Trip to the Pharmacy

Outside smoking a cigarette I can see mike d playing in the dirty sandbox, my father constructed a home made sandbox with 2 x 4's and plywood, he is proud, I await the splinters and endless baths from mike d rolling in the filth. I swing from the porch and jibber jabber on the phone, he disappears and I find him hiding under the plastic that holds the riding lawn mower, I pull him out back into the sandbox. Sitting back on the porch I see him grabbing an empty flower pot and filling it with sand, then he lifts it onto his head and walks around in circles in the backyard, he is hopeless. I am into the conversation and do not see him slip into the house, the minute I notice I hang up and run inside.
"Micheal!" My mother screams, who let him into the house with that thing, the flowerpot on the floor, sand adorning the living room. I am stunned.
"I don't know, I was in the bathroom." I lie, does it matter, can't undo it.
"You know, if it's not sand it's salt. You see that white couch?" I look over and nod.
"I cleaned this whole house and sit down for a minute and there is salt all over the couch, I was sitting in salt, he emptied another canister, that is the fourth one, I don't know what I am going to do about him." The thought to put things out of his reach crosses my mind, but doesn't leave my lips, all that would do is enrage her.
"Do you have any idea what salt does, it is bad luck and if he isn't pouring it on the cat, he pours it in the couch, bad things will come to us, very bad things." As opposed to the shit I deal with now, I find it highly unlikely that some spilled salt will worsen the situation. Now if he decides to start lining it up and snorts it or starts to pile it up with stacks of monopoly money saying "The world is mine.", we may have a definite problem on our hands. (ok so I joke on the blog but telling her would just get me slapped, just had to get it out)
I walk into my sister's room avoiding the lecture of bad luck and salt and find Mara watching Bikini Shop, a 1986 T & A movie we watched as kids, my mother in order to shut us up would let us rent anything, Porky's, Private School and Bikini Shop were high on our rental list of movies to watch at age 10, just because we knew we shouldn't and she let us. The acting is awful, the plot is pointless, the memories of staying up with my sister watching r rated movies all night= priceless.
I gather the troops and go home, the house worse than I left it, the kitchen full of dirty dishes and food left out, my husband worked from 5-11pm doing ot and what did he do while I worked, nothing.
I pick up the script and try to head out to fill my meds, the monkey boy attached at the knee caps, I talk my mother in law to go with me to the pharmacy, only if I buy her the cinnamon discs she so loves, 6 bags, I no longer worry about her teeth falling out, they were all removed a month ago, and as for her blood sugar problems, I will deal with them when she passes out in the kitchen, nothing that a cold glass of water to the face won't fix.
When I get to the counter I hand my script to the little tech child at the register. He looks at it and starts to write stuff on the back, I tell him my name, he repeats it, I tell him my date of birth, he repeats it, I tell him my address, like a fucking parrot he repeats it, I shut up and wait. He looks at me and we stare at each other in dead silence. If not for the old farts lugging around in their walkers I would hear crickets chirping in the background, he must be high, or I am. "Would you like to wait?"
"No, I will be back tomorrow."
"Ok." Nothing more.
Why do they hire non people persons to work at the register, they deal with sick, handicapped and old people, they should learn some manners, they should say hi, smile, bye, human contact should be a must. Seeing that this pimple faced IT rep to be said nothing, I scowled at him and walked away, well if he doesn't say bye, neither will I, there that is my revenge, my eyebrows scrunched up with the stink eye and no smile, silence, that'll teach him. (I doubt it, but I can hope)
As I walk away, I go to pick up the cinnamon discs, picking up 6 bags, gatorade and milk is an act better left to the little foreigners at the circus that stand on each others noses and stand on their heads toe to toe like human legos, I drop the bags, bend over and pick them up, a blur of a little person runs by and the pitter patter of barefoot feet running past. I can tell the child is barefoot, he is probably in diapers and dirty clothes too, poor child. I hear shuffling and things thrown from the aisle on the other side. Do I dare look? No, it would only make me laugh at the brat and the poor stupid mother letting him run around like a savage.
I walk up to another child at the front register that resembles Ricky Martin in his pubic age years, his tag says "habla espanol", he rings up my items and I say something in English, he smiles, I say some thing in spanish, nothing. I think to myself, am I speaking fucking French? From behind me, there is running of little feet, and the plink plank of high heeled sandals quickly getting close to me, now I hear something in Korean, then "Heh!!! Hey Miko!!!"
OH MY DEAR GOD, that woman running around the pharmacy chasing down a kid gone wild is my mother in law, and I should have known the brat destroying the canned foods and book aisle was none other than my child. My mouth gapes open, I hope no bugs crawl into it. He is now crouched-down-hidden-tiger style under the area with the grocery carts for midgets, she reaches and can't grab him, she runs around the other side.
She sees my horror and explains that he escaped the car seat once again and she wanted to see what he would do in the store. "Try, yo quiro try, ver lo que hace el." She was curious as to what he would do in the store if she let him loose, of all the idiotic reasons why my child is running around barefoot in the pharmacy, that is her explanation.
I grab him and hold him, looking at the register child and grateful there is no one else at the counter. She asks me to put him down, I explain he is barefoot, she asks me to put him down, like I didn't tell her no the first time. "He gets dirty, we clean feet home." I put him down and he takes off. I momentarily lapse at the bags with my purchase, the little boy tells me the amount I pay and take off after the Tasmanian devil. Head down, ass up, I carry him out of the store, my mother in law lugs the bags stopping every ten steps to re organize how she holds the bags, she manages to make it to the car, sweating and panting like a bitch in heat (the dog). I strap the convict-to-be into his car seat and decide to drive for 30 minutes till he falls asleep.
I set him in bed, wipe down his feet, give her the candy, and sit outside to blog about yet another trip and how an ordinary trip to the pharmacy can turn into a sitcom for my blog.