Today we went to -- deep breath -- Wal-Mart in our continuing quest for school supplies. I did find the .77-ounce glue sticks and the correct box of paint, but I could not locate the elusive Fun Dough. The Wal-Mart employees denied any knowledge of the Fun Dough.
This is a challenge now. I'm obsessed with finding the dough.
It isn't even a required item; it's listed under the "optional" supplies. You just know, though, that if I don't contribute the optional dough that my negligence will somehow wind up in her permanent record. She'll be trying to get a full ride to Harvard in 15 years, and some important person will look at her transcripts and see "Mother did not donate Fun Dough", and she'll wind up attending clown college.
So we left Wal-Mart without the Fun Dough, and we got to walk by a teenage girl who was standing right outside of Wal-Mart, screaming the F-word repeatedly into her cell phone. This is exactly what you want to hear when you're with your three-year-old. The girl's end of the conversation -- and I swear I am not making this up -- went like this:
"She f-ing calls herself an f-ing hair stylist and she doesn't f-ing know how to f-ing cut an f-ing mullet??!?!?"
I'm not sure why she was so upset, because her mullet looked quite lovely.