Cartier, Schmartier

It is Saturday morning. Cartier opens at 10. I will be waiting when the guard unlocks the door.

The kids and I are heading to Scott's this afternoon for a few hours of fun on the water and a day at the beach tomorrow. I need to get this out of the way or my next opportunity to do so, given Cartier's user-hostile store hours, will be weeks away. And I can't wear the cheesy, large-faced, bedazzled, day-glo watch I picked up at the Miami airport a few years back for $10 much longer and still maintain any sense of credibility or dignity.

I think about my last experience at Cartier and carefully consider how to dress. I would love to prance in dressed to the nines and wearing to-die-for, impractical, breathtakingly expensive heels, so the House of Cartier runs around like a bunch of serfs hoping for the commission on my next purchase until I dash their hopes with my clutch-the-pearls, woeful customer service tale. But to Hell with that. I have a boat to board and I am not stepping into a phone booth to change between trips.

I choose a very impressive pair of Bermuda shorts Charlotte gave me, a crisp impeccable white T, and good sandals. I do put on some decent jewelry and moderately make up my face. I am seeing Scott later, I am not interested in looking like a hag to make a point. I can go from Cartier to Marina without an outfit change. I can't believe I actually am thinking about this for longer than a nano-second.

All the way to the Mall, I am practicing what I will say to Frances about her unnamed, freeze-dried colleague that will have her frothing at the mouth with competitive adrenaline. At the light midway there, I check my purse for the reciept that they warn you you must have with you, and ID by the way, to collect the items you left in their trust.

They'd keep my watch if I lost this stupid thing? Thank God I didn't go on a recent purse purging spree. I'd have quite a fight on my hands.

It is then that I notice that the receipt has a little more information on it than I'd first noticed. In fact, it has the name of the heretofore unnamed clerk who made me feel like a bum when I first appeared at the their guarded gates.

You'd think I'd be pleased to be able to dime out the dry-cleaned snob who made me feel unworthy. But I am not.

Because the clerk is Frances, the meek clerk who called me the other day. And I suddenly feel badly about my plans to rat on her with the perfect blend of wit and meanness.

I am torn as I enter Cartier and am greeted by the guard. I can see two clerks at the far counter and squint to see if there is a reason to choose one over the other. I.e. one is a manager and the other is a trainee or something similar.

As I walk nearer I can see the clerks exchange glances and one is walking away looking like she would like to avoid me. And I realize it is Frances, with the rafia-esque hair and frown lines.

She sees me noticing the exchange and actually looks sheepish at having been caught trying to dodge me.

So I quietly clear my throat and put on my best buttery smooth First Lady voice. As I walk decisively toward the other clerk, who oddly, is carrying her purse on her shoulder as she works, I smile at Frances and say, "Yes, please do walk away, Frances." (She seems shocked that I can identify her by name.) "I have no burning desire to talk with you either."

Clerk number 2 with the purse seems confused but her smile never leaves her face. She competently and and without inquiring about Frances handles my transaction. It is uneventful. At the end of the transaction, she thanks me and I thank her, adding, "You've been a pleasure to deal with, which can't be said of your friend Frances."

She asks, "Was there a problem?"

I reply, "Not with the watch, but certainly with Frances. I don't need to elaborate, but Frances needs to learn the value of a customer, even if they present in your store dressed for a picnic. I don't come here to be judged."

"I understand," Clerk 2 with Purse replies.

I hope she does. And really, that is all I need. I need someone to understand. Like Oprah at Hermes in Paris, people aren't always what they appear to be. It doesn't mean people get to treat you badly.

With my beautiful watch back on my wrist and my point made, I get back in my car to join my kiddos and Scott for a day of smooth sailing.

Meanwhile, Back at Cartier

I have almost been too distracted by the latest SNAFU to remember that I have a very expensive watch to retrieve from Cartier & The House of Snobbery.


How could I forget?


Let me tell you.


When I was busy being scrutinized and sized up as a potentially fraudulent Cartier watch owner at worst, recipient of fenced jewelry at best, I recall hearing the very prim, dry-cleaned, starched to the point of discomfort, piss pot of a woman tell me that their technician would be in on Tuesday ("Tyooooooooz-day") and that I would hear from them a day or so later.


By my calculations, not only has Tyoooooooz-day come and gone, but much more than a day or so more has as well. And I have not gotten a call.


So I call them. They do not keep traditional retail hours like the rest of the Mall, (hoping to distinguish themselves from the Bangles And Beads folks, for sure) so I get an answering machine. French accent and all, asking that I please accept their apologies for not being available, blahdee blahdee blah.


At the sound of the beep (not in a French accent) I leave a terse message (Also not in a French accent. But that would have been very funny. Maybe next time.)


After stating my name and my receipt number, I indicate that on such and such day I presented in their store seeking a battery replacement for my watch, and was told by a MUCH OLDER woman who I would like nothing more to identify by name, but can't because, you see, she neither wore a name badge, which I am sure is in accordance with Cartier's strict Appearance and Attire policy, nor introduced herself to me, so preoccupied was she with my atrocious mall attire, that your technician would evaluate my watch on Tyoooooz-day and I would hear from you a day or so later, and not only have I not heard from you, at least one more Tyooooz-day has come and gone since I had my unfortunate conversation with Miss Nameless, and I'd like to know what is happening with my watch. And I'd like the watch itself back on my arm. And I'd like a call back tomorrow, if that isn't asking tyoooo much of Cartier.

Click. Or maybe I should say, "clique."

The next day, just before noon, I get a call from a meek-sounding, almost apologetic woman named Frances. She claims to have "just this minute" gotten my watch back from Quality Assurance (puh-lease) and they have replaced the battery. The cost to me is $65 (for a $10 battery) and I can pick it up anytime (anytime my free time corresponds directly with their extremely brief and uninviting store hours, seemingly designed to attract only those shoppers who aren't limited by things like jobs.)

Oh and they recommend that I take my watch to be services every year.

At $65 a pop, I bet they do.

I am going to pay a visit to Frances on Saturday. I have a story to share with her.

War Games

I am shocked when I get, in reply, an email that is none of those things.

Lars admits what I already knew: Liza is not going to Florida any more than I am going to the moon. Yoga, pet care concerns, blah blah blah blah blah, yakkety yakkety yakkety.

Pledges his flexibility. He will "work with me" to help work out a nice surprise for Patrick. He'll even use his connections to help me obtain coveted, hard-to-get tickets. He'll help cover the cost of the Orioles tickets, but even so, he is so sure Pat will understand and appreciate the effort. (Yes, because you so often hear 13 year olds the world over exclaim, "Thanks for the effort, Mom!") Back pedal, back pedal, back pedal. Kiss ass, kiss ass, kiss ass.

