There comes a time in one's life where they must do the inevitable. They must suck it up, put on their best pair of overalls, flannel shirt and a clean hair scrunchie and trek to the Dollar store.
For me, that time was last night. Except that I don't own overalls or flannel and I haven't seen a hair scrunchie since 1996. At least not in my house.
I needed to go find a pill box (you'll see the irony of this in a few paragraphs) because I saw a cool craft on Pinterest and I wanted to make something like it, only better. Because I'm competitive. And awesome.
I tried to sneak out of the house, but my 9 and her friend got wind of it, and then both of their brothers wanted to go also, which led me to driving my brothers truck and hauling four kids on Mission Whiskey Tango.**
** Whiskey Tango = White Trash
(Now don't go getting offended because I referred to the Dollar Store as Trash Central. Because I didn't. I called it Whiskey Tango. Big difference. Besides, they occasionally have good deals that normal people need to get. Hang in there.)
I've never driven Gary's truck and with him currently classing up Alabama and too far away to stop me, I decided it was a great time to take it for a spin. I donned his special forces cap, cursed the smell of cigarette smoke and prepared for take-off (I may or may not have pretended that instead of driving his truck, I was attempting to take off in an airplane complete with beeeeee-owwwww noises).
Until I noticed this little exclamation mark below the odometer.
Me: Huh. That's funny. [tap tap] Wonder what that means. [check e-brake, lights, mirrors] Hm. HOLY CRIKEY. I'll bet it's some sort of secret military code, like a call to action. What if it goes into auto-pilot and returns to base? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THAT IS. At least I can use his I.D. and make it past Air Force One.
** Gary and I joke that we're the same person because we're look-alike twins, only he's like a foot taller, doesn't look like a girl and does not possess my gorgeous NOT ORANGE hair. (Elle) It's red. At least it used to be.
Then I remembered that I was not, in fact, flying a plane, but sitting in a parked truck that hadn't even left the driveway yet.
Oh. Cue frantic texting to Gary.
Me: DUDE. I broke your truck.
Gary: No, that's for low tire pressure. There's a problem with the sensor. It's good. :)
Me: Oh. [deciding to mess with him] Hypothetically speaking, about how far can you drive with the e-brake on before you trash your car?
[I'm pretty sure I heard him scream all the way from Alabama]
Gary: As far as it takes for the axles to heat up to the point that the bearings seize.
Me: So, like, a block?
Gary: Get out of my truck.
After we drove to the Dollar Store in Gary's truck, I gave instructions to the kids.
Me: No running, no climbing, don't open anything, don't touch anything, don't breathe. Okay, breathe, but quietly.
Kids: [running, screaming, jumping and breathing incredibly loud]
I went in search of my pill box down the aisle with an assortment of toothbrushes, floss, generic what-have-you and found a small pill box between the pregnancy tests and drug tests.
I will say it again. I found a small one. I was looking for a big one to put candy in (I'll give you the link at the end. Please don't interrupt me with talk of what would happen if kids, pills and candy got thrown together in a room without an adult. I know what would happen).
Oh, and yeah. Who would trust a pregnancy/drug test that cost a buck each, not to mention, WHY are those two next to each other? Killing two birds with one stone? Yikes.
About that time, I heard two Hillbilly's enter the store.
Himbilly: HEY! Heugh! (that was a laugh, I'm guessing) I'm-a find me some chips.
Herbilly: ALRIGHT. I'M GONE BE OVER HERE. (cough, snort and other tweaker-esque bodily noises)
Me: [cringing as the 'Billies get closer]
Himbilly: [yelling because he thinks he's funny] No, they don't got no sex toys.
Herbilly: HA! [cough, wheeze, phlegm]
Me: [panic] They're druggies. They're going to want pill boxes. I'M IN THE PILL SECTION! [vomit, hives, HIVESHIVESHIVES]
Thankfully, they chose aisles other than the one I was dying in and I was able to run to the toy aisle, collect the kids (by the collars, much to their dismay and discomfort) and get the freak out of there.
I called Elle on the way home.
Me: They have drug tests and pregnancy tests at the Dollar Store.
Elle: Get ten. Of each. Bring them to work.
Me: I'm never eating there again.
Here's the link to the pill box. Just to prove that I wasn't trying to do anything weird with kids, candy and pills. But hey, if you ever suspect anything, now you know where to get a drug test.