I went to target this morning for some cleaning supplies. Granted, I looked like I was crazy. I'm nearly 7 months pregnant, I had a camoflouge handkerchief on my head and I was wearing workout clothes. Benjamin also looked a little crazy. He has a rash on his mouth due to the weather, a runny nose, and he was clutching an elephant in one hand, a cup of water in the other. Okay, I'll give the stupid asshole at Target that much. So anyway, after buying the supplies, I drifted over to the home improvement section and saw giant wooden letters. They had B (the last one!). They had E. They had N. I've been trying to figure out how to make Ben's room special without overdoing it to the point of freaking him out, and thought that I could spell his name out in letters on his wall. Special, but not too special. Ben immediately ditched the elephant and the cup to clutch the oversized letters because he loves letters with all of his heart.
We pulled to the front of the store, and I got out my checkbook because I lost my debit card. As I was filling out the check, I remembered that my I.D. was in the car. "You need my I.D., don't you?" I asked the checker, an eighteen-year old douche bag.
"Depends," he muttered. He ran my check through the machine. The machine told him I was white trash, apparently. "I need your I.D." he stated.
I offered to leave everything with him, my checkbook, my purse, my keys, etc. if he would only let me take my son and the letters our to the parking lot. Didn't he know what happens if you take letters out of Benjamin's hands? Didn't he know?
"You've gotta leave the letters," he told me, completely unsympathetic. He handed me back my check with a smirk. "Just in case you don't come back." That little bastard.
Fuck, I thought. I tried to explain to Benjamin as I ripped the letters from his hands. He twisted and screamed with rage. The entire store turned and stared at me, this crazy white trash lady and her screaming snot-nosed little kid.
As I struggled to get Ben out to the car to get the I.D.
I could feel eyes on me from all directions and I felt huge and ridiculous and angry and I pulled a muscle in my side.
When I returned, I flicked the I.D. onto his cash register. I was a real bitch.
He didn't think it was real or something, and took it out of the clear plastic.
"Thanks," I muttered as he handed me the receipt.
"You're welcome," he icily returned.
I might've been pregnant and my son might have been screaming, but I have never wanted to punch a little teenybopper in the face so hard in my life.
When I got in the car, I started crying.
I want my check card back.