He also claims to not want to fight. (Of course he doesn't. This is for sure a check in the L column for him if he doesn't quell the fire and brimstone I've got cooking. )

He further claims, consistent with his Parent of the Year Grand Illusion, that he will be constantly supervising the children, and there will be no risk to them while he is in class.

An idiot says what?

I wait to respond. I call my pediatrician who has ridden the roller coaster of divorce with us all and has watched much of our life fly into pieces in his very office space. He is acutely aware of all the family dynamics and what my children are mature enough to handle and what is asking too much. I ask him to give me his frank opinion on the trip the children are about to embark upon with Lars.

He tells me, in as direct terms as possible, that given their relative maturity levels, their somewhat naive approach to the vicissitudes of life, and their propensity to bicker, argue, squabble and even fist fight over things as minor as who has controlled the clicker too long, they should not be subjected to this particular pressure to conform, and can not be reasonably expected to rise to the occasion if pushed beyond their limits simply because "it's convenient for Lars."

I thank the good doctor for his honesty, and he reminds me that no one goes off to college with a black eye from their sister, and I take to my e-mail.

"Lars, I have spoken with the kids' pediatrician and he agrees that leaving the children, for all the reasons I've raised, is a very bad idea and too big a risk, even if you only intend to leave them for a few hours at a time."

And continue with:

Please confirm that you have made babysitting arrangements through the hotel or by having someone accompany you on the trip. Otherwise they should fly home with an airline escort when your classes begin."

Closed with:

"Please advise at once."

I refrain from writing "or your ass is grass" or something similar. I think he knows that.

But what he writes back is simply, "OK."

Could it really have been this easy?

I am skeptical.

Door Number One, Number Two, or Number Three

Lars may not remember well, but he probably is paranoid and streety enough to see where this leads.

He will do one of three things:

1 - Realize that he is caught in the Devil's Bargain and come out swinging --- fighting for his life---lashing out indiscriminately and slashing and burning all in his path. He has a particular talent for creating distraction. Usually in the form of a problem he'll create just for me that is so heinous, so unthinkably awful, so threatening to life as I know and love it that I could not possibly conceive of devoting one more shred of effort or so much as one additional crumb of gray matter to the original issue so that I am not summarily beaten into submission by the newer threat. Too bad you can't do this in the Miss America Pageant. It's a winner every time.

2- Backpedal and feign sincere collaboration. He will attempt to be the spouse I only wish I'd divorced and attempt to engage me in some kind of peaceable conversation that in the end, he hopes, finds me having forfeited my principles and caving to his plan under the auspices of doing something selfless for the children because my love for them (and Catholic guilt) overwhelms me.

3- Nothing.

It's anyone's guess. And I am not sure which option I am most afraid to deal with.

The full on attack is ugly and momentarily distracts me from my mission, but only momentarily. It is by no means fun to be insulted and threatened, but the scariest part of that is Lars's complete and utter lack of boundaries. He has no shame. Will lie to anyone about anything to get his way. God knows whose ear he could whisper what nonsense into and have me scrambling for my livelihood, my children or my life. (Note: Never marry a kook. And if you do, don't tell him where you work. Or your real name.)

I am a sucker for the feigned sincerity every time. He really is diabolically good at it. It is mastery of this particular sham that has kept him alive, employed and out of jail (most of the time) his whole life. He sucks you in. Makes you believe his heart is pure gold, his intentions only the best and most genuine sort. Meanwhile he's picking your pocket.

But I think the nothingness is the most troubling. He may very well be wetting his pants on his side of town, but my perception is he has something cold, calculating, plotting, and wicked up his sleeve, and I am about to get it between the eyes. He's just waiting for the right moment.

And now I am sweating.

A Fork in the Road

I am planning my strategy like a 5-Star General.

I am developing well-practiced, air-tight responses to each potential volley from Lars.

I have a hunch that Yoga Liza is not really going on the trip as he says. Hil and Pat have said as much. But like any good divorce lawyer will tell you, you can't always rely on intel coughed up by your kids, so there is a chance that they are not as completely informed as they would appear to be.

But a detail like this one is hard to get wrong. You may not remember the name of a movie, and you may not remember when it was made, but surely you recall who is in it.

But if they are wrong, my most major problem is resolved. While Lars is off curing cancer, Liza will be supervising my children with assumed competence. She is not a parent herself, and while she seems like a flake, she also seems like a nice and harmless flake, and so I will assume I can be confident in her ability to see that the children are neither snatched by child molesters, nor inadvertently drowned, and that she can fairly decently respond to any needs for First Aid or other medical treatment as well as anyone else her age who has survived into adulthood.

I also have a hunch that the children are right about much of the trip: That not only is Liza not attending, that there is no plan for their supervision.

It is more than likely that Liza's Yoga teaching schedule, the sole source of her income which is solely dependent upon her presence, will not easily allow her to be in another hemisphere for almost a week. And it is also likely that Lars realized, in keeping with the rituals found in the Cheapskate's Guide to Skimming Your Way to an Affordable Vacation, that Liza being at home presents an opportunity to avoid expensive kennel fees to warehouse Bailey the disobedient dog and Mr. Whiskers the hapless guinea pig. And for sure he wasn't offering to pay Liza's way...

And if my hunches are correct, I can paint Lars into the proverbial corner. Put him in Catch-22. Leave him with Sophie's Choice.

He will have to tell me a verifiable alternative to Liza's supervision (after admitting he's lied, of course) - Has he hired a bonded and insured hotel babysitter? Enrolled the children in a resort-sponsored camp? Has he asked his college-aged niece or nephew to come along for the trip?

Or, does he have to admit that he will be doing what I know he has no ethical qualms with doing - and collecting the CMEs, skipping the required coursework and classroom time, supervising the children himself and maintaining his professional license nefariously, fraudulently, unethically, and ultimately without regard to patient safety and well being?

You've Got Mail

Lars is in Delaware. I didn't even have to snoop to find this out. One more reason to love Facebook.

The next morning I am seated at my desk when the familiar ding emits from my iPhone. It's a little ding of joy. Someone has messaged me. Scott sending me a little love note and a few x's and o's? One of my girlfriends looking for a partner for happy hour later today? A Friend Request from a long lost pal?

It's my former boss. She's on vacation at a Delaware beach resort with her huge extended family and is stroking out because of a Lars Sighting as she calls it. Relates the whole surreal story. As she was walking along the boardwalk with her sister enjoying herself she practically slammed into his Royal Nastiness. I am imagining a doubletake and a little skeeved out Get-It-Off-Me dance. She wants to confirm that it absolutely is him. She may need shots.

I peice together the details for her and encourage her to get her money back. No one should have to pay for a vacation where Lars shares the zip code.

With a little more intel, I do a quick Google search and figure out which seminar he's attending and when I can expect it to end. And when I can reasonably expect a response to my e-mail.

