Baby oil is mineral oil with that special baby fragrance. I remember learning this when I was in 4th grade. I had to do a science project and needed some mineral oil. I informed Howard, my dad, of this requirement and he came home with baby oil. Chaos ensued until he reassured me, via the label, that what I held was indeed mineral oil.
Once the world returned to its axis and resumed normal rotation, I finished my project and tucked that little morsel of information away in my lunchbox of knowledge forever and ever. Occasionally I'd pull it out and review it as necessary, like a couple of weeks ago when Hubby said, as I was walking out the door to the grocery store (always a fun adventure), "Oh, see if you can get some mineral oil. I need it to season the new cutting board." And onto the list it went.
I trucked through the grocery store, an efficient shopping machine, finding all the items on my list and stowing them in the surprisingly quiet cart for purchase at the finish line. Then I got to the mineral oil at the bottom of the list. Around and around and around I went in search of the mineral oil. Not in Beauty. Not in Bakeware. Not in Household. Not in Baby. Not in the Nowhere to be Found aisle. I considered buying baby oil but decided that since Hubby requested mineral oil, bringing home anything other than EXACTLY mineral oil would be folly.
Thwarted, I steered my cart toward the checkout counter, bummed because now I'd have to go to TWO stores in this trip and that wouldn't happen because oh, yeah, I have twins at home and at the moment they were being cared for by an individual who can tolerate no more than twenty minutes of whining / crying / fussing / general expressions of infant discontent (read: Hubby who, to his credit, admits that he could never do my job- like I didn't already know this) and said twenty minutes was almost up. I'd return home neither with my shield nor on it, cruelly broken by my inability to find an item under $5 that was the key to Hubby's happiness. Sigh.
At the register the checker, certainly sensing my disappointment, inquired of me, "Did you find everything you were looking for?" Here it was! My knight in shining armor! My gladiator, here to rescue me from my ruinous ineptitude! A final means to escape my inevitable walk of shame topped by a confession of utter failure!
"Mineral oil-- I couldn't find any... Do you carry it?" I asked, hope shining from my soul.
"Mineral oil? Hmm. Hey, Joe, where would we have mineral oil? That would be in Health, right?" He called to a fellow gladiator a couple of registers over. Joe turned and peered at me.
"Yeah, Health," and he picked up the little phone thingie that miraculously lets supermarket checkers talk to one another AND broadcast their voices at superhuman volume throughout the store.
"I NEED A RUNNER ON TWELVE," Joe's voice reverberated over the PA and, like magic, a delightful, fresh-faced young man materialized next to the register. "Mineral oil," Joe said to the runner. "How much do you need?" He asked of me from two registers over.
"Oh! I don't know... It isn't a very big job," I replied, thinking about the size of the cutting board and the amount of liquid necessary to coat it a few times. I'd never seasoned a cutting board. I didn't know! Joe paused for just a second, looking at me with a rather quizzical look on his face and turned to the runner. "See if we have any," And off the runner ran.
I was jubilant! Celebrating on the inside, I anxiously awaited the runner's return with my coveted mineral oil, the elixir that would make my return joyfully succesful rather than heartbreakingly devastating. I waited. And waited. And he returned empty-handed.
"Sorry. We don't have it."
I was crestfallen. Obviously, this triumphant return I imagined was not meant to be. Perhaps there was a larger lesson this experience was meant to teach me.
"If you really need it you can check the drugstore across the street. They probably have some," my checker offered what solace he could, but I was defeated and I knew it.
"No, I can't go. I'll have to wait until tomorrow,"
Brokenhearted, I departed the store. I arrived home to Hubby, who had completely forgotten his special request. "Thank God you're home!!! They started crying right after you left and have been at it ever since." And so we went on with our busy lives. After dinner Hubby washed the dishes. He got to the cutting board and asked about the mineral oil. Shamefully, I confessed that I was unable to procure the magical liquid for him but I fervently promised to get him some the following day. I went to bed down, but not out.
The next day, at the first opportunity I rushed to the drugstore. I charged in through the sliding double doors and strode confidently through the aisles on my quest. Today, I would triumph. I wasn't leaving without the freaking mineral oil.
Aisle after aisle, endcap after endcap I searched to no avail. "You have GOT to be frickin' KIDDING ME!!!" I thought aloud to myself. That was it. At the end of my rope, I approached a girl in a blue pinafore and a name tag.
"Hi, excuse me, where would I find the mineral oil?"
