as much as i realize people really enjoy reading about fish tacos, i recognize that it is time once again for a yawn-inducing action-packed installment into the mind (or lack thereof) of the slightly-cranky and fully-klutzy person who drives this proverbial train. (that, and people have actually whined at me because i haven’t written in a week. who knew?)

the truth: i’ve been in nj, celebrating my dad’s 75th birthday, running my speed seder with most of my family, enjoying Hellboy’s dance of vomit and constipation (yes, there was about a five-hour period on monday afternoon when i was randomly praising and cursing glycerine suppositories and prune juice, the latter known around this house as the warrior drink) and enjoying the company of my parents, my kids, my brothers, nieces and nephews, and of course, my ever-wonderful aunt barbara. i had to cut the trip short because i knew as a solo parent, i was only going to get so far before my good knee started reaching up and smacking me silly. so sadly, we missed my in-laws and more nieces and nephews.

but it’s hard to know which part was truly the high point of the trip. ah, the indoor pool, crowded with visiting grandchildren and non-grandparents running for cover; the handicapped parking spaces at the senior clubhouse where the senior golfers park with aforementioned handicapped stickers and then play many, many holes of golf; the insane drivers at the stop-and-shop (the nj dmv should put up a stand at the entrance and simply start rescinding licenses on the spot); the single people who are taking up stalls in the family restroom at the chesapeake house on I- 95 while my son nearly bursts a gasket. it’s so hard to choose. i think, though, i can venture a guess.

on tuesday, we took a ride to the nearby jackson outlets (well, a half-hour away via country roads — and yes, virginia, there ARE country roads in central jersey), initially to look for new sneakers for Hellboy, skorts for She Who Grew an Inch Every Day in March, and perhaps a pair of workout pants for moi, the woman who will consider bending my leg a proper workout after my surgery next tuesday. finding the sneakers and the skorts was easy. then, my aunt graciously said that she’d stand outside with the kids and let them ride the little truck ride while my mom and i looked at workout pants. i handed over several quarters (these things are up to .50 a ride these days) and set my watch to about 5 minutes before the kids would be shrieking at me to get out of the store.

miraculously, i found a pair of pants. that. fit. my. enormous. ass. just as i walked out of the dressing room, i saw my kids running up the aisle toward me, my aunt trailing them close behind. time’s up. “mama,” BC yelled at the top of her lungs, “we put our quarters in the truck and they didn’t work!”

“that’s too bad,” i replied, as she puffed, out of breath.

“nononoNO,” she continued. “i pressed the coin return, and ALL THE QUARTERS CAME FLYING OUT!” girlfriend opened up her hand to show me two fists full of quarters.

“eek!” i exclaimed, while a salesperson smiled strangely at me. normally, i’m a big fan of teaching my kids to return things, but to whom exactly do you return quarters in this situation? and it wasn’t like my kids intentionally tried to get said quarters. they just came out like a mini slot machine. what to do, what to do? “maybe there’s another ride out there?” i asked my aunt.

“yes, i’ll take the kids to the other ride,” she replied, and as quickly as they ran in, they ran out.

my mom and i laughed, then walked toward the front of the store to pay for my pants. just before we got to the front of the store, my mom tugged at my sleeve. “look out the door,” she said quietly, through gritted teeth. and there, at the site of the unintentional truck heist, was a man in a security shirt with a segway parked behind him. apparently, the Reebok employee called security, and a gentleman was checking out the truck situation. (tell me, is his hourly wage more than the $5 in quarters that came out?) mom continued, sotto voce, afraid for my tiny, non-discrete jailbirds-in-waiting: “i’ll pay for the pants — why don’t you head off barbara and the kids at the pass?” i nodded and headed out the door, wondering what a decent parent would do in this situation.

my question answered itself. i shushed everyone as i saw them, afraid of what they’d blurt out. “let’s get in the car and you can tell me what you did,” i told them as i hustled them quickly over to the SUV. once inside the car, i said, “so, did you go on any more rides?”

“yes,” announced BC. we only have a dollar left. we spent the rest on the ride!”

in my book, they gave the money back to the company, so my conscience isn’t killing me here. i gave them a dollar initially, so i figure that leftover money’s mine. BC (AKA mama’s little mercenary) insisted she should keep it as the official finder (of finders keepers losers weepers fame), but I pulled rank as the person who provided that money in the first place.

i may not be a perfect parent; and this will probably stick me once again in parental purgatory; but i do have to wonder what sort of person calls security on two little kids who press a coin return to get their money back and end up with about $5.