What is your childhood trauma?!?!

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I'm fairly certain that there isn't a single business in the greater ATX area that hasn't received my resume.

Yes, I'm pursuing the teaching gig, but I'm keeping options open as well. I like the idea of teaching, but I'm also a little warm on the idea of a job where there's some travel. And grown-up nights out to entertain clients or to be the entertained client. This isn't exactly the economy for it, but from what I can see there are still jobs out there, I just imagine the competition is tougher than ever ...

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Bean and I went grocery shopping, allegedly, this morning. But when Dave asked if I could pick up O after her a.m. nap, and Bean expressed a desire to keep doing stuff, I nixed the grocery part, left with a couple small things, and picked up the little one. Bean had her heart set on eating a croissant (I distracted her with a cookie at Target, but should have known better than to think she'd forget the croissant), so we stopped at Randall's to grab a few.

Randall's has these ratty old 'car carts', that Bean wanted at first, but then climbed right out of in the store. Rather than deal with pushing the gimpy thing around for no reason, I swapped it out for a regular cart. Bean wanted to ride in the seat - the singular seat, which meant Miss O was either going to be carried or free to roam. Neither is a good scenario. So I told Bean she needed to walk so O could ride.

Cue one full-scale freak out of nuclear proportions.

Fortunately for my blood pressure and for Bean's longevity, I find this new style of freak out laughable. I don't know if my hiding a smile/laugh is any more or less damaging to her psyche than my freaking out at her for freaking out, but it is what it is.

She started by running circles in the cart vestibule, screaming. I tried to talk her down, it didn't work, so I feigned departure. She took off into the store. Sigh. I had to go chase her down with O in my arms, then try to get her to leave with me. Because you're damn Skippy that screaming and freaking out, peppered with a few "you stupid!" barbs, means no effin' croissants.

I caught up to her, tried to explain we were leaving, she refused to walk out, so I tried to pick her up in my free arm. Almost dropped both of 'em, so I had to walk a good 100 feet or so back to the vestibule to secure O in a cart, then retrieve Miss Pissy Pants. Fortunately, she kept any would-be kidnappers at bay with continued screaming and histrionics, and when I got back to her, an older woman was down on the floor talking to her. I gave the woman a 'what can ya do?' smile, scooped Bean up, put her in the cart, and left. I later found out she was telling Miss Pissy Pants to be nicer to her mommy ... believe me, I had a moment's hesitation wondering if the woman was thinking I had abandoned Bean, or that I was some terrible person for letting her freak out and walking away.

We came home, I fed Bean a banana and put her to bed. At 11:00. She slept an hour and a half and was a new woman. Of course, when she awoke she was asking for ... you've got it: a croissant.

These freak outs are just amazing in their intensity. A-freakin'-mazing. Especially considering the grievances that trigger them. For me to work up into that level of pique, you'd have to kill all my cats (you'd get Anya as a freebie, but the others would piss me off), kick my girls and tell me that I had to put Shannon up for a week and be nice to her. For Her Royal Freakiness, just deny her a seat in the cart.

But for whatever reason, I don't find myself getting at all angry with her about them. I honestly get more tense when she dawdles or is wasteful. Watching her run in circles screaming in public just makes me laugh.

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Beanism du jour: Max is the nicest cat, but I think Anya isn't. That means we have to turn her into powder.

Yes folks, she'll be here all week.
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