Today, evidently.

An hour or so later, I get another familiar ding on my phone. The email ding. Sadly, not distinct from the spam ding. I glance at the phone, not encouraged.

But it is from Lars afterall, and I am pitting out at the possibilities. Let the games begin.

It is a simple one line email. "Liza will be supervising the children."

Really? Not according to the children themselves! Does he think I don't talk to them? Hello, Lars. Get a grip. The children talk to me. About an alarming array of topics and to a surprising depth. They know and share way more than you'd think. You'd be wise to understand that. They have opinions and a lot to say about them. You may want to initiate a conversation here and again. You'd find it enlightening.

Oh the things I wish I could say and have heard.

I stop walking (I am in a neighboring building buying a latte to soothe my soul) and tap out a very direct e-mail reply.

"That's great. I will need to see an airline ticket issued in her name. Today, please. I am not playing games."

Send.

Who's sweating now?

The Heat is On

I use the time with the kids to prepare for my argument. Ask for a few benign details without crossing any boundaries.

"So Hil, what hotel are you staying in at Disney? You said it was a nice one."

"Ohh! The Grand Floridian! We looked at it on line! It's beautiful. And huge!"

Good. Now I know where to reach them when Lars insists that the phones are turned off and locked away so I can not snoop long distance.

"Is Liza going with you?" I ask cheerfully. Liza is the woman Lars has managed to trick into dating him for the past 3 years. She conveniently has the same name as me, thus not taxing Lars's already limited capacity to remember names. She is also a Yoga Instructor, which he loves telling people.

"No, Liza is watching Bailey." Because hello, even though Liza is very nice and the kids really like her, and she is stupid enough to have committed her life to a complete whackjob, she is nobody's fool when it comes to being the conveniently uncompensated babysitter on a trip to Florida that she'd pay her way for, while Lars travels on his employer's nickel.

Good info to have. Looks like the same damned if you do, damned if you don't travel situation we had last time.

And while I am beginning to froth at the mouth a little at figuratively backing him into a corner, I am also feeling a little blue. I need to be honest with myself. I am really not going to be able to do anything to change his plans, however harebrained. I have expensive baseball tickets that I need to use or get rid of, and need to focus on the latest development. Making sure my kids are safe.

True, Lars is a lunatic helicopter parent who tries to maintain the children's childlike dependency on him, when it comes to What Works for Him, he makes some alarmingly irresponsible decisions. Decisions that, if they were made by me, would have him calling the authorities to have me hauled away in cuffs for incarceration in the Home for Phenomenally Bad Parents.

Quite a quandary.

I ask one more question. "Hil, aren't you and Pat a little worried about spending all that time alone in the hotel while Dad is in class? It's not like being in your own house with all your regular stuff and people you know on the street. It makes me a little nervous."

I am a little surprised at her response.

"Actually," she starts. "To be truthful..."(My kid, my vocabulary. She kills me.) "I am a little nervous."

I look at her, with my eyebrows raised as if to say, "Go on. Tell me why you are nervous."

And she says. "Hello...Casey Anthony? Duh!" Like Florida is brimming with characters of that sort. Which it very well may be, but I'd need a little more evidence before making a hands down condemnation of the Sunshine State.

Armed with enough details to win this argument, I am still feeling like I've lost. What is abundantly clear to me is that yes, I certainly can make Lars's life difficult, and very deftly make him sweat like a pig in July, I can't control what he does, however irresponsible.

And for that reason, I am deeply saddened.

Hall Pass, Please

Lars has never fully grasped the flawlessness of my memory.

I really think that in the absence of any real documented data, he uses his own experiences as the basis for truth. It's a basic human instinct - assimilate all of your experiences and available information to take an educated guess at something. People do it effortlessly all day long, thousands and thousands of times over.

So consider Lars's frame of reference. He can't remember the names of the people in his office sufficiently to introduce them to you (he's been there 7 years...) and assumes that everyone else's memories are similarly flawed.

Not only is my memory not as unreliable and patchy, it is airtight and uncommonly detailed. By contrast, for example, not only can I tell you the first, middle and last names of all of the people in my office, I can tell you their favorite TV shows, their spouses and children's names, where they live, if they have a tattoo and it's location and design, where they worked before now, and other little colorful tidbits like beer or wine affinity, political affiliation, dietary preferences, and if their kids are Bieber fans or Harry Potter fans, or partake in some other pop culture craze.

And I could do this for everyone I've worked with for the last 20 years. Even now. It is not a matter of nosiness. It is a matter of information, however useless, going in and never ever going out.

It is simply a matter of how I learn. If I experience something, I can remember the finest detail. What people are wearing, who sat by whom, who should have thought twice about their hair color. Everything.

It's a blessing and a curse, but mostly a blessing.

And now, Lars has to know that my memory will serve me well. He has to. Doesn't he?

When we were first in the throes of our Divorce of Record Setting Acrimony, and he was bullying me in and out of things, he attempted to take one of these vacations on a week that the kids were in my custody. And I got my lawyer to intervene. Not because I wanted to be vindicitive and stomp all over something happy in his life (which would have been admittedly appealing, for sure.) It was a matter of safety and ethics.

Safety because the trip, like the upcoming one to Disney, was to accumulate CMEs. CMEs that would require three 8-hour days of uninterupted classroom time. My question, posed through my lawyer, was "Who exactly is accompanying them on the trip and supervising our minor children in the hotel while Lars is in class pretending to care about EKG strips?" I want a first and last name. I want to see a reservation in that person's name, and I want some convincing evidence that they are not a kook. Like a background check.

Ethics, because I knew what credentialed but streety Mr. Lars Royal had planned.

When we took our first CME trip of this kind, Lars registered on the first evening of the conference and was completely baffled that the registrar, upon his signing in, handed him the certificates for all of the classes, ALL OF THE CLASSES, upon registration. Yep, before having ever sat in a desk or cracked the binding on a singular manual, Lars had all the CMEs money could buy.

And a free pass to blow off each and every one of those classes, and still get credit for them. Surf's up, people!

My argument was that if he could not demonstrate planned supervision for the kids, they were not going. The fly in the chardonnay for him was, he was the planned supervision, but he could not say as much, because he'd have to admit his plan to blow off classes. And my argument to that was, that if he weren't actually going to class, there was no genuine need to go on this trip.

Of course this was an argument I made with my first lawyer, and essentially had to make myself. I fired her not long after. (Please see me for details if you are about to engage a divorce lawyer yourself.)

So is he naive enough to think that I'd forget the details of the 4 or 5 trips we took together where he sort of half heartedly attended a sporadic selection of classes but mostly enjoyed the balmy clime of Gulf Coast Florida?

Evidently he does.

