I hate roller coasters.  Truly.

Sure, to some it may seem counterintuitive – especially given my love of zorbing and most things extreme and dangerous.  But roller coasters suck.

Perhaps it’s due to the ambiance that surrounds the likes of The Beast, The Claw Hammer, The Wing-Ding, or whatever the hell marketing geniuses everywhere unite in some dark pit to appropriately name those monstrosities.  I want to puke before I even get on the things.  Even though I’ve given it an honest effort over the years, my feelings remain.

Speaking of ambiance, at her request, I took Liv shopping yesterday.  It’s been a rather tough first week back, so I was beyond pleased to spend one-on-one time with the girl.  Shopping?  Sometimes.  A mall?  Ick.  I’d almost rather go hang out in an airport.  Or, an amusement park.

She was on a mission. 

Mom, I need some shirts.  Can we please go to Glenbrook instead of JP,” she asked in her best you-know-you-love-me-even-though-I’m-killing-you-lately voice.

“Um, sure, why not?  Maybe it’s not as bad as I remember it,” I replied in my best I-am-so-trying-to-do-the-best-I-can-with-your-mini-me-ass-but-would-rather-stick-hot-pokers-in-my-eyes voice.

She drives.  Nothing like staging the mood.  I ask her, proactively, where she’s thinking about parking in that a) I like to have a game plan and b) the closer we are to finding some shirts, the fewer number of years get shaved off my life like LeBron’s stupid imposter Amish beard should have been before The Decision.

In we walk.  Now mind you, I was totally taken to task this weekend about having a penchant for self-defeating prophecies in certain situations.  So, I became extra focused and mindful as I walked through the double doors which were not held open for me by a nice Mohawk-sporting youngster.  Far be it for me to ruin a perfectly good trip to the mall before we’re even out of the vestibule.

I know the stores Liv typically prefers.  At least, I used to know.  No surprise, she sauntered into Victoria’s Secret immediately.  That sentence alone is wrong; the store is even more whacked. 

First of all, it’s been around forever.  Secrets always come out.  Victoria is pissing me off.

Moreover, the place is so grossly overpriced that I don’t care WHO sports the ill-fitting crap – it’s not worth it.  Everyone knows nothing in that hell hole will turn you into a goddess, regardless the side of the bed, cellar, warehouse or boxing ring ropes you are on.  The Angels who bless us every year on national TV as they stride a shimmery white runway (that secretly just once, I wish was lubed with whatever they sell for $12.99 in the bins by the counters) are very sweet women, I’m sure.  However, let’s be honest:  they are not representative of any female population I’ve encountered in the last 40 years.  Yet inexplicably, those are the exact women who shop in that godforsaken store.

And don’t even get me started on VS’s hiring practices.  It is the equivalent of filling sportscaster positions with individuals who think a sack, back, and flexbone formation is something to include in their match.com profile.

Maybe Tom Brady’s wife was watching over me, because we left empty-handed.  See, me?  See, you little know-it all-who-thought-it-would-turn-out-disastrous-but-it-hasn’t?  HA-freaking-HA.  What do you have to say about that, ‘lil miss?

“Hey, Mom – let’s go into that store.  It’s way cooler.”

Because why wouldn’t a store named Nirvana not be?  Smell me the way, honey.  I’m just along for the ride.