She looked at me. Surveyed me, actually. Gave me a good once-over before replying, "Against the back wall," and she paused.
I paused back. "With the toothpaste?" It was really more of a wish than a real question.
"No. Here, I'll show you ma'am," and abandoning her cart of deodorant she led me through the store. "No, oh Jesus," I was thinking. "She's taking me to THAT aisle," That thought kept running in circles through my mind. Not really circles, I guess-- more like the crazy circuitous path Biscuit used to run through the mall-- up the escalator, around the counter, down the escalator, around another counter and back up the escalator. Crazy.
From halfway across the store I saw the illuminated sign highlighting our destination. It was inevitable. I drew a big breath of air and exhaled it as we drew ever closer to that sign, puffing upward and ruffling a few errant hairs that flitted around my face as we walked. We came to a stop in front of the sign.
"Laxatives. Of course! Why didn't I think to look here?!?"
She looked at me dubiously. I didn't say anything else. The only thing that could have made the situation worse was having a seventeen-year-old makeup-jockey drugstore employee give me that look that says, "Yeah, EVERYBODY knows that's a poop-aid."
"Well, yeah, that's it," she said, pointing to an inconspicuous clear plastic bottle simply labeled, "Mineral Oil". Lovely.
I knelt down and grabbed the stupid goddam laxative mineral oil, marched up to the front, snagging a bag of Peanut M&Ms along the way, paid for everything and scrammed the hell out of there.
A laxative. A goddam freakin' LAXATIVE! No wonder Hubby had sent me out to get it. And I've been broadcasting my need for said laxative practically all over the known universe. What a COOL errand for him to send me to do!
So, what did I learn from this experience? Several things. First, that if I really need some help pooping, I know where to turn. Second, my local grocery store doesn't carry mineral oil but the drugstore does. Third, I know how to season a cutting board, something every good housewife should know (Up Yours, Martha!). But most importantly, I learned that even though I have a degree from one of the best universities on the planet, even though I speak three languages and can still read music, all of that is no guarantee against ever feeling like a dumbass. But even through all of that, I take a little bit of devious solace in the fact that there is a good quantity of an odorless, colorless, tasteless laxative in the house at my disposal. And, if someone were to speak to me crossly at any given time, my hand could certainly slip unnoticed over his morning cup of coffee. Then all I have to do is sit back and watch the show. But I wouldn't do that! That would be really embarrassing...
Once the world returned to its axis and resumed normal rotation, I finished my project and tucked that little morsel of information away in my lunchbox of knowledge forever and ever. Occasionally I'd pull it out and review it as necessary, like a couple of weeks ago when Hubby said, as I was walking out the door to the grocery store (always a fun adventure), "Oh, see if you can get some mineral oil. I need it to season the new cutting board." And onto the list it went.
I trucked through the grocery store, an efficient shopping machine, finding all the items on my list and stowing them in the surprisingly quiet cart for purchase at the finish line. Then I got to the mineral oil at the bottom of the list. Around and around and around I went in search of the mineral oil. Not in Beauty. Not in Bakeware. Not in Household. Not in Baby. Not in the Nowhere to be Found aisle. I considered buying baby oil but decided that since Hubby requested mineral oil, bringing home anything other than EXACTLY mineral oil would be folly.
Thwarted, I steered my cart toward the checkout counter, bummed because now I'd have to go to TWO stores in this trip and that wouldn't happen because oh, yeah, I have twins at home and at the moment they were being cared for by an individual who can tolerate no more than twenty minutes of whining / crying / fussing / general expressions of infant discontent (read: Hubby who, to his credit, admits that he could never do my job- like I didn't already know this) and said twenty minutes was almost up. I'd return home neither with my shield nor on it, cruelly broken by my inability to find an item under $5 that was the key to Hubby's happiness. Sigh.
At the register the checker, certainly sensing my disappointment, inquired of me, "Did you find everything you were looking for?" Here it was! My knight in shining armor! My gladiator, here to rescue me from my ruinous ineptitude! A final means to escape my inevitable walk of shame topped by a confession of utter failure!
"Mineral oil-- I couldn't find any... Do you carry it?" I asked, hope shining from my soul.
"Mineral oil? Hmm. Hey, Joe, where would we have mineral oil? That would be in Health, right?" He called to a fellow gladiator a couple of registers over. Joe turned and peered at me.
"Yeah, Health," and he picked up the little phone thingie that miraculously lets supermarket checkers talk to one another AND broadcast their voices at superhuman volume throughout the store.