K-E-Y, Why? Because You're Shameless

I am somewhat relieved to have done something proactive, however lame.

Lars does some really moronic things, but he is streety and slippery like your basic petty thief which makes him hard to predict. Sometimes he'll do something completely ridiculous, and sometimes he will be 10 steps ahead of you in his scheming. His Achilles heel, however, is his hubris. Lars in his heart of hearts, truly and fervently believes he is smarter than everyone, and can effortlessly outsmart, outmaneuver and outclass every opponent. And despite having been married to me for 15 years, thinks I am among his easiest foes. Send in the scab team, this is a hands-down-one-hand-tied-behind-your-back-bag-over-your-head win, for sure.

Really? Were you never paying attention?

I am anxious to hear his reply. The first shot fired in what will surely be an ugly little mud slinging battle of sharply worded insulting point-counterpoint emails that eventually get forwarded to his lawyer's email address, as if she cares about any of this. Unless he is holding out his checkbook, she doesn't care if I scratch his eyes out on Broad Street. Hasn't he figured that out?

But I hear nothing. For an entire day. I am in a flop sweat. Could he be employing one of my favorite war tactics? To simply not engage? Did someone write a book "How to Spar with Your Very Talented Ex-Wife of Superior Intellectual Agility and Win?" Crap.

That evening when the kids and I are having dinner, I toss out a benign question designed to gather intel. "So, have you heard from Daddy today? How is Bailey doing with the dog trainer and the Let's Not Incessantly Bark at Strangers training?"

Hil starts immediately gesturing with a forkful of Garlic Chicken while she is still chewing. She is evidently rather excited to share. Jackpot!

"The trainer isn't coming this week. Daddy is away. He's at the beach taking classes. Somewhere. I don't know where. Near a beach."

That explains it. Phones off in class, people! Pay attention to the How to Read a Pap Smear presentation and don't dare be caught checking your Facebook account! He hasn't gotten the email yet. Not gotten it or hasn't figured out a response that won't overcommit or reveal too much.

It's a tricky response to formulate when you are Lars, because he knows that I know he has something to hide.

M-I-C, I See You Are Still a Cheapskate

My sluggish mind is racing even before coffee. I am totally wigging, and trying hard not to show it. The kids have seen their mother in meltdown enough for this particular custody week. Need to recover and re-establish authority as the world's most fabulous mother, bar none.

I take a deep breath, dress and go downstairs to make coffee, that I will need eventually. I have a fight on my hands.

My mind is ping-ponging all over the interior of my head.

Lars is a clinical professional. One who needs Continuing Medical Education credits in order to remain licensed. He miraculously has managed to do this for over a dozen years. I am not sure how.

But what I do know is that when we were married, we'd often take a trip to Florida. On his company's expense account, to obtain most of the more difficult credits. The ones that can't be completed by taking a test at the end of an article in a professional journal. Puh-lease. Open book test much? They'd offer 4 days of classes for the clinician and 4 days of fun in the sun for the family.

The Florida clinicians, inclusive of the untrained cosmetic surgeons we've all heard horror stories about, use their impressive geography to entice clinicians with young families to turn the CME trip into a family vacation. Come to our resort! Stay at reduced rates! Keep up your credentials while the spouse and kids frolic on our gorgeous beaches and soak up our fabulous sunshine!

We did it all the time. The hospital would pay for the courses, the hotel, reimburse Lars's flight, and pay a per diem for his meals. The kids flew for free, the hotel was a wash, and the expenses were as managable as any other vacation expenses. And Lars got the CMEs he needed. Perfect. All the hallmarks of a freeloader's vacation.

But I am wigging out. What are my minor children going to be doing while he is off in a conference room learning about prostate exams for 6 hours a day? In America's favorite family resort? A place designed for kids in another state hours from home in an unfamiliar place that is a prime spot for child snatchers?

This CAN NOT happen. I need to stop him from doing this.

But first I need to make sure what exactly he is doing. Facts first. Accusations later.

I pour coffee and return to the second floor to find the kids getting ready for camp. They are talking about the trip.

Oh good. My obsession is now their obsession.

I casually, but probably in too high pitched a voice, make an inquiry while combing curling lotion through my hair.

"So, who else is going on the trip with you, kids?" I am so not getting an Emmy.

Hil responds first. "No one. Just us."

"And so who will be with you when Daddy takes his classes?"

"No one," Pat says. And then Hil chimes in, "You know, we'll just hang out at the pool until Daddy is finished his classes."

I choke on my French Vanilla Breakfast Blend. "Really? Do you think that's a good idea? No one will be with you in a strange place for all that time? I'm a little worried," I confess.

Hil says, "Mom, it's a 5-star hotel."

And I kind of snap. "Oh good. So the child snatcher knows your parents have money. Even better chances at ransome."

I re-cap the curling lotion and take to the iPhone. I click out a text to Lars.

"I need to understand your plan for appropriately supervising the children while you are taking your CME course. I just learned this was a work trip, not a vacation."

Send.

Everybody's Working for the Weekend

I am my prettiest self for sure when Hil sneaks up on me and taps me on the shoulder as I am slumped over my desk sobbing. I am sure the fact that I am an allergy sufferer and have had a glass of chardonnay do nothing to improve matters.


Not 5 steps behind Hil is Patrick looking worried. I have completely mismanaged this situation. Lost my cool, came unhinged, put my panic before their excitement about Disney. Disney for Chrissake. Cinderella would bitchslap me if she could. She knows a rotten mother when she sees one.

Hil puts her hand on my shoulder and says, "Mom, I'm sad because you are sad." Pat is on my other side now. "Me too," he says.

Well, haven't I just created tha happiest birthday celebration ever? Way to ice the cake and light the candles, Mom! What's next? A house fire? Bankruptcy? A fatal illness?

I smile through the snots and tears and try to pull it together.

I run through the kid friendly bullet points of the situation.

Dad sent me an email about the dates. I didn't see it.
I planned a fun trip to see the Orioles in Baltimore for us and Scott but it is while they are still away with Dad.
I am not upset about the money (read that, small fortune) I've spent.
I am most upset that I had planned something really special for Pat, and now I don't have a Big Surprise for his birthday. (Adding reassurance that I have gifts, just not the big ticket gift that pulls it all together, not to panic)

Pat is the first to speak.

"Mom, I am sure I will love the gifts you have for me. And whatever we do, I'll love, because I love spending time with you."

Umm hello, who replaced my whiney almost-teenager with this mature, selfless young man?

Hil, bless her heart, offers to fix my face and hair so I am restored to beauty so that I can call Scott and he can be his sweet adorable self for me. Girlfriend knows my heart.

Pat seems really pleased that I had planned something this big in the first place. I tell him we'll work out something so he remembers how special turning 13 really is. I just have to figure out what that is. It may take a few days longer than his birthday this coming weekend. Just to be clear.

