The Fake Palm Tree from Walmart

Order fake Areca Palm tree for living room since I keep killing real ones. Find one for $163 on Website says can return to local store if needed. Sweet. It comes, and Scott and Mom and Andrew all make fun of it. I try to give it a chance but know deep in my heart that it’s ridic. So I box up, get receipt from my email and head off to Walmart with 2YO Macie.

Find stray cart. Put huge/awkward tree in cart and hold Macie on hip and walk from back of parking lot pushing cart/holding her and get out of breath. By time I get into store I’m huffing and puffing. Walmart greeter thinks he’s funny and actually imitates my panting. WTF. When I acknowledge him by giving him ice queen psycho pregnant lady death stare, he says “My DEAR, why didn’t you call?!” But still doesn’t come up to help us or assist in any way.

I make it to Customer Service desk. No line. Whaaat? Awesome! Hoist tree over counter, give him receipt, etc. He enters order number in computer and the dreaded “ohhhhhh….” comes out.
“Ohhh what?!” I say.
“Welllllll, this was actually purchased through a third party called ‘Christmas Central’ so we can’t take it back here at the store.”, he explains.
“Um…what is Christmas Central?”
(Macie is currently lifting up her shirt showing strangers her belly button)
“It’s a third party”, he says.
“I didn’t order from Christmas Central. I ordered from There was zero anything about Christmas Central or not being able to return it” (Voice elevating, getting sweaty, shed jacket)
“Well, would you like to call or Christmas Central? We’re not really affiliated with them.”
“You’re not really affiliated with them?”

The rest is a huge blur. Managers came over, was called, flagrant arm movements, I continued elevating my voice: “What is Christmas Central? You call Christmas Central!”, the line for customer service was wrapping outside of the room. Macie was now laying on the dirty floor and rolling around like Madonna.

I was late for being surprise reader for Kenna’s preschool and still had to pick up cookies. So I said
“I’m leaving this dumb 163 dollar tree here that looks NOTHING LIKE THE WEBSITE PICTURE BY THE WAY because I don’t have time to carry it back out to my car right now. Mister, I know this is not your fault, and I am sorry for this spectacle, but whose fault is it? Mine, I suppose for ordering from and actually thinking it was Walmart!?! I will be back to pick up this dumb tree later.”

“We cannot guarantee it will still be here.”




I Do Not Work Out in Sexy Workout Clothes

I do not work out in sexy workout clothes. If you do, I’m not putting you down. I totally envy you; and one day…maybe one day, I TOO will be turning heads in that workout facility. But today? No.

Is it because I haven’t showered? Like it might not quite match how I feel inside? Look at that hottie in the bright orange sports bra. Oh wait, she’s leaving a wake of coffee breath and baby poop….annnnnnd bacon? Is that fried bacon I smell?

Maybe it’s because when I put that fifteen year old way-too-tight sports bra on this morning (obviously to go under my oversized 5K tshirt), I said out loud to self
“is my boob seriously gonna smash out the BOTTOM of this damn thing?”

Could be due to the fact that I’m on day three of putting BedHead dry shampoo to the test. The stakeholders of BedHead have chosen me to be part of a focus group gathering qualitative research on how many days a woman can go without washing her hair before she feels just completely abhorrent. No, I’m not really. It’s my own little test.

The possibility that it’s my jiggly butt doesn’t elude me.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to miss out on that wow-factor I get upon returning to the child care room. “Wow, who’s *this* lady? Fresh smelling, washed hair, brushed teeth, maybe even a little bit of makeup…this certainly is NOT the woman who dropped the kids off.” Let’s not get crazy…I’m still wearing active wear of some sort and makeup consists of my half Dr. Spock eyebrows being drawn in, a little mascara and some lip gloss. Dontchu worry, my ensemble continues to not make sense.

Not sure, but it could simply be the fact that somewhere between child one and child four I stopped caring about my appearance during everyday routines. And I don’t mean like “oh, she doesn’t look awesome but still socially acceptable”. I’m talking “oh this mama is a hot mess!”
Overtly atrocious.
Basic fundamental hygiene and grooming took a major hit with number four.

These possibilities are endless. I predict it’s about 3+ years before I start wearing hottie workout clothes. (Shrugs) Or never.