Yesterday, however, I took The Daughters to shop for some new Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes because next Sunday will be a super-duper special Sunday that require more than jeans and a t-shirt. (More about that next week - just hold your horses!)
All yesterday did was confirm that I really hate shopping. And now, I really hate Katy Perry. Let me start from the beginning.
After picking out no less than 12 items for Daughter 1 to try on, (12 is NOT an exaggeration) and two items for Daughter 2 to try on, we overtook the dressing rooms. Unfortunately, every other person in the tri-county area decided to try on clothes at the exact same time. Instead of waiting for a larger room where we could all go in together, we decided that we could all squeeze into a dressing room that was clearly designed for no more than two Cabbage Patch Dolls. But, size doesn't matter, and we jammed ourselves into the tiny little room and commenced to trying on clothes.
After a few elbows in our faces and one too many farts (courtesy Daughter 2), I needed space to myself. I sent The Daughters to look at themselves in full-length mirrors and I collapsed against the clipboard-sized bench.
Because one three-way mirror is clearly not big enough for both daughters, they each stood at a different one, positioned about six feet from each other. Daughter 1 was quiet and contemplative over her outfit choice. Daughter 2? Not so much.
"Man! You should see me, sister!" she shouted as if she were in an entirely different part of the mall. "I look HOT!" Then... she broke into song.
"I look hot! I look cold! I look yes! I look no! I look in! I look out!..." she sang loudly through the entire chorus, ala Katy Perry, belting out the adjectives as if they were about herself.
Daughter 1 finally broke her thoughtful silence, "Shut up!" she hollered in her most loving, sisterly voice.
"Why? I love that song!" Daughter 2 defended her karaoke-choice.
Then it became silent. Everyone stopped talking. Everyone in the dressing rooms had all shushed each other and stopped clanging plastic hangers against the laminate doors. Everyone, that is, besides my daughters.
"You're lying," Daughter 2 countered.
"I'm not either. It's in the first verse."
"Whatever, I don't believe you," Daughter 2 argued back.
I'd like to tell you that this was the end of their conversation. I'd like to tell you that because it was my earnest prayer and fitful plea as I sat in the dressing room. It did not happen.
"Sing it," Daughter 1 challenged, "From the beginning."
"OK," Daughter 2 accepted, "I will!"
And then she did...
"You change your mind like a girl changes clothes."
At this point, I could have stopped Daughter 2 from singing. I should have stopped Daughter 2 from singing, but I didn't and I have no excuse.
"You PMS like a bleep I would know." (Really, she sang "bleep.")
"See?" Daughter 1 interrupted. "See right there? That's a cuss word."
"What?" Daughter 2 questioned her with a high pitched voice I'd never hear come from her little body, "I said, 'bleep' - and that's not bad."
"Right. But you also said, 'PMS', and that's definitely a bad, bad cuss word."
And then, as if someone had flipped the switch on the "LAUGHTER" button, the entire live, dressing-room audience, including those waiting in line, burst into side-splitting laughter, complete with hiccups and snorts. It was also at this point that The Daughters became grossly aware that they had a sorta, kinda captive audience, and they quickly reappeared in the dressing room.
"Momma," Daughter 1 whispered once she was safely out of sight and crammed back into the dressing room, "What exactly does PMS mean?"
"I think I know," Daughter 2 interrupted as she slipped back on her jeans, "I think PMS is a B-word."
I just let it go at that.
I told you I hate shopping!