We all go off to bed. The kids reluctantly, me like a zombie. I am exhausted. I call Scott, but he is not entirely clear why this is such a big deal. I am too tired to explain.

The next day, I hit the snooze 11 times before dragging myself out of bed to view the bags under my eyes that could be easily tucked into my waistband. Pretty. I am sluggish and miserable and thinking I need to take the entire pot of coffee in a collection of lidded to-go mugs when I hear the kids whispering.

Pat suggests that they tell Lars that they want to come back from Disney on Friday not Sunday. Hil says, "We can't. Remember? Dad is taking classes on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday."

Classes? The trip to Disney is one of THOSE trips?

It Says Here, In Fine Print

I never throw anything thing out. And now I know why that is a bad idea.

I have 1,000s of past emails. And Lars has several working email addresses. I am looking for the proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack. I set my AOL to preview pane and click through dozens of innane messages.

Since Lars is lazy and rarely changes what is noted in the subject line, preferring instead to recycle the same old email with multiple responses that are unrelated in any way to the actual subject of the email, I have to read each and every infuriating email. My favorites are those that talk about something like "Hil needs a check and a permission slip for the field trip on Friday" with the ancient pre-divorce subject line "Re: The Ford needs to be inspected can you drop it off on the way back from your mammogram"

I can zero in on the approximate time frame, it was somewhere in the 120 days that has elapsed since the email that first mentioned the potential trip to Florida. I am pointing and clicking and sipping chardonnay, building more and more confidence that nothing was ever confirmed.

And then I read it.

In another email that evidently fell under the far-reaching umbrella topic of spring break, Lars:

• Confirms dates that each of us would have the children to enjoy spring break (got it, lunkhead, it's next week)


• Asks about the dates and times of the annual well visits with the children so he can accompany us to them (joy of joys) and presumably witness the vaccination melt down


• Mentions that we'll need documentation of the visit for camp (no shit)


• Reminds me that Hil needs a particular unnamed vaccination to begin 7th grade(again, no shit)


• Informs me that both children have a peice of art selected for the District Art Show (but neglects to mention that he intends to keep both peices for his own enjoyment)


• Indicates that he will take responsibility for camp enrollment and reminds me that I need to pay 58%, what that amount equates to down to the penny, and that he'd like a check that week. (Rub it in, ya big freeloader!)


• Indicates the weeks that the kids will be enrolled in camp and the weeks each of us have planned vacation so there is no need to enroll them. (Big of you...)

And there it is. Next to the notation "Vacation with Dad" he includes the dates. But unlike the other weeks, which are marked with Monday to Friday dates, this week has a Monday to Sunday notation. Not that it says Monday, July X to Sunday, July Y. It is just the dates. I was supposed to pick up on that subtle difference myself.

How careless of me not to have noticed.

Worse, the very next email from him, same subject, is simply "Thanks." Because in between those emails, I had written confirmed and consented.

I am so mad I am shaking. I want to call him back and screach a long string of heart stopping obscenities.

Instead, I close my laptop and cry.

Play Ball

I take the phone from Hil and the children stand and watch me start the latest strained conversation between me and their father.

Lars has two tactics under pressure. Come out swinging and insult you into muted disbelief or dismiss you entirely. I am always trying to have two defensive tactics in my head at all times: Something equally as heinous to say back that will pluck at the strings of his insecurities, or a breakaway run at the goal line with the jets on. It's exhausting.

After half hearted hellos, I say "What dates will you be in Florida?"

He responds with the dates, inclusive of the dates that conflict with Big Baseball Birthday Weekend in Baltimore.

"So when exactly were you going to tell me? I have a weekend trip planned to celebrate Pat's birthday and already bought tickets."

He flatly replies, "I sent you an email." No insult. No aggression. We have clearly popped our pain pills and swilled a beer or two for full affect. It is classic stoner mellowness, dude.

"No you didn't, Lars, " I begin to screech. "Back in March you sent me an email saying that you MIGHT have an opportunity to go to Florida and it MIGHT mean that you would need to keep the children a day or two on my week, but you NEVER confirmed anything. I heard about it tonight. From the children no less. Which is a crappy way for you to sneak around the issue, but par for the course where you are concerned. I don't know why I expect any better from you."

"I sent you an email," he repeats, the brain hemisphere controlling creative conversation and witty banter clearly awash in foreign chemicals.

"You didn't," I reply, but I am sensing this is going to turn into a Lisa Loopner and Todd "Yes-I-did-no-you-didn't" never-ending, infinite continuous loop. I end the conversation saying, "You may need to change your plans, and I will see to it that you do," and hang up.

I look at the kids. They are not sure what to do. And that is my fault. Mother of the Year contender that I am.

I pretend to brighten up and say to them, "I am not going to keep you from going to Disney, guys. That is not at all what I want to do. I am trying to find a way for us to do both things that we've planned so everyone can be happy."

Nice save, Mom.

I see them through their evening routines, and then see them off to bed, reassuring them that it is not the end of the world if things don't go as I'd hoped. We'll figure something out. Tomorrow is another day, Miz Scarlet.

And I genuinely think I may be able to work something out. I can't imagine that Lars actually sent an email on this topic that I missed. And if he didn't send it, those flights are going to be changed.

I pour myself a chardonnay and flip open the laptop. Game time.

And In This Corner...

I send Scott a text that I am wigging.

He immediately thinks it is because of something pertaining to the doctor visit. Please. That would not be wigging. That would be imploding. There is a difference.

No, I assure him it is not some grave medical problem or outlandish co-payment or heinous prescription only available in suppository form. It is a potential threat to the Birthday Trip.

I tell him I am trying not to burst into flame until I am sure of the details and try to focus on the dinner, laundry, kitty KP duty, garbage placement at the curb and the myriad other details that otherwise call to me.

While I am busy attempting to fold a fitted queen sized sheet (I can't believe our mothers used to actually iron these things!) I hear Pat on the phone with his father. He's asking about the trip. I eavesdrop however unsuccessfully for any smidgen of intel I can gather from his side of the conversation - and over the din of Miss Meowypants who is vying for the attention that she feels she's been denied all day.

I am straining to get clues from body language, facial expressions. Nothing.

Surely if there were a problem, Pat would be reacting. He's my son. A pit stain would surely be forming. I begin to feel it is safe to assume there is no problem.

Wrong again, sister! Pat, when he's through talking to his father, obediently hands the phone over to Hil so she can be similarly bored to tears with inane conversation.

As he does he gets my attention. "Mom," he says.

I look up, the fitted sheet still being held in place by my chin pinning it to my chest. My eye muscles strain to let the eyeballs roll sufficiently to see him. At least from the knees up.

