it's my seventh tattoo.
When I purchased the yagon, I thought I was being clever. And efficient.
When I think I am being clever and efficient, I know something stupid and annoying is going to happen.
About a 30 minute walk from my house is a shopping centre and several huge stores. Every once in a while (meaning, about four times a year) I walk over, stock up, and then take a taxi home. That was last weekend's plan. I was going to get stuff to build a garden box and my bedding plants.
I stopped in at Ukrainian Tire to look at "outdoor dryers" aka clotheslines to us ordinary folk, and right where all the old lady shopping carts were, and the out-of-stock clothes dryers should be, was the wagon.
I picked it up, found the resident surly, pimply-faced, sixteen-year-old to give me a price check. The price was suitable, and the lines at the checkout weren't too long, so I bought it. I tucked it under my arm, walked across the street to the liquor store (because all major stock-ups include wine) and then carried on to Lesbian Heaven, aka Home Depot. When I picked the box up after paying for the wine, I lost my balance (I'm not very steady on my feet, believe it or not) and the corner of the box scraped the inside of my arm.
Part of the office is taking up a collection to buy me a tricycle so I can pull around my yagon, and the rest are wondering what the hell I got up to on the weekend to have such a reminder.
I don't know which group makes me laugh harder.
Can we talk about how much I love my yagon? Really, it's the best $70 I've ever spent. I can't wait for the bouncer, oops I mean greeter at Supervalu tries to give me a hard time.