Contractions at Home Depot

We are on our way to Home Depot or Lowes or whatever for the umpteenth time since moving to the new house, back in July. I swear that the Cheers song, "Where everybody knows your name..." should start playing when we walk in, since this is our weekend spot.

As we arrive I am thinking kettlecorn and Sprite. Don't ask me why. The baby wants what it wants.

We are here to look for dividers for the baby's closet and in my world, if I need something, I pick what I need, and leave the store with no regrets on my choice.

Not my husband. He will pick and choose and over think every detail of every drawer and will end up at the hardwood floor section, when we don't need to be looking at hardwood flooring.

That's his prerogative, though, and I try to be understanding, especially when he says that his being this picky is why he ended up with awesome me.

I usually play along by giving opinions, when inside I don't really see a difference nor care.

Today, however, as we look at rows and rows of shelves, the contractions began, once more.

I have been having them for a week or so now. They feel nothing like the menstrual cramps I had been warned of. They feel like awfully bad indigestion that squeezes the belly and radiates to the whole entire back, making me bend over and expell profanities.

My husband is asking which section to choose from and I answer not so sweetly with a "I don't give a shit."

He understands then that he needs to place me on a couch by the furniture session, abort his mission to look at hardwood floors (have I mentioned we have no business, nor can we afford, being at the hardwood floor section?) and go pay for the damn dividers.

While I wait, a native American looking man approches with his dog inside his shopping kart and parks it next to me. Native american person goes looking at Christmas trees, which happen to be next to the patio furniture section.

His giant and tan poodle stares at me, wagging his tail.

My normal self would usually stand up and go fluff the dog's fur.

Today I just sit there, screwing up my face. I let out a moan and the dog cocks it's head.

I whisper, "It's just me and you, doggie, in a corner of a Home Depot Christmas section, in this cruel, cruel world."

My husband arrives and I still look murderous. He asks with his tail between his legs, "What can I get for you? I will do anything."

I gather all my strength and whisper, contorting in pain, as if I am on my death bed, "kettlecorn and Sprite."

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