"Mom, there is a problem. We don't come back until Sunday."

"Not if I can help it!" I say, quickly rolling the damn sheet into something that can be squished into something resembling a burrito.

By then, Hil is winding down the alternating "Uh-huh" and "Nothing" repetitive pattern of her conversation with Lars.

I say, more sternly than I intend, "May I have the phone? I need to speak to your father."

Pat is wringing his hands and Hil is rolling her eyes. It's show time folks.

The Best Laid Plans

Retail nightmares aside, I am having a pretty good streak. Things are good at work, kids are doing great, kitty cat is fat, dumb and happy, Scott is fabu. Pinch me.

Then one evening in the doctor's office (don't worry, it's not one of those stories!) the kids are prattling on and on to the doc about a trip they are taking to Disney with Lars. (Don't laugh at the irony of the Disneyland Dad actually taking the kids to Disney...it is so much more pathetic than that!)

So the doc, playing along while she preps a syringe, asks when they are going.

They are kids. All that matters is that they ARE going. Dates are for someone else to worry about.

So naturally they both spew forth dates for the trip. Both in July but wildly different from one another.

But both dangerously close to the weekend I have planned in Baltimore that includes outrageously overpriced baseball tickets, hotel reservations and lots of money thrown out the window on must-have souvenirs and things like crab balls and funnel cake, for sure.

I am pitting out, natch.

So when the kids and I have a moment alone, I ask for specifics about the trip. They think they know the date of departure, but are a little squirrely on the return date details. I feel my Big Birthday Plans are in jeopardy. I confide in Patrick that we need to get down to the nitty gritty details tonight because I've planned something special and am worried that it conflicts with their trip.

And I know what you are thinking --- how could plans Lars makes in any way conflict with anything I plan?

There is one nagging thought...

Months ago, when we were hashing out the details of Spring Break, he mentioned that he might have a chance to take a trip to Florida in the summer but that it might require that he overlap a day on my week.

I hate to forfeit time with the kids for any reason, but since there is always a chance that I may need a favor from him, like for a bufoonery-filled canoe trip or the tail end of the Gal Pal trip to Arizona, I grin and bear a little intrusion. So I say, "Not a problem, let me know the details as soon as you can."

But try as I might I can not recall any details about a trip. Could he have planned something and not told me?

I think I know the answer to that...

Can I Get a Witness?

As I move closer to the register, I hear Patrick very politely order a medium rootbeer. Uses the key words, "may I" and "please" and makes his mother proud. Yay me.

To my complete disbelief, Miss Buckteeth Bad Attitude Weak Chin Charm School Flunky replies, "I need to wait on her first," and points her grubby little finger at the woman in front of me. The woman behind Patrick.

Before I can respond for Patrick, the woman in front of me turns to me and makes a face as if to say, "WTF?" and begins to say to Miss Buckteeth, "It's okay, I'm still waiting for my pizza." But I have begun to speak at the same time, and the woman realizes that Pat is with me, and there is even more reason not to wait on her first.

She snaps her head around mid-sentence and in total astonishment and says, a little overly loudly, and gesturing between Pat and me, "He's with you???!!!"

And then without waiting for Buckteeth to make yet another critical tactical error, picks up her tray and gets behind me in the line so as to force her to wait on Pat and me first.

I am clearly on fumes in the patience department, but swallow hard and ask Pat to order his soda again. Our last slices of pizza have been taken from the oven by the pizza maker who is trying to ensure chain of custody all the way to the register.

Pat gets his rootbeer, Buckteeth rings up our tab and mumbles a total. I whip out my debit card and hand it to her. Patrick has taken his soda to a table behind us and is returning for the tray. Bucky is handing me a folded stack of paper napkins and I am handing Pat the tray. The lady behind me is shaking her head. I would too but I have too much going on.

I look up at Bucky and notice that the Manager has finally come out to survey the situation. Wonder what tipped him off...maybe Pizza Maker.

I say to her as she stares with all the emotion of a marionette, "Can I get a receipt?" and then add "Or is that asking for too much?"

She flatly replies, "It is stuck in your napkins."

And I reply, in mock oh-silly-me-of-course-it-is-ness, "It's in my napkins! Why didn't I think to look there?" And as I pull them apart I realize it is not there at all.

I look up again and say "Pardon me but it is NOT in my napkins..." and would have asked for another but she beats me to the punch and says, "Well you must have lost it."

No, but I'm losing it now!

I look directly at the manager and point to her, and say, "I don't know where you found her, but she's..." and before I can begin the litany of unflattering descriptive terms, the woman behind me interjects, "RUDE! She's rude!"

And I add that this has been my most abysmal retail experience to date, that she is not only completely clueless, she is also uncommonly rude, and unpleasant and unapologetic about it. She walked away while I was ordering, gave away my pizza, and was generally a menace to the whole production. I tell them to forget about the receipt, I'll remember the number as vividly as I remember this hideous experience.

Thankfully, Pat is not bothered at all about the way his mother is carrying on. I suppose in the scheme of things, I pale in comparison with his grandmother. Buckteeth should be thanking the Patron Saint of the Unemployable that it was me and not Estelle who darkened her door today.

Moments later the manager brings the receipt over to the table and sheepishly tells me that it was on the counter. I reply"Thank you, I knew I had not misplaced it." I think to elaborate on his sub-par employee, but think better of it.

Oddly, the charge has yet to appear on my bank statements...I think Pat and I got a freebie for our trouble. Maybe Buckteeth is now working at the Chinese place across the way. She'd fit in nicely there.

One Bad Apple

We choose the Pizza place, Sbarro. Not great food, but a known, and a known with plenty of seating at that.

We get in line. There are two people behind the counter. One appears to be jovially making pizzas, and one appears to be incompetently handling the small customer base. Three people in the party ahead of us, and me and Pat.

The counter is about 10 feet long, and Miss Buckteeth Bad Attitude is struggling to keep up with the orders. I am not sure what the issue is. A slice of this into the oven, a slice of that next to it. An a la carte plate of stuffed shells onto the tray with the pizza plates. She seems baffled.

Maybe it is because the kids in the party ahead of us keep returning to the back of the line where there is a bowl of toasted pizza dough balls free for the taking. A more clever, intellectually agile person would have a) not gotten the existing customer confused for a new one, and b) might have thought to move the bowl of freebies to the end of the counter by the register so people would naturally move toward it in line. But that would be asking for just a little too much ingenuity.

What Miss Buckteeth Bad Attitude (and let's add Weak Chin for completeness) does do is remain completely befuddled by two paying customers. Me and the mother in the crowd ahead of us. Sensory overload. About to short circuit.

She looks at me finally and begins to take our order. I order Pat's two slices and watch as she places them in the giant oven. I begin to place my order for two different types of slices and she gamely gets the first slice into the oven next to Pat's while I begin to describe the second piece and prepare to point to it through the glass when she turns to face me.

