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• I try to be really understanding towards elderly people. I have elderly grandparents and a great-aunt I adore, and I would gladly punch anyone in the face who might dare to so much as roll their eyes because my loved ones aren't as quick or savvy as us young pups. That said, being old isn't an excuse for being an ass.

  This morning Clara Jane and I went to Target, which has become a hassle and a half. In the past two weeks, Clara Jane's had three incidents where she's gotten spooked by Halloween decorations in stores, and now she doesn't want to go anywhere. Well, unless there are bribes involved. All morning she kept telling me, "I don't want to go to Target," until I caved and told her that if she stopped complaining she could have some snack-bar popcorn while we shopped.

  Why yes, I'm making her choose between agoraphobia and an eating disorder.

  When we arrived at the snackbar with our cart (bondage is the only way I can get her into the store without her trying to flee in the opposite direction), there were two older women at a table, one of them in a motorized cart, which she had parked in the area where the snackbar line forms. Not only that, she had her purse and drink sitting on the snackbar itself, and she glared at me with a stinkeye unlike any I've ever seen when I approached with my cart.

  Granted, I'm healthy and able-bodied, so it wasn't a big deal for me to do some creative navigation. But there were plenty of seats and table spaces available where she could have parked her cart that didn't interfere with the flow of traffic.

  But ... but ... oh, here's the real kicker! While Clara Jane and I waited for our popcorn, another elderly woman came into the snack bar in, you guessed it, a motorized cart, and Motorized Cart #1 gave her the stink-eye, too, forcing Motorized Cart #2 to do her own creative navigation.

  Sometimes, I think some people are alive simply because they're too damn mean to die and Jesus don't want 'em, which brings us to ...

• After Target and lunch, Clara Jane and I stopped by a convenience store to use the bathroom and grab an iced tea, since Hell has opened up and it's hot. Now, I'm a bit of a freak about how I park. I drive a full-size truck, and I know that if I'm crooked or too close to the line, I might keep others from being able to get in and out of their cars. I hate it when people do that to me, so I try not to do that to others. I made sure there was plenty of room on either side of my truck, which wasn't difficult as the parking lot was mostly empty. I opened the doors and started getting Clara Jane out of her car seat.

  As I unsnapped her seat belt, an old man - probably the brother of Motorized Cart #1 - in a big silver Cadillac-car, tried to whip into the parking space next to my driver's side. Nevermind that the spot on the passenger's side was free, as were several other spaces even closer to the store's entrance. Anyway, when he saw me and my opened door, he stopped, glared at me and ... and ... wait for it, it's that good ...

  He fucking waved his hand at me and mouthed the word, "Move!".

  I'll pause so you can digest that for a moment.

  So, what can I do? I'm about to pee my pants. My kid's loose in my truck. And this old fart can't drive two spaces down because, I don't know, the parking space next to mine is possibly the Fountain of Youth.

  I sat down in the backseat to hold Clara Jane, pulled the door shut, and let Ponce' de Leon have his goddamn space.

  Repeat after me: Too mean to die. Jesus don't want him.

• This one's quick, and happens a surprising number of times. While leaving the store, Clara Jane in one arm, iced tea in my hand, big purse/diaper bag over my shoulder, we approached the double-doors at the same time as two young, able-bodied empty-handed men. I paused. They looked at me.

  And then they went to the door further away from me and walked in, not even making an attempt to open the door for us. I mean, I know those doors can be really heavy and all, and it's such a hassle to take the extra 10 seconds to open a door and not rush through it like you're a goddamn Pamploma bull chasing after a herd of stupid tourists.

  Chivarly's not only dead, it's also dismembered and buried in a shallow grave down by the river. That's fine. I can take care of myself. I'm used to juggling my kid and my shit and I don't expect anyone to do it for me. Still, it's nice when people do.

  At lunch, just minutes before the two convenience store incidents, an older woman saw me approaching the exit with Clara Jane, who was in a tizz because I had the audacity to insist that she hold my hand. The woman held the door for us. When I thanked her she said, "It's hard, I know."

  Some days, it's much harder than others.

I don't have to tell you how frustrating all of this is. I can make myself crazy, wondering why in the hell people choose to act like this. It's not mine to figure out, that I do know.

But I also know that after those four incidents in 24 hours, I don't really feel the desire to be nice to anyone, and that's the problem. Rudeness begats rudeness. I just don't get why it's so damn hard for people to extend a little basic courtesy. Maybe because no one's extended any basic courtesy to them.