Get your prank on, Pranksters. Time to Pull a The David Cook for charity. AND the chance to win free ice cream for a year from Cold Stone, yo (you can raffle that prize off if you win it).
The weather in Chicago goes from ass-hot to ass-cold overnight which always leaves me frantically unprepared. I’ve always wanted to be one of those people* that stocks up on clothes for their crotch parasites for next year, and I’ve tried that a couple of times, only to put them “somewhere safe” (like the bathtub or the oven) and forget about them entirely. When I unearth these fossils, the clothes turn to dust in my hands.
Instead, I have to risk hypothermia by rushing out to the store in flippity-flops and a tank top, shivering and chattery, to grab fall-ish clothes. What, me prepared? NEVER.
Last weekend, I made the same frantic chattery Target run, nearly losing some fingers (from hypothermia) in the process. My shopping list looked sort of like this:
- Diet Coke
- Motherfucking Fall Clothes, moron.
- Diet Coke
I am not very inventive in my eating patterns, you see.
I’d also brought my daughter with me to pick out some “motherfucking fall clothes,” and I assumed that like her brothers before her, she’d simply sit in the cart and squawk indignantly at me while I dared stop moving for mere seconds at a time.
I sorely underestimated the flesh of my flesh. The blood of my blood. The clone of myself.
Where I’ve always just haphazardly picked out boy clothes for my sons, hoping like hell that I don’t pick them out lame shit, my daughter has an OPINION. Oh yes, at 19 months, she sat in the cart and like a wee dictator, and while her vocabulary leaves much to be desired, she made her likes and dislikes well known. By shrieking. And grabbing. And throwing things she hated onto the floor.
Her mother’s daughter. I beamed so proudly, even as I bore the Wrath of Amelia, which is kinda like the Wrath of Khan, only different because I don’t know who the fuck Khan is.
Okay, so I was more dramatical than my daughter appears ON CAMERA. She knows how to turn it off when it counts. Smart, smart girl.
Also: I’m fucked.
*I’ve also wanted to be a blond. Tried that once. Black hair + an angry gay hairstylist = fire-plug orange hair.
**I am not paid to endorse this most delicious food of the gods. Because if I were, I wouldn’t be able to say things like, “for something that sounds like an STD, it’s motherfucking DELICIOUS.”