One Missing Dad & One Found Mean Magnifier

Wake-Up: For whatever reason, dragging my tired bum out of bed was especially difficult.
After washing my face, I quickly brushed on some bare minerals and spied a brand new mascara sample I had yet to try.  Retrieving the little box from the bottom of my makeup bag, I saw that it promised extraordinary volume.
“Okay, prove it.”  I opened the tube and…huh, the little wand thingy is quite springy and has what appears to be two longer bristles on the tip.  *shrugs shoulders and begins applying* “Ow! Son of a…”  Those oddly long bristles stabbed me in the eyeball, sending my eye into spaz-mode, while mascara went everywhere.  Out comes the eye-makeup remover and cotton ball.
Must reapply makeup all around the eye area.  Pain in the butt.
Ah. Well.  They should have added a small disclaimer: Extraordinary volume that will clump and look like spider legs.  Add an extra ten minutes trying to de-clump, separate, and remove said unimpressive mascara to an unusually tedious makeup day. 
Lunch:  On the agenda—shopping with Dad for Mom’s birthday.  Shopping with my dad is always the same: I shop, he wanders.
Barnes & Noble: Like always, Dad wanders, I shop.  I quickly picked up the items on mom’s birthday wish list and made to find Dad. Um, Dad? Where are you? I looked in all of his favorite haunts: history, travel, DVD… He was nowhere to be found.  Great. I lost my dad.  This isn’t the first time. I knew the only thing I could do was to go through the entire store.  Slightly rattled when one full sweep turned up no dad, I made an aggressive right turn into hardback hell, otherwise known as the Mean Magnifier. 
Mean Magnifier: “Well, look at you! Suffering no-baby blues, sweetheart? Or…did you find someone and have a little bun in the oven already?” she said, looking at my left hand.  “No ring, though. Have we decided to join the masses?”
What the hell is she talking about? Oh, crap. Parenting books and stuff. 
Me: “Oh, no, no, just heading to…” think of somewhere, anywhere “…to the section on…” OMG say something! “…to the children’s book section.” Really? That’s the best you could do, you absolute idiot?!  Couldn’t say travel or cooking, could you? Look at her, smiling like I just handed her a platinum stick to shove up my a**. 
Mean Magnifier: “Aww, that’s cute.  Your clock must be ticking.”  She started making a tick-tick sound with her plastic nails on a book she was holding. 
Me: “Oh, no, no.  No ticking.” Apart from the ticking time bomb that is my patience. 
Mean Magnifier: “No, you’re right, it’s probably ringing!”  Her laugh is the kind that makes you want to body slam her into the sharpest book corners. 
Me, more worried about finding Dad: “None of that actually.  Well, it’s good to see you—”  Oh, please don’t touch me.
Mean Magnifier: “All kidding aside, are you seeing anyone?”
Ugh, Me: “No, I’m not.” I’m beginning to loathe the word ‘no.’
Mean Magnifier: “Well...someday, right?”  And there we go: the head shake, faux-forlorn look, and fake lip bite that’s really masking her crap-eating grin.
Me: “I should really get going—”
Mean Magnifier: “To the children’s section, right?  I may join you.  I need to get the kids some more books to read.”
Me: “Well, I’m actually running really short on time.”
Mean Magnifier: “Okay, honey, you take care.”
Me: “You too.” 
Mean Magnifier: “Oh, and when you have more time, self-help is over there.  Bye, hun!”
Nice.  Really nice.  For the record, I’ve NEVER purchased a self-help book.  Never.  I have received them as “gifts,” however.  Never read ‘em, either. 
The next instant, I spotted Dad sauntering towards the front of the store.  When I caught up with him and his big old grin, I asked him where he’s been. 
Dad, grinning from ear to ear:  “I was in the store…bathroom.”
Terrific.