Random musings of a mother gone mad

HOLIDAY SHOPPING IS NOT FOR SISSIES!

ATTENTION HOLIDAY SHOPPERS: THERE IS ONLY ONE DAY LEFT UNTIL ALL THE OTHER SHOPPING DAYS LEFT UNTIL CHRISTMAS AND HANUKAH AND KWANZAA AND MY BIRTHDAY!   

This is a problem for me because, once again, I have suffered a shopping injury. It happens every year. 

I am very proud of my shopping injuries and love to talk about them to anyone who will listen. Look… 

I am what some might call an “elite” shopper… kinda like an Olympian. I train mightily (I admit I forget to stretch sometimes) and I continue to petition the International Olympic Committee to make shopping (something I consider to be a bona-fide  contact sport) an official summer AND winter sport. I defy Michael Phelps to try to keep up with my medal count. In fact, I’m confident I would blow him out of the water — pun totally intended — I would win all the medals! 

Don’t pay attention to the mean heckler at the back of the room. I have no idea who that is. Wait, is that Phelps? Poor sport! 

I approach Christmas shopping with a vengeance never before seen in the human world. I attribute this to my grandmothers, who lived by the motto SHOP OR DIE.  

Translated, this means: 

Or maybe…

My Bulgarian grandmother’s favorite designer was John Deere. 

For my Italian grandmother, it was Mr. Clean

On Saturdays they would often fight over which one got to take me with her.

One good thing is that now I have arms that are much longer than most, allowing me to swipe up bargains from a distance. 

Sometimes I don’t even have to get out of the car. 

 

But now I have an injury, and it’s hampering my final sprint to the holly jolly finish line, which I should’ve crossed days ago.  Actually, I think it might be a flare up from that old 1994 incident in which I hurt my knee while lunging for a weed whacker at an impressive Ace Hardware sale o’ the century. 

Boy, was I naive back then. Unlike today, I never wore protective gear. 

Yes, times have changed since I became an Olympic level shopping athlete.

But there’s one thing that never changes. 

The sound of blood coursing through my veins when I hear that magic word…

Have you ever heard the sound of blood coursing through your veins?

 Best. Thing. Ever.

(Hey! Did you hear the one about the Fat Ass who became a Smart Ass?)

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