I’m NOT Listening

I have some great friendships with some amazing women but as the years go by it gets harder and harder to have any type of meaningful conversation with any of them, especially with those who also have children.

For example, the other night, I called a friend to talk because it really bothered me that this guy from last week never called me for a second date. As we were speaking, she was trying to put her 4 year old son to bed while I was giving Phoebe her bath.

FRIEND: How long has it been since you went out with him?

JESSICA: Over a week ago. Phoebe, stand up, I need to wash your tushy.

FRIEND: And he hasn’t called you? Ethan, we don’t put underwear in the toilet, remember? Sorry, When did he call you?

JESSICA: He hasn’t. Give me your feet. Your feet, that’s your hand. I need your foot. He hasn’t called me.

FRIEND: Well, did he seem like he was interested in you? Oh my God, Ethan just said the word boner. Hold on. Yes, I see. Very good. Now put it in your underpants. Sorry. So he was into you?

JESSICA: No. I think I was too Jewey for him. That or my mustache is already making a comeback, I don’t know I’m not sure.

FRIEND: Look you just have to be who..Ethan, stay out of my nightstand. …I know you’re lonely…Ethan, give that to me. It’s a toy for mommies. No. Turn it off. Ethan, I’m not kidding. Put it back. Oh my God. Are you still there?

JESSICA: Wait! I can’t hear you with the water running! Just give me a second. I need to rinse her hair out!

FRIEND: Ethan, come brush your teeth!

JESSICA: I’ll get you a towel in minute. I’m not done rinsing.

FRIEND: Do you want the SpongeBob toothpaste or the Spiderman?

JESSICA: Okay, I’m done. Are you there?

FRIEND: Yeah, Ethan’s just brushing his teeth. Listen, clearly this guy was not for you and to be honest, it sounds like he..Ahhh! Hold on. Hello?!!! Hi! We’re in the bathroom!!! That’s David. He just walked in the door. Can I call you tomorrow?

This is why I pay a therapist.

I CAME, I ANNOYED, THEY LEFT

This has been a banner week for me in the dating arena as I have been blown off not once but twice. In that vain, you’d think I’d be running to a salad bar or better yet a plastic surgeon, but no. I chose to go out and eat a bowl of pasta so big you’d a thought tomorrow was the marathon and I was the lead runner.

When I got to the restaurant, I went to sit by the window. At the table next to mine sat a woman, who looked to be in her late 40′s, and her daughter, who looked to be about 8. From the second I took my seat, I could feel this overwhelming urge to chat with the mom while at the same time feeling her overwhelming urge to leave before I said anything.

At one point I turned to the daughter and asked her how old she was. “Nine” she told me “but I’m going to be ten in three weeks.” By the look on this mother’s face you could tell she was way less than pleased with how forthcoming her daughter was being with this seemingly secret and vital information. Minutes later the little girl also informed me that she was going on a camping trip with her class from the (something something) school which seemed to upset the mother so much, she began stuffing her meal down her throat while madly waving to the waiter, indicating she wanted her check.

Now, I’ve got a real pet peeve when it comes to insanely uptight people and it is my visceral reaction to want to push them to their breaking point because….I can. Some people call it a character defect, I think it’ a talent. To me this woman’s reaction was so out of whack, I couldn’t help but probe her daughter further.

I went on to ask the girl her name, (Charlotte) and if she lived in the area (no, Mt. Washington). Problem was she could only remember the word “Mount” before she looked to her mother and asked her, “Mount? Mount?….”

At first the mother pretended not to hear her. I could see her trying to quickly come up with a fake name when the daughter proudly blurted out “Washington, Mt. Washington”. Now, I’ve never been to Mt. Washington. IF YOU GAVE ME DIRECTIONS, it would still take me days to find my way home, if ever. But in the spirit of apparently scaring the crap out of this woman, I smiled a huge smile and told the daughter, “I love Mt. Washington, I know it like the back of my hand”.

By now the mother looked like she was going to start hyperventilating. So, of course…I kept going. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like I was sitting there holding a puppy in my hands, telling the kid I had a big bag of candy waiting for her in my van which just so happened to be right outside, idling by the curb. Never mind, her mother was sitting right there!

In no time, the mother paid her bill, swooped little Charlotte away from the table and headed towards the exit. Being me, as in, someone who refuses to leave well enough alone, I couldn’t help but yell out to them at the last second, “Bye, see you around the neighborhood.”

