deficient.

It seems that I, at least according to my blog entries, am either incompetent- or drunk, all of the time.

Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.

This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.

She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...

Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.

I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.

Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.

General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.

The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.

When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.

If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.

My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.

I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.

Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.

"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.

But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.

I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.

Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.

There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).

After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.

Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.

As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.

Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:



Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.

Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.


If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.

"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."

This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.

I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.

When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.

He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.

One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.

"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.

There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.

Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"

"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"

FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.

Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.

I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.

Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:


Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."

He might be a serial killer yet.

I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.

I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.

It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.

I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...

I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.

MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.

I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.

Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.

As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.

It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.

I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.

Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.

Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.

Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.

I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.

My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"

"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.

So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......

Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."

Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.