That Time I Lost My Sh*t at the Grocery Store

In the feminine hygiene aisle, no less.

my-neighbors-diary-said-i-have-boundary-issues-0341d[1]I went to the store to purchase a handful of items, and tampons were on my list.  I was standing in the aisle looking for my preferred brand, and I felt someone standing close behind me.  Close, like only people who know me well, close.   And I have a thing about people who don’t respect personal boundaries, especially in public, so I became very still and just waited for them to move on.  The person behind me didn’t move.  About ten seconds later, a man cleared his throat and said hello.

WTF?

Why is a man trying to talk to me in the feminine hygiene aisle?  Who does this?  No one does this because it is forbidden!  Standard rules of etiquette clearly state that no man ever should approach a woman in this particular aisle, for any reason, especially when she is standing directly in front of tampons.  I salute the men who purchase female products for their wives, sisters, daughters, etc…I myself used to force my older brother to buy my pads and tampons when I was a teenager because I was too embarrassed to do it myself.  I even sent my brother’s friend into the store once, and when he bought the wrong thing, I made him go back and return it.  There were perks to being a cute girl in high school, and I used that to my advantage when my monthly visitor came.  But everyone knows you don’t try to strike up a conversation with a woman for any reason while she is shopping this aisle.

I slowly turned around to find a young-ish, good-looking man with a nice smile staring at me.  Had to be in his late twenties.  He was holding a few fancy black gift bags and he immediately started talking…

Man:  How are you today?

Me:  No.  Just….no.

Man: (confused look on his face) Ummmm, what?

Me:  Please don’t do this.  Please don’t try to talk to me or sell me something right now.  Just…..don’t.  Please just walk away.

Man:  Ummm, well I would like to talk to you about these great cosmetics I have here…

Me:  Oh my God!  Stop talking!  I don’t want to be rude to you, but you need to walk away from me right now.  Do you see where I am?  Do you understand how inappropriate this is?  I am buying tampons!  Tampons!  You don’t try to interrupt and sell make-up to women in the fucking tampon aisle!  What the hell is wrong with you?

Man:  (pissy look on his face)  Well, I am sorry to disturb you.

Me:  You should be sorry! What kind of perv are you?

11870926_10205390023731595_6675434545531510468_n[1]He then turned around, beet red in the face and walked away. I ran into him a few aisles over in the ice cream section as he was trying to chat up another woman.  I shot him a dirty look and kept walking, after I grabbed my chocolate peanut butter ice cream, of course.

I went home and told my husband, “Some poor sales guy just had a really rough day because of me.”

Wanda Says…Silliness, Shenanigans and Air Guitar.

I have very little sympathy for my kids when I embarrass them, especially when the embarrassment takes place in the privacy of our own home over silliness and varied shenanigans.  I also feel that occasionally embarrassing my children is a necessary action of parenting.  It’s a public service really, because I am preparing them to deal with the insanity of the real world.

Last night, my husband and I had a date, and I was in my room getting ready.  I was listening to the Journey station on Pandora and Bryce was laying on my bed talking to me.  And then it happened.

Pandora began to play one of my favorite jams…Jukebox Hero by Foreigner.

I am not physically capable of restraining myself during that song.  Every Midwestern, rock star wannabe cell in my body rises to the occasion and becomes the music.  I ran to the remote and cranked up the volume.  I did not care that Bryce had a slightly alarmed look on his face.

I sang.  Loudly.  I danced.  I threw my hair around. (I grew up on 70’s and 80’s rock music, so my hair banging skills are exceptional).  I rocked the air guitar and I embraced the moment.  My guitar solo was totally badass.  Or, I imagined it was as I rocked that shit all over my bedroom.

At one point I saw that Bryce had his hands over his ears with his face scrunched up and he seemed to be shouting something to me.  His eyes were wide and his face was red with the tell-tale signs of mortification and agitation over my less than mature behavior.

I kept singing to him and playing my air guitar.

Then I heard Bryce shout to me, “Mommy, what are you doing?  Stop it!”

He was embarrassed of his mother. It’s more likely that he was embarrassed for me, but regardless, he was clearly not appreciative of my sweet dance moves, less than perfect rocker voice, or my expert hair thrashing.

So I turned up the music and sang louder.  🙂