Hawt Mz came by the ole cookie booth yesterday. I wanted to tell her something cool like how I wore a Goody comb in my back pocket all day and then leave the story all enigmatically like that. Instead I geeked about books, gossiped about, uh, not gonna say, and then realized I smell like armpits most of the time.
Later the 10 YO, who was sitting behind a plate glass window playing his DS and minding his own business, came to inform me he was getting water for some guy. I looked at the grimy paper cup in his hands and asked, “What guy?” The 10 YO pointed at a man even more grimy than the cup who was peering over the shoulder of a gamer. “Dude, you totally just failed Charlie Check First.” “Yeah, so I’m going to get that guy some water.” “Uh…kay,” I said thinking he would visit the drinking fountain back inside the store and brb. I also took a look at my son’s gaming stuff that he left in the seat next to creepy bum. I wasn’t in the position to leave my 7 YO Girl Scout with all those boxes of cookies plus the cash kitty. She’d totally establish her independence before sundown. Nah, I had to trust the universe. “But after you give him water, get your stuff and move.” I then commenced the “I will f*** you up!” stare at the oblivious bum, daring him to look at me. That took about three seconds before my attention was redirected to cookie sales. I later learned the 10 YO didn’t go to the water fountain. He went down the way to a restaurant and got iced water. Iced. Freaking. Water. The 10 YO and I eventually had the expanded stranger danger discussion during which I asked why he complied with the request. “Because he asked nicely.” I need to lock that boy up.*
I’m thinking uncool armpits and grimy bum were karmic payback. Prior to the booth, the 7 YO sold out her personal inventory. I was on a high about the deal driving home when I watched a car hit an orange tabby, slow down to evaluate the damage, then speed off apparently under the impression that no further action was needed. The cat convulsed then gave up. I’m thinking, I would have to cross major traffic to pull over and cross three lanes of busy traffic on foot to get to the cat, who lay in the turn lane. What if the cat were sick, rabid, or just freaked out? The Hubster would be totally pissed if I put myself or the kids in that sort of danger for a feral cat. Even so, I have empty cookie cases I could use to scoop the cat up. But I’m already running late for the next thing. Would my vet take on a charity case? By now I’m down the street. I’ve always loved orange tabbies. I suck. Not cool. The universe wants me to know I’m a stinky armpity bum and should never be allowed to sit at the cool kids’ table. Oh, the inhumanity.
The 7 YO has another cookie booth in a few minutes.
* Don’t go thinking the 10 YO is all sweet and innocent, he totally belly gut laughed when his friend got his dad to say he liked eating cookies, where cookies was a euphemism. He got busted on that one after the 7 YO had to explain it to me.