Can't make this shit up...

My life has been busy which is why I haven’t been blogging.  A week before school started, I got a phone call from the Interview #2 people.  They called to ask if I would step into a long-term subbing position for the 7th grade Language Arts (MY DREAM JOB).  I of course quickly agreed.  So I started the year with these kids, I am the only teacher they know.  

Which leads me to my story.  I have always been told, by other teachers, not to teach in the same city you live in.  Today I discovered why.  I teach about 20 minutes away from my house in another city.  After school I decided to make a quick stop at the Walmart by the school for a few items.

As you know, I am seven months pregnant and I have well, a problem pooping.  The Chief really can’t make fun of my rabbit pellet poo anymore.  I have the opposite problem.  I think I might be taking in too much iron because now it is painful to poop because I have...well....horse turds.  Gross, I know.  It gets better.

Rabbit poo looks like raisins!

Did you really think I was going to put a picture of horse poo?  Gross!

So I am at the Walmart, picking up a few items, and go ahead and grab some Preparation H while I am there.  It gets better.  Wait for it.

There I am standing in the 20 item or less check out line reading the US magazine, that just so happened to be screaming my name, when I get a tap on the shoulder.  Wait for it.

A student and her mother are standing directly behind me.  I immediately start visiting with them, talking about the student’s recent progress on her descriptive essay we are working on in class.  As I talk, I approach the counter where I quickly throw my five items on the little bar.  We continue chatting when I hear this annoying, “BEEP...BEEP”.  I turn to see the checkout girl attempting to scan my butt cream.  Instead of pulling up a price, the screen simply says: <CLEAR>.  WAIT.  FOR.  IT.

After three or four more attempts at pounding on her keyboard, she finally interrupts our conversation with, “Ma’am, do you know how much the Preparation H was?”

We stop chatting so I can address the checker lady who now is starting to look more like Satan with a blue vest.  My mind quickly races trying to think how I am possibly going to get out of this without killing any chance I might have maintaining respect from this parent, and without traumatizing a child.  I could say:

A: How the hell did that get there?  That isn’t mine!

B: My elderly mother put that in there, and she is now wandering the store somewhere...no biggie, she can get it another time.

C: Preparation H?  Holy Cow!  I meant to get toothpaste!! This pregnancy brain is REALLY getting to me!

Instead I muttered, $5.50 or so...silently praying she wasn’t going to announce a “Preparation H price check on Checkout #3” over the loud speaker.  Luckily, she typed in the $5.50 and moved right along to my next item.

I then turn back to the two innocent bystanders and ended the conversation with some bull about the weather changing and how the student shouldn’t forget to study for tomorrow’s test.  I walked away with my head down, shame crawling up my neck, and my Preparation H in my bag.

Can’t.  Make.  This.  Shit.  Up.