So my husband's out of town for the next couple of days, and it falls to me to drive the kids to school in the mornings. I clap on a dark-brimmed cap, just in case yesterday's migraine isn't quite done making me fear and loathe Las Vegas--er, sunlight. Being all efficient--my so rarely achieved life goal--I swing directly from the school parking lot over to Walmart and nab that much-needed dog food for Eddie. Seriously, we used up the very last of his last bag for breakfast. Poochy would've gone hungry tonight, and we can't have that!
Among the few items on my list--and the "how did that get into my cart" additions (mostly gift wrap and other Christmas decor stuff)--I need an outdoor broom for keeping the tiny leaves from the neighbor's tree at bay on my raised deck. The current broom is older than my marriage, missing 1/3 of its bristles, and twists randomly within its plastic housing. Derptastic to say the least.
So, new broom it is. I want a nice wide one, so I stand in front of the broom selections and see three possibilities. One is narrower than I want, so I don't even pull it down. I reach for the one with the green handle, definitely the widest of the three. It's heavy as I swing it down from its two-pronged metal support, on which it was barely hanging.
A few experimental sweeps with the plastic-sheathed bristles, and I realize the broom is actually pretty darn heavy. Did they make the handle out of steel, for crap's sake? No. Putting it back now. I swing its heavy, wide head upward, set it evenly over those metal prongs, and reach for the medium bowl of porridge.
Before I can lay a finger on its handle, something violently swats at my hat's brim, then clatters to the floor directly between my shoes. Attack of the killer broom! My lip curls, and I swing the green deathmonster back up, making sure to shove it all the way to the back of its rack.
But no. Either that broom was wildly affected by a gravity well, or it had become sentient in its rage at never being purchased. It tried to kill me again! I wrenched it up from the floor once more and shoved it, bristles down, among the dusters and pans. "No wonder no one buys you, you freak of nature. You're a homicidal maniac!"
That middle-sized broom suddenly looks very attractive. It's lightweight, sure, but it never once tried to splatter my brains on the concrete floor. Into the cart it goes, and now it's gracing the corner of my deck. I feel such an inexplicable bond with that broom for its complete lack of homicidal tendencies. I feel safe, cared for. Loved. And with the added benefit of a leaf-free deck, too!
But seriously. No one buy that green broom at Walmart. It WILL try to murder you.