THEY’RE IDIOMS, WE’RE IDIOTS

The other day I was at the grocery store. Out of pure laziness, I didn’t bother to grab a cart since I only planned to purchase a few items. As I was walking towards the check out counter, one of my tuna fish cans dropped onto the floor, right at foot of this kid who looked to be around 15 years old.

As the kid/man-boy, whatever, grabbed the can and put it back on my pile of stuff I laughed and said:

JESSICA: Sorry, first day with my new arms.

to which he responded:

MAN/BOY: OOhhhhh, that’s so great. You look great.

Okay, now I know that there are many people out there who could easily be described as “not the sharpest knife in the drawer” but as I watched this kid look to where my real arms ended and the prosthetic ones began, I realized “not the sharpest knife” just didn’t go far enough to explain the kid’s state of mind.

However, later that day, I got to thinking about all the dumb statements I had made in life and suddenly felt not only a new understanding of this boy but a kinship as well.

“What day is Cinco de Mayo?” I once asked a friend of mine

“What kind of animal is Toucan Sam?” I asked another.

“Don’t try and pull the bag over my head”, I once announced to my then husband.

(and my all time favorite)

“She was so scared, the hair on her BACK stood up” I said as I described a friend’s reaction to a guy she thought was following her.

No, these are not made up statements. I have at one point in time actually uttered these very words to another individual and trust me, I was WAY OLDER than fifteen.

In fact, if I’m to be totally truthful with you, I must confess that the line about the bag over the head is not even close to the only time that I have butchered an idiom to the point where the person I am saying it to has been pushed to ask me, “What the f@#k are you talking about?”

And I’m not the only one in my family with this problem. Like heart disease or Cancer or even Excema, the inability to remember an idiom is an inherited trait that has affected every member of my entire family for generations. It is now at the point where we are all loathe to even take a stab at sharing a story, a thought or God forbid, give any advice using any type of idiom whatsoever.

Not that it stops us from trying. When my family and I talk amongst ourselves we will refer to an idiom just not in its exact form. For instance – not long ago I was talking to my sister about buying a new car. She thought it was stupid because I had just told her that for a yearly savings of a hundred bucks, I’d cancelled the call waiting feature on my phone and yet here I was, willing to add a car payment to my monthly budget simply because I feel like my Maxima is a total cock-blocker. Now the appropriate idiom for her to have said to me would have been, “you’re being penny wise, pound foolish”. Of course, I’m able to tell you this because I just got off the phone with a friend who was able to recite what the idiom was that I was looking for. Sadly, however, when I was having this discussion with my sister, the conversation went more like this:

MY SISTER: Well, you know, what is that saying about money?
ME: Don’t be stupid or foolish or something…
MY SISTER: Yeah, right, uh… you’re being foolish and something, something….
ME: Yeah, yeah, Wait, God, what is that saying?
MY SISTER: I don’t know, just don’t do it
ME: Oh God, it’s killing me. What is the line..
MY SISTER: I have no idea. Just save your money. I have to go, Emma just told me
her butt is itchy.

Sad. So sad….

THERE ARE THE DOES, THESE ARE THE DON’TS

As a public service to all the men out there who are attempting to lure a woman through on line dating, I am here to announce a list of things you should NOT do if you ever want to get laid again.

Before I begin, I will say that these tips were compiled after interviewing numerous women who have themselves attempted to find love online and who have agreed that when they are faced with any of the following, proceed to roll their eyes and quickly hit the “delete” button. Also note that the following are not listed in any type of order. They are all a complete and total turn-off and any one or combination thereof will lead to the above said action on the part of the recipient.

1. Do not post a picture of yourself in sunglasses. To do so is the equivalent
of putting a bag over your head. After viewing your profile, your pictures needs
to be updated and clear enough for said woman to pick you out of a line-up.

2. Do not post pictures of Kodak moments where there are no human subjects involved.
If you are trying to get the message across that you enjoy photography, please
take the time to list that under the “hobbies” section and then take more time
to remove said photos. If you’re not big into taking photos and just want us to
see “stuff”, perhaps you might want to put these pictures into an album and let us take a look at them at some time in the very,very, very far future.

3. Do not post a picture of yourself holding a cat. It’s good to know that you like
animals but a majority of women have stated that as soon as they see a guy holding
a Calico, the first word that comes to mind is “pussy” as in “this guy is clearly a
pussy” which quickly leads to the rolling of the eyes and the hitting of the delete
button as mentioned in paragraph one.

