I took Luke to see Winnie the Pooh yesterday with some friends. Thankfully, it was short because I hate Winnie the Pooh with everything that I have. I could give you a descriptive breakdown of each character and their tragic flaws, but suffice it to say I could punch every one of them in the face and not feel bad about it. There’s nothing worse than a whiner. Take a Prozac already, Eeyore because I don’t want to hear it. As for the most pointless character award, that goes to Piglet. I won’t ruin the ending for you, not because I’m a nice person, but because you should have to sit through the same shit I did.
You get my drift. I dislike the whole idea of Winnie the Pooh, but I sacrificed for my kid because he loves that bear (and because I knew it was only one hour and nine minutes long). Despite my role as martyr, I found a way to amuse myself.
We couldn’t see a movie without popcorn, so I approached the counter and was greeted by a neatly dressed metrosexual gentleman. I ordered our snacks, and whipped out my wallet to pay. “Sorry about all these ones,” I said. “I’m an exotic dancer.” His eyes shifted from the cash register to me, then to Luke, and back to the register. His uninterested silence had called my bluff. “Not really,” I said feeling dejected. “I just had a yard sale.” I suddenly felt like Baby in Dirty Dancing
after announcing to Patrick Swayze that she had “carried a watermelon”. He finally opened his mouth to say, “Mmmkay, thanks.”
So I get it. My joke wasn’t appropriate for the orientation of the audience, and maybe my joke wasn’t funny at all, but it had taken my mind off of what was to come for the next hour and nine minutes of my life. I took solace in that. The extra buttered popcorn didn’t hurt either.
Yesterday I had a very successful yard sale-palooza, but since I don’t speak Spanish, I was challenged by the Hispanic patrons. How exactly do you say, “No I won’t take $1 for this Jones New York cashmere sweater. You have insulted me and my family. Now get off my land?” Despite my ignorance for the young woman’s language, I improvised by shaking my head vigorously and saying, “Not less than two dolareemos.” I’m pretty sure my raised voice and exaggerated mouth gestures helped penetrate the English-speaking portion of her brain. I’m not stupid. I know they all have one.
She then stole a headband.
Later, a Hispanic gentleman took a fancy for a comforter I had for sale. It was marked $10, but he used what little English he knew to ask if I would take $5. “Seven,” I said firmly. He put it down and got back in his van. Not wanting to lug the king size comforter to Goodwill with everything else that didn’t sell, I shouted, “I’ll take cinco!” He got out of his van and paid me cinco.
Despite the occasional language barrier, I managed to score a couple hundred dollars and unload a lot of stuff I no longer needed. More importantly, I earned another grown-up badge for planning and carrying out a successful yard sale. That makes two badges this year when combined with my grown-up badge for finally getting window treatments for my house. At this rate, I’ll have enough badges to be a mature adult by the time I’m forty.