT A BLOG POST AT THE LAST MINUTE GOD DAMMIT.

Errrrg.

(I got up at 5am, for the second time this week. I settled in at my desk to write and Mawwwwm? …. MAWWWWM?

Are you kidding me? On all other mornings I have to pry you out of bed one toenail at a time, and now Mawwwwwm?

And do you know what urgent question Gus had to ask me? He needed to know whether I like the song ‘Suddenly Seymour’, from Little Shop of Horrors.

Of course I do. It's a good song.)

Anyway. Yes, my kids get along. They play. They laugh at each other’s jokes. They dress up in armor and rainbow wigs and play "Army Clowns." It's great.

Of course there are times.

There are times when Patrick has heard one Justin Bieber refrain too many, and without warning hauls off and punches Gus in the chest.

I try not to find this hilarious. Because hitting is wrong. 

(And yet, so right.) 

And then there are times when Gus plays the role of Wise Older Brother Providing Unsolicited Counsel, which I also try not to find hilarious. On Sunday afternoon we were driving back from a hike, and I heard Gus say, "Patrick, you’ll never get a girlfriend if you still believe in magic.”

Since “getting a girlfriend” is not exactly topping Patrick’s agenda these days, he didn’t seem too alarmed. So Gus repeated it for emphasis. “I’m serious Patrick. You will NEVER get a girlfriend if you believe in magic.”

“But elves are magic, and so are reindeer,” Patrick said.

Gus let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t mean THAT kind of magic. It’s okay to believe in REAL magic. I’m talking about fake magic. The kind that magicians do.” 

So real quick. I started my new job. And the job is good.

The people are generous and hardworking, the culture appears to be trusting and supportive, the environment is uplifting, the work is challenging, and not once have I seen anyone sneak up behind anyone else and hiss whatcha workin' on?

They have a workflow process in the new place that appears to be custom crafted after my own heart. When they were explaining the project management system, which involves some simple color coding, they seemed almost apologetic for all the colors. Meanwhile, I wanted to gaze intensely into their eyes like Jerry Maguire and say, "Your colors. Complete me." 

I would color code my life if that were a socially acceptable thing to do. I would color code your life if that were a socially acceptable thing to do.

And speaking of socially acceptable things to do, I need to get Gus to school on time. But I'll be back, sooner rather than later.