4. Do not post a photo of yourself half naked, flexing your muscles while
looking into your bathroom mirror, or any mirror or the lens of a camera, for that
matter.

5. Please do not post a photo of you leaning against a very expensive car. If you
insist on doing so please post along side it, a photo of the title to the car with
a notarized letter stating that said automobile does in fact belong to you.

6. If you refuse to post a photo, please limit yourself to contacting only those women
who have made the same choice. Your not allowing others the chance to know
what you look like basically screams, “I believe that my personality is so incredible that upon meeting me you will quickly forget that I am morbidly obese, have two wandering eyes and I’m holding a kitten.”

7. Do not post photos of yourself at a distance so far it looks like they were
shot by a friend while standing on the ROOF OF YOUR HOUSE.

Last but not least:

8. If you’re over 40 and your employment status has changed say to say, oh, I don’t know…unemployed or you’ve decided to leave your job because you’ve got this story inside you that “just has to be told” and you’re convinced, with all evidence to the contrary, that you are going to be the one in fifty thousand unknowns that will actually get someone to pay to film your life story, a story that is so excruciatingly dull even your therapist can’t take it anymore, please make sure to say so.

AND THEN PHOEBE WAS BORN

I went back East to visit my family again. Every time I’m about to leave L.A. for New York I can almost feel myself morphing from grown up to child. I’ll start slumping a bit more, make a mental note to tell my parents all the wonderful things I’ve accomplished in my life since the last time we saw each other, I’ve even thought about making a few pieces of art work so when I left they could place them up on their refrigerator and show them off to their friends at their next dinner party.

I went to college in New Orleans, spent six months in London and several more in Southern California and yet, no matter how much time passed between my visits, my father would refuse to pick me up at the airport. The traffic, the parking situation, the waiting for just me, all of it made him cringe.

But then Phoebe was born. If I knew that having a kid was all it took to get a free ride from JFK to the city, I’d have been knocked up by winter break of my freshman year (not that I didn’t try…a lot).

It’s hard not to be jealous of Phoebe’s relationship with my dad and yet I’m not surprised. My parents are no different than many others who clearly fucked up with their own kids and are determined to make it up to them by being really nice to their grandchildren.

I remember one Thanksgiving, when Phoebe was around two years old, I found myself competing with my own daughter, like we were contestants in a pageant, both of us fighting for the title of “Charles Bern’s favorite”. I did my best to sabotage Phoebe’s chances of winning by putting her to bed earlier every night just so I could have more alone time with my father, who happened to be the pageant’s one and only judge, but of course I still lost. I think it was the talent contest. I wrote and performed a monologue about how I would have preferred to have been raised by a family of apes while Phoebe chose to be two and adorable. The way she just stood there in her diaper, smiling. I knew I didn’t have a shot.

It’s gotten better over time. Not because Phoebe gets any less attention but because I’m just more focused on what seems to be my ailing and decrepit body. The good news is, I’m not alone. Finally, my eighty one year old father and I are starting to have a few things in common. Last night we spent a whole hour talking about the binding nature of Matzoh and the pitfalls of getting a bad physical therapist. A dream a come true, let me tell you.

All in all it has been great to see my family again. It reminds me that there are people out there who love me unconditionally, that is unless I fail to put the dental floss back where I found it.

HAIR TODAY, WAXED TOMORROW

This morning the crew from the local firehouse came to my daughter’s school to teach them about fire safety. They brought along with them their Dalmation “fire dog” Wilson and from the moment he (the dog) walked in, Phoebe went completely deaf. After going over what to do in case of an emergency, all the kids lined up to pet the dog. After Phoebe was finished I pulled her aside and asked her:

JESSICA: What number do you call if there is a fire?
PHOEBE: Wilson is a Dalmation and I have a Dalmation doggy too, at my mommy’s house. (a stuffed one)
JESSICA: Do you remember what you’re supposed to do if your clothes catch on fire?
PHOEBE: Wilson licked my hand after I pet him.
JESSICA: 9-1-1. That’s the number you need to call if there is a fire or if somebody
gets hurt. It’s very important you remember that.
PHOEBE: Is daddy picking me up today?