But she does not turn to face me. She walks away. The crowd ahead of us needs to pay, evidently fairly urgently, and she leaves in the middle of my order.

The pizza maker, also seeming to be in disbelief looks at me. I say, "She just walked away while I was ordering." He stops artfully placing pepperoni on his latest pie and comes toward me. "I can help you. What had you been ordering?"

"Just one more slice," I say. "The tomato and spinach right there," I clarify, pointing to the last slice of that pie.

He places it in the oven promptly and goes back to pizza making, having been joined by another young man from the kitchen sent out to help Miss Buckteeth etc with the overwhelming crowd.

He asks me if I've been helped. I toy with a smart-assed answer but he appears to be as slow-witted as his coworker and refrain. This will be fine. Patrick is already down by the beverage end of the counter and is ready to enjoy dinner with Mom. I tell him that yes, I've been helped, thank you.

Miss Buckteeth barks an order at him and he turns to her terrified. I can't hear what she is screeching at the decibel she is using in the tiled restaurant, but what I observe is that he lumbers over the the big oven, and removes my second slice of pizza from it, places it on a plate and hands it to her for the other customer.

I guess she walked away in the middle of her order too!

I am completely, mouth-droppingly, aghast at this latest customer service gaff. I make some sort of unintelligible noise which gets the pizza maker's attention. Again.

I explain that my slice of pizza was just filched for another customer, and worse there isn't another pie of that type to make amends with!

He's as baffled as I am. I ask him to replace it with another similar piece that also has mushrooms on it and he sheepishly carries out the request.

I move down the counter toward Patrick and the slices start to come out of the oven.

But the games are just beginning.

Food! Glorious Food!

Later that week, I decide to go to the mall, a different one, with Patrick while Hil is at some inconveniently planned late afternoon midweek birthday party in another town 30 minutes away. (Note to stay at home mothers: Just because it is summer and the kids are off does not mean that all of us have gone on hiatus. I still have to drive home from work, fetch the kids from camp and trek to East Jeezus to get to your kids Putt-Putt gig just like I would in the middle of winter).

I have wrapping paper and greeting cards and all manner of nonsense to check off my list at this other mall. But first, Pat and I are going to enjoy a little contraband mall food.

We walk in the entrance nearest the Chinese place that always smells delightfully of egg rolls and bee-line to the door. There is a sandwich board menu outside and Pat and I are planning what each of us will get and what we'll share. Wonton soup, a couple of egg rolls, General Tsao's Chicken for me and Chicken and Broccoli for him. Skip the chopsticks, bring on the fork, knife and spoon. I don't have the dexterity to eat fast enough with chop sticks to prevent starvation tonight.

We go to the counter (this is the mall, no table service) and the lady comes out. I smile and cheerfully place our order. She shakes her head and says, "No!No!"

WTF? "No no" as in "what you ordered sucks and we suggest something else?"

I say "Pardon me?"

She opens the lid on her side of the buffet to reveal simply warm trays of water (My friend Joy would call it "a facial.") and looks at me to ensure I understand.

"You have no food?" This is the mall, and it is 6 pm on a Wednesday. I am sure I am in The Outer Limits.

"No, no!" (Here we go again) "Have food."

"OK then I'd like Wonton soup, a couple of egg rolls, General Tsao's Chicken and Chicken and Broccoli please."

"No, have sweet and sour pork instead."

I don't want sweet and sour pork. I don't want sweet and sour anything. I want Wonton soup, a couple of egg rolls, General Tsao's Chicken and Chicken and Broccoli.

She points to the pink congealing sweet and sour pork and smiles. "That what we have."

And I say "So you really don't have any food unless you are in the mood for sweet and sour pork?" And then add, "Nevermind, we'll eat somewhere else." We turn to leave and I stop to make one more remark. "You do realize that it is beyond my comprehension that your doors can remain open, in a mall, at dinner time, when all you have is that little pan of yuck and nothing else that your menu outside advertises, however falsely, don't' you?"

She takes her big spoon and walks away. I look at the only other patron, who evidently was in the mood for sweet and sour pork and she shrugs. Pat and I walk out.

Our choices in this neck of the mall and with what time remains before I have to retrieve Hil, are a cheese steak place with no seating and a pizza place with a few random salad and pasta items.

Do Your Ears Hang Low

Claire's Boutique - the fakey, faux furry, plasticky, turn your fingers greeny capital of the world.
Every eleven year old's dream.

Hil is pie-eyed as we walk in taking in all the possible ways to spend a pile of money. She is also terrified.

I assure her that I will hold her hand and that the girls will do both ears at one time so she only has to wince once. She is nearly hyperventilating.

We go to the register and tell the young man there that we'd like to have Hil's ears pierced. He seems a little reluctant. He is the only one there. Brittni has gone on break. Presumably to Orange Julius, not Cartier. He's going to have to do the piercing himself.

But from the looks of him, he's no stranger to piercing. Has a few himself...ears, eyebrow, you know. He also has the name "Ashely" tattooed in script on his neck just above his collar. His name is Bryan. None of this is making sense.

Except that he is totally cool with Hil and taking her methodically through the steps. These are the papers where Mommy signs a statement that even if your ears get gangrene and wither and fall off in little crusty pieces, we are not responsible...Here is the selection of studs we can put in your ear lobes. Ignore this section; these are for your navel and these ones are more for guys. Helps her climb into the very high chair (from which it would be tricky to escape at the last minute) and tells her that he is going to clean her earlobes with something cold.

As he's drawing the dots on her ears with a pen to mark exactly where The Thing will go, I am trying to recall my experience. Oddly I don't remember anything at all except the big metal thing that shot the earring into my lobe at the speed of light and made a horrible staple gun sound. Can't recall who was there or the name of the place or anything...all of it overshadowed by the prior attempt at piercing, done by my mother in our kitchen, in front of two of my friends, one of which nearly fainted when my mother got the sewing needle stuck half way through my uncommonly chubby earlobe and had to stop.

It is then that I realize that since Bryan is flying solo, he will have to do Hil's ears one at a time. In a panic I am rifling through the pile of papers I signed to see what recourse we have if Hil flakes after one ear. Can I come back and get one done for free later? Do I have to buy both earrings now? Can they take out the one real quick before a permanent hole forms?

Now I'm nervous.

I ask Patrick to take my my phone from my bag and mouth to him to get a picture when The Deed happens. I do not have a free hand. Both of mine have been grabbed and twisted in Hil's. Bryan is about to draw first blood and Hil is freaking out ever so subtly. Bryan has the patience of a saint and very quietly tells her that all the girls get one ear done and can't believe how easy it is and don't even hold anyone's hand for the second. Easy Peasy lemon squeasy. (He doesn't actually say that...)