"I NEED A RUNNER ON TWELVE," Joe's voice reverberated over the PA and, like magic, a delightful, fresh-faced young man materialized next to the register. "Mineral oil," Joe said to the runner. "How much do you need?" He asked of me from two registers over.
"Oh! I don't know... It isn't a very big job," I replied, thinking about the size of the cutting board and the amount of liquid necessary to coat it a few times. I'd never seasoned a cutting board. I didn't know! Joe paused for just a second, looking at me with a rather quizzical look on his face and turned to the runner. "See if we have any," And off the runner ran.
I was jubilant! Celebrating on the inside, I anxiously awaited the runner's return with my coveted mineral oil, the elixir that would make my return joyfully succesful rather than heartbreakingly devastating. I waited. And waited. And he returned empty-handed.
"Sorry. We don't have it."
I was crestfallen. Obviously, this triumphant return I imagined was not meant to be. Perhaps there was a larger lesson this experience was meant to teach me.
"If you really need it you can check the drugstore across the street. They probably have some," my checker offered what solace he could, but I was defeated and I knew it.
"No, I can't go. I'll have to wait until tomorrow,"
Brokenhearted, I departed the store. I arrived home to Hubby, who had completely forgotten his special request. "Thank God you're home!!! They started crying right after you left and have been at it ever since." And so we went on with our busy lives. After dinner Hubby washed the dishes. He got to the cutting board and asked about the mineral oil. Shamefully, I confessed that I was unable to procure the magical liquid for him but I fervently promised to get him some the following day. I went to bed down, but not out.
The next day, at the first opportunity I rushed to the drugstore. I charged in through the sliding double doors and strode confidently through the aisles on my quest. Today, I would triumph. I wasn't leaving without the freaking mineral oil.
Aisle after aisle, endcap after endcap I searched to no avail. "You have GOT to be frickin' KIDDING ME!!!" I thought aloud to myself. That was it. At the end of my rope, I approached a girl in a blue pinafore and a name tag.
"Hi, excuse me, where would I find the mineral oil?"
She looked at me. Surveyed me, actually. Gave me a good once-over before replying, "Against the back wall," and she paused.
I paused back. "With the toothpaste?" It was really more of a wish than a real question.
"No. Here, I'll show you ma'am," and abandoning her cart of deodorant she led me through the store. "No, oh Jesus," I was thinking. "She's taking me to THAT aisle," That thought kept running in circles through my mind. Not really circles, I guess-- more like the crazy circuitous path Biscuit used to run through the mall-- up the escalator, around the counter, down the escalator, around another counter and back up the escalator. Crazy.
From halfway across the store I saw the illuminated sign highlighting our destination. It was inevitable. I drew a big breath of air and exhaled it as we drew ever closer to that sign, puffing upward and ruffling a few errant hairs that flitted around my face as we walked. We came to a stop in front of the sign.
"Laxatives. Of course! Why didn't I think to look here?!?"
She looked at me dubiously. I didn't say anything else. The only thing that could have made the situation worse was having a seventeen-year-old makeup-jockey drugstore employee give me that look that says, "Yeah, EVERYBODY knows that's a poop-aid."
"Well, yeah, that's it," she said, pointing to an inconspicuous clear plastic bottle simply labeled, "Mineral Oil". Lovely.
I knelt down and grabbed the stupid goddam laxative mineral oil, marched up to the front, snagging a bag of Peanut M&Ms along the way, paid for everything and scrammed the hell out of there.
A laxative. A goddam freakin' LAXATIVE! No wonder Hubby had sent me out to get it. And I've been broadcasting my need for said laxative practically all over the known universe. What a COOL errand for him to send me to do!
So, what did I learn from this experience? Several things. First, that if I really need some help pooping, I know where to turn. Second, my local grocery store doesn't carry mineral oil but the drugstore does. Third, I know how to season a cutting board, something every good housewife should know (Up Yours, Martha!). But most importantly, I learned that even though I have a degree from one of the best universities on the planet, even though I speak three languages and can still read music, all of that is no guarantee against ever feeling like a dumbass. But even through all of that, I take a little bit of devious solace in the fact that there is a good quantity of an odorless, colorless, tasteless laxative in the house at my disposal. And, if someone were to speak to me crossly at any given time, my hand could certainly slip unnoticed over his morning cup of coffee. Then all I have to do is sit back and watch the show. But I wouldn't do that! That would be really embarrassing...
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