Now, we all know that I am a single mother. If something happens to me while Phoebe and I are at home, clearly, I’m a goner. I can see it now. I’m lying, unconscious in a pool of my own blood, Phoebe walks in, sees the blood and yells, “Mommy, you got paint on the floor”. Then, after making a slight attempt to wake me, Phoebe walks back into her room, grabs her Dora coloring book and a paintbrush, comes back, sits down next to my now rotting corpse, dips the brush into my blood and proceeds to color.

Of course, with this scenario in mind, I can’t help but feel yet even more pressure to find a partner, if for no other reason than just to give me a chance to survive at least until the ambulance arrives, which brings us back once again to the firemen. I would be remiss not to mention that on the whole, I happen to think that firemen are very, well, okay, “hot”. Not all, just most and today was no exception. Having forgotten they were coming to the school, I showed up wearing an outfit that basically screamed, “I won’t screw you but if you let me, I’ll do your laundry.” I wasn’t thrilled at my lack of “preparation” but I still did my best to look pretty and available for dinner.

After the “show” was over, I went to have my eyebrows waxed. While I was there the woman asked me if I would also like her to remove my mustache. I laughed, because of course, I’m a woman and women don’t have mustache’s…right? And then I looked in a mirror. As the waxer pointed out how close I was to looking like Colonel Sanders, all I could think was either I’m not really a woman or my testosterone levels have gone through the roof and Phoebe now has TWO daddies. As I laid on the waxing table, I called my friend to ask her advice.

FRIEND: Of course you should do it. What are you waiting for?
JESSICA: I’ve never done it before.
FRIEND: Really? I thought you let it grow because you didn’t have enough money to wax it.
JESSICA: All this time and you’ve never told me you thought I had a mustache?
FRIEND: I just figured you knew. I mean, I’m sorry to be blunt but, hello?

I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been walking around, for who knows how long, looking like Tom Selleck and no one thought it pertinent to tell me? Okay, perhaps, I may have noticed a little bit of a darkish shadow up there but not a BEARD!

Of course, I went for the lip wax and the entire time I’m lying there, all I could think of was how many places I’d been, men I’d seen and auditions I’d been on where they were looking for someone to play the role of a WOMAN but instead got me. Oh God.
Is it any wonder I’m still single? Really?

BABY YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR—PLEASE

That’s it. I’m hiring a chauffeur. Barely four months to the day and I did it AGAIN. I got into a car accident with myself. Myself and a POLE that is. Last time, if you recall, it was me and a Jeep, a Jeep with no one in the driver’s seat, no one anywhere in it or even near it…parked perfectly between the lines.

My mechanic told me it’s going to cost at least a grand to fix it and I’m letting him do it even though I could sell this piece of shit for the same amount it’s costing me to repair it. I thought about just leaving it the way it is and waiting until I had more cash but then my friend reminded me, “it’s not like it’s such a great pussy wagon to begin with and you being single and all, I say go for it.” So, I did.

Now, I’m driving a rental car. After it happened, I was so mad at myself, I was fuming. A part of me just wanted to pick myself up by the collar of my jacket and yell, as loud as I could, “What are you, a moron?” but I realized that of course it was impossible and when I told the rental car agent how I was feeling, and not because he asked, he suggested I might want to go home and slap myself across the face instead. He also called me “dude” a couple of times, which made me feel oh so butchy and of course did wonders for my self esteem which at that point was hovering near rock bottom. You see, to get me the car I needed, this guy had to drive me over to another Enterprise location where apparently the only requirement to work there was you had to be young, pretty, know you were pretty and constantly smiling because you have your whole life ahead of you AND you’re not me.

So, now I’ve got myself a Ford Escort. The engine in this baby is so loud, I’m seriously afraid it’s going to burst into flames at any given moment. Now, you might ask yourselves, “well then why don’t you bring the car back and get a different one?” Because I’m tired. Yes, folks, I would rather take the risk of being burned alive, leaving my daughter without a mother and an ex-husband with no child support payments because I’m too tired to get in my car and drive one third of a mile up the street to ask for a new one.