I am recalling the meningitis vaccine scene this spring at the pediatrician's office. Don't bet your paycheck on this, Bryan.

Hil is wild-eyed. Pat is holding my smartphone up ready to snap a photo. Hil yells at him not to take her picture. He claims he's playing Doodlejump. She says she can see the screen of my phone in the mirrored pillar behind him. Damn, she's good.

I move to one side under the pretense of giving Bryan more room. I ask Patrick to come to the other side to be similarly out from under foot.

Patrick gets it. He knows he is to pretend to play a game I just pretended to find for him, and get a shot at just the right moment.

Hil closes her eyes and wrings my hands. There is a crunching mechanical sounds and then...nothing.

The earring is in, and Hil has survived. She is visibly relieved at how easy it was, just as Bryan had promised. Bryan does the other ear without fanfare and Pat proudly shows me his photo.

Hil is too ecstatic to care that Pat took a picture. She is down from the big chair and racing through the store placing all manner of earrings in a little mesh basket to the tune of $77.00 including the free piercing, studs and bottle of earlobe cleaning solution.

Hil has placed her dainty little feet on the road less traveled and is beaming in bedazzled glory. A far finer retail experience than the one I'd just had at Cartier.

Mall-content

Miss "Which twin has the real Toni" sizes me up from her side of the counter. I can tell she is not impressed with me.






Truth be told, I am not all that impressive today. I have come to the mall for some fairly mundane tasks on the way to an afternoon at the swim club. I have dressed accordingly. I have on a denim skirt, a black and white very vintage-looking Audrey Hepburn T-shirt and JCrew flip flops. I can tell she expects more from the attire of her clientele.






She could not be less interested in helping me. But between her and the guard, it appears she has won the booby prize and must wait on the dirt ball I evidently appear to be. Thank God my children are behaving.





She eventually takes the watch from me. With a look that clearly shows she'd prefer not to waster her time on me.





And then, right in front of me, she makes a Big Production out of examining it for authenticity. I am sure she has deduced that it is a fake. No one who owns a watch of this caliber would be caught dead in my outfit (Frankly, my hipster daughter, who is very hard to impress, approved of it, saying I am the coolest Mom at the pool! So there, Raffia Hair!)





I want to scream at her.





I want to scream that she needs to get a big two-handed grip on the notion that I am the one who owns a Cartier watch and she is the one working at Cartier. Sorry about your career luck, lady. Maybe you should have stayed in school and taken up something more than 18th Century French Literature for a major after your failed out of charm school and had to get a degree or a husband on the fly!





I take deep breaths and try to think happy thoughts that don't involve murdering anyone.





My immediate thoughts are to blame myself. I was the one who invited this discrimination. I am dressed for the pool, not Cartier.





But hello, it's the MALL!!! Miss Snootypants may be on the cool, serene side of the Cartier door, but that door is just steps from that of Spencers Gifts, and of Roma Pizza, and the kiosk that sells clip on hair extensions in 11 different colors. Hardly a gated community! If this were the Cartier in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton, or on 5th Avenue in New York, or the mothership in Paris, I might, and I mean might, churn out a little hype with my attire. But it is the mall - home to Kitchen Kapers and Sunglass Hut, and I'll be dipped in sh** before I get out the Armani to self park inches from the Turnpike to tease out a little customer service from Miss Piss Pot Retail Flunky.





Not that retail isn't an admirable career, but jeez, understand your relationship to the customer for heaven's sake! Your job depends on my willingness to spend money and time with you! Would it kill you to smile???





Miss Needs a Mood Stabilizer proceeds to ask me a lot of questions. She is eye-rollingly not surprised that I am not in their customer database. Then she tires of data entry and asks me to complete some stupid form which asks the same questions the answers to which she's been laboring at keying. Obviously didn't pass typing class either. I want to slap her with my flip flop.





She blandly informs me that the technician will be in on Tuesday and they'll call me to let me know what is wrong with my watch. I collect my receipt and turn to leave.





But Hil wants to show me some fabulous jewelry so I linger against my will and indulge her, hoping she'll relax about the piercing that's next on the agenda.





We browse for about 10 minutes and then proceed toward the door. The guard opens it for us. I turn to see that my children are indeed behind me, and notice that Miss Attitude has left my watch on the counter. Still. She cares so little that she will let it sit there while she labors at her typing assignment.





I storm out. I want to go back and tell her to show a little respect my caring for my watch as if it were her own, but don't. The pen is mightier. I am going to not only memorialize in my blog, I am going to notify her boss. True, I wasn't there to buy today, and her attitude ensured that I never would be.

Customer Disservice

With the big ticket items off my plate, I can concentrate on the little things. Wrapping paper, a card. Stuff like that.

And while at the mall, I can check a few other items off my lengthy list of "Things To Do When I Finally Have The Time and the Fortitude To Endure The Mall"

Hil has finally decided that she has the courage to get her ears pierced. She loves jewelry - she is my daughter, after all, and has amassed quite a collection of clip on types that would not conjure up images of Betty White, but has hesitated until now.

Ah the beauty of Middle School peer pressure. Only it can make you face your fears: Pinched and potentially bleeding earlobes, and the wrath of Lars who maintains that his wacko mother is the picture of purity because she never had anything pierced, including her ears. (The fact that she is as gaudy as any gypsy and smoked like a stack of course not tarnishing said purity...)

And so we are off to the Mall to subject our earlobes to torture and to get a watch battery replaced at the Cartier store.

My watch has been dead for two weeks, and yet I still wear it. It has been 1 o'clock on the nose for quite some time now.

I google the Mall tenant list for the ear piercing place nearest our friends at Cartier. Piercing Pagoda, Claire's Boutique, I don't care. I just don't want to spend the afternoon traipsing from one complex to another to get two itty bitty things checked off my list.

We are in luck. Claire's and Cartier are a mere steps from one another. (Cartier must cringe!)
This will take no time at all. We will still have time to spend a few hours at the swim club afterwards on this gorgeous sunny Sunday.

We put on bathing suits under shorts and Ts and head out, Cartier and earlobes in hand.

The mall parking lot is jammed but we find a great parking space (What are all these people doing at the mall? It is hot as Hades. The Air conditioning deprived must all be here for the free relief from the heat.)

Just inside the door is the directory and we are just about 20 yards from Cartier.

The guard opens the door for me. The kids take seats in the beautifully appointed seating area. I approach the counter where a prim woman in a dark pant suit looks miserable. Maybe its the Bad Hair Day she's having. Think "hemp."

I approach her and remove my watch. I tell her that I believe it needs a new battery; it has stopped.

She takes an overly long time to even look up at me. And she does not reach for the watch at first.

We are not off to a promising start.