When I drove my Jetta for 8 years this stuff never happened. I think it was because it was way smaller than my Maxima. I mean, back then I only hit cars that were actually moving and yet now I’m afraid of ever getting a new one no matter what the size. Of course, I will never tell my father what happened. When I was 19 I was waiting at a red light with one car in front of me. Suddenly, another car came up from behind me, hit me and pushed me into the car in front of me, ultimately totalling my car. Even though I was totally blameless, for the next 15 years all I ever heard from my father was, “remember the time you smashed up your car?” It was crazy. I was 35 and whenever I would come to New York to visit, he would still insist on driving me everywhere just to avoid giving me the keys. If the word gets out, my father won’t even let me open the garage door, never mind get behind the wheel. In fact, not only would he insist on driving again but I wouldn’t be surprised if this time he made me ride in the trunk because well, you know, don’t want to risk me trying to steer the car WITH MY EYES.

Regardless, I’ve decided to take the whole experience and use it as a lesson which is, “I wasn’t hurt, knock wood and the only thing I lose is some money.” Grant you, money that could have bought me a sweater, a pair of jeans, boots, a massage, a down payment on a new car….

ME, MYSELF AND THE BRAVO! CHANNEL

Last night was the finale of “Make Me a Supermodel”. Yes, I’ve spent the last 13 weeks watching this show, which was less like a show and more like a bad accident where I just couldn’t turn my head away no matter how grotesque it became.

Like your typical reality program, week by week, one of these stunning, vacuous people was told, “I’m sorry, but America has voted and they do not believe you have what it takes to be a supermodel” and week by week, I spent an hour of my life becoming more and more emotionally invested in Ben’s poor run on the catwalk or the fact that “Sarah the skeleton” wasn’t living up to her daily commitment to stop eating and exercise more.

Right after they announced the winner, the credits immediately began to roll. It was as though 12 of my best friends, who in real life, would have never given me the time of day, left without even so much as a goodbye. It was so quick and out of nowhere I felt this empty feeling inside me that I had no idea how to fill.

Frozen yogurt? Some fresh pineapple? No, it was too late at night to indulge in anything food related. Sex? Sure, but that would have meant hiring someone and I’m really trying to stick to a budget. What then? What could I have done to make me feel whole again? Would Thursday night every be the same? What was I to do? Turn off the TV? Get a real life? I guess but is there life outside of Ben, Sarah, Perry or Shannon? And what if my Tuesday friends on “The Biggest Loser” found out? Would they be hurt to the point of binge eating? And how about Wednesdays and those hard working folks on Top Chef? Who are they really cooking for? Tom Colicchio or me?

As I sat, leaning against my coffee table in the dark, the only light, the glow from my television, I knew that giving up my TV and getting a life was not going to solve anything. And then, suddenly, clear as the colors on the screen, I had my answer. “I Wanna Be A Dancer” hosted by Elizabeth Berkeley, every Thursday night at ten on the Bravo Channel. Nicole, Nick, Tovah (Collins not Feldshuh), James and best of all, Jessica, a gal just like me only blonder, younger, longer legged, happier and more flexible. Twelve new friends, coming into my home every Thursday, dancing their hearts out, while I sit, watching, my heart racing, wondering, “who will go home this week? Who will be the one at the end of the night, sitting in alone in front of the camera, vowing to the world, “this isn’t the last you’re going to hear from me” even though both they and I and the entire rest of the world, know, that in fact, it will be.

You know, during the tough times, I’ve often heard people say that life is a series of one Reality TV show ending and another beginning to air and that our only job is to trust that and go on with our lives, even if, like me, you don’t have one.

YEAH, I DID

Last Friday, I had to take Phoebe back to the pediatrican where they proceeded to give her FOUR innoculations. I was dreading taking her because until I turned about eight…teen, okay, twenty eig….okay thirty. Until I turned thirty….eight, nine years old, I was TERRIFIED of needles. I would climb the walls in an effort to avoid being stuck and would insist on having someone hold my hand while I sat there going “f@*k, f@*k, f@*k, f#%k, f*#k” until they were finished.

It was decided that two nurses would come in and each would give Phoebe a shot at the same time, one after the other. I was to sit her in my lap and essentially pin her arms against her body so she couldn’t move. Nice huh? That’s a real mother/daughter moment I want to carry in my memory box.

Phoebe and I were in the room for only a couple of minutes when the nurse walked in with the “tray of pain”. You know, the one with the needles on it, all laid it out in a neat little row. Apparently, one of them noticed that by this time, all the blood had drained from my face and asked me if I was okay and did I want to leave the room. My initial thought was “hell yeah” but then I remembered “oh right, I’m a mother. I’m supposed to be brave, be a good example to my kid.” which was then followed by the thought, “oh God, I think I’m going to throw up”.

I told the nurse I felt a little nauseous whereupon she offered to walk to the reception area and bring us both back a lollipop. I agreed that that would be a good idea and immediately began to feel better.

I’m sorry, how old am I?

After it was over and before I could stop myself, I actually offered to take Phoebe BACK TO TOYS R US and yes, I was wearing heels and no there was nothing comfortable about them. AHHH! Somebody, please, have me committed. I immediately tried to backtrack but it was too late. You don’t tell a kid you’re going to take them to a toy store and then follow that with, “just kidding” or “someday, one day…before you go to college…”. You have to follow through and I did.

This time, however, I swore to myself, I didn’t care if they were giving the whole Goddamn store away, I didn’t care if it was the last free thing I would ever get in my entire life, I wasn’t backtracking for anything.

GOODBYE SWEET FEET, GOODBYE.

Walking around in the company of your four year old is a sure fire guarantee of a life with no sex and nights at home watching shows like “Wife Swap”.

HOWEVER, even though I was to spend all day Friday in the company of my daughter, I still wanted to look nice because, well, you never know.

So there I was getting dressed to take Phoebe out when I came upon a pair of heels that I had not worn in quite some time. Phoebe and I had a very busy day planned, a day which was going to involve quite a bit of walking and since I seemed to recall these shoes being both sexy and comfortable, I didn’t think twice about wearing them.

After running a couple of errands and then taking Phoebe to the pediatrician for a check-up, we headed for Toys R Us. Phoebe was dying for some talking Barbie thing and I couldn’t wait to spend my hard earned money on a piece of crap that will bore her to tears in less time than it takes to suck the flavor out of a piece of Juicy Fruit.

By the time we reached the toy store, I was for all intents and purposes, a cripple. These “comfortable” shoes, had by now, slowly but surely, worn away the first eight layers of skin on every toe, except the big ones. I wasn’t so much walking at this point as I was shuffling my feet making me look like a cast off from the show “Golden Girls”. The pain was so bad, I even found myself debating whether or not to hop onto a floor model of a Dora Tricycle and follow Phoebe around that way.

While I was there, my ex husband called and asked me if I would buy a toy he wanted to give to the child of one of his co-workers, telling me, of course, that he would reimburse me. After we hung up, I realized that the gift he wanted was not anywhere near where I was standing. Hoping that a salesperson might be so kind as to go grab the item for me, I stood in the aisle thinking of ways I could get their attention without moving. Since Phoebe and I were positioned right in front of shelf upon shelf of G.I. Joes, I started sending up “flares” of these eunichs with giant penis pouches all the while calling out, “Help, is anyone there?”

Finally, a salesgirl poked her head into the aisle. By now the floor was littered with “corpses”, whereupon I actually apologized for “killing” these guys”. After I promised to clean up, I then told her what it was I looking for. She informed me that she was busy helping another customer and directed to me to an area of the store that was about thirty feet away or from my standpoint, thirty miles. I considered getting down on the ground and crawling over there like my now “deceased” comrades but the thought of laying my body on the floor of Toys R Us which, I’m going to guess, hasn’t been mopped since the day they rolled out the first wave of Cabbage Patch Kids, was extremely unappealing.

So, I shuffled.

The item my ex wanted was made by Fisher Price. I was just grabbing it off the shelf when another salesperson appeared telling me about a Fisher Price two for one deal. Without looking, I quickly grabbed another box.

Now, I know that technically, the “free” toy should have gone to my ex-husband since it was his money that qualified us to get it. However, the last word I would ever use to describe myself would be “technical” and so I considered the second toy as actually belonging to me.

As I was pulling out my debit card, the cashier informed me that the other toy I had grabbed was made by Playskool and didn’t qualify for the discount, a mistake that would require me to walk up and back down the entire length of the store.

JESSICA: I’m not sure I can do that.

CASHIER: I’ll wait.

JESSICA: Couldn’t I take the trolley?

CASHIER: (with zero irony in her voice) We don’t have one.

At that point, all I could picture was the inside of my shoes and my now “fleshless” toes and yet back and forth I went, in my head, debating, “free toy, maimed for life, free toy, maimed for life.”

Suddenly, Phoebe reminded me that we had yet to get her anything. She then grabbed my hand and began to drag me away towards the back thus ending my silent debate. I was going to get a free toy AND be maimed for life.