Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Grocery Store Drama

There isn’t a mother in America who says “Oh glorious day! Let’s bundle up our little joys from heaven and head to Publix!”

I’ve had complete strangers offer to buy me wine when they see what I go through with my monsters. Everyone at Walmart knows my kids’ names. Not because they’ve told them, but because I’ve screamed it down every fucking aisle I go in. I’ve started calling ahead to SuperTarget to warn them of our arrival. The manager thanks me and then sets up a cute little old lady in the wine section for me to “sample” the wines. Now THAT’S customer service.

When my babies were little, hubs didn’t get the need for me to go to the store by myself. Dumb new dad; no fucking clue. Two kids later, he understands. It took a good beating but it finally sunk in. So, when I do get to go by myself, I tour that shit like it’s a fucking museum. I can tell you the unit price on pickled beets and I check the schedule to see which stock boy will be working that evening. I get all dolled up in the last t-shirt I own that isn’t stained, squeeze into jeans that used to fit and pretend that I really am going to get that pedicure and slip on flip flops and hope that I don’t run into one of hubs’ ex-girlfriends. See people, we live in the city hubs grew up in. Usually when I’m looking my worst is when some stick figure who probably airbrushed her tinted moisturizer on says “Oh my! It’s so nice to see you! Tell hubs I said ‘hi’ as I’m off to New York for another photo shoot!” It’s like an imaginary bitch slap and she knows it. I squeezed two watermelons out of my kiwi, top that shit you twat.

When I don’t get to go alone it all starts out with good intentions. I give the kids that one hour warning of going to the store. Then I listen to them bitch and moan and ask if they can get something while they’re there. “Like what? Food to eat? Consider it done.” I think I repeat “Get your shoes on; we’re going to the store!” 37 times before I actually have to start screaming and then wrestle them into a worn out pair of crocs. Because I don’t want anyone bitching about their fucking socks and how they’re bunched up at the toe.

Then getting my kids into the booster seats is like putting socks on a cat. And you better believe the drive to the store is just as fun. “I don’t wanna go. It’s sooooo boring. Are you just getting a few things? I don’t want you to take forever. Why can’t we stay home with dad? Can we get the free cookie? I hate going in the cold section of the store. Did you bring my jacket? I don’t want cinnamon waffles this time, I want chocolate ones. You’re the meanest mom ever to make us go with you.”

We pull up; get out of the car by me saying “Get out of the car. Get out of the car. Get out of the car.” (I usually say things three times before screaming it. It’s a rule in our house.) They’re now out of the car and running into the street. Fucking great. I hope I get hit by a bus. It would feel much better than the migraine that’s starting.

Can anyone out there actually maneuver the “Race Car” grocery cart? That thing is a bitch, yes? I’m all of 5’2” and I don’t have the body strength to turn corners with that beast. So, I usually have to argue with my kids so I can get the regular cart. But of course the one I pick is the Nascar cart. You know…the one that keeps trying to turn left the entire time?

I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but cashiers have a PhD in child rearing. True story. I’ve gotten more advice from the bitch sliding my kraft American cheese slices across the scanner than I have from Dr. Sears and Supernanny combined. “Wow, really Ms. Cashier lady? I should put them in time out? You’re a fucking genius. Now go clean up the 14 push-up pops that my kids just spilled onto the floor and make my $20 cash back all in ones; hubs and I have date night at the strip club.”

After I’ve grown 19 grey hairs and I’m about to pee my pants because I haven’t gone all day, I hear this…

Older son to little brother: Omg. What’s that smell? Did you fart?

Younger son (hollars out to the entire store with his hands up): Sorry everyone! That was my big fart for the day.

And then I pee my pants. Someone shoot me.

Bag Boy: Do you need help to your car?

Me: You bet. I’ll ride on your shoulders while you steer.

Bag Boy: What?

Me: Did I stutter?

Kids in the car, pull in the driveway and scream 982 times for the kids to stop playing with the sunroof and get out of the car. “Get in the house! I’ve got cheese to put away!”

And then…

Hubs: What took you so long?

Me: (throws the grocery bag with cans at his head)

Hubs: What the what? What did I do?

Me: Got me pregnant. Twice.

When I want to go by myself, this usually happens…

Wife: Honey, what time will you be home tonight? Gotta run to the store and I'm not taking the monsters.
Husband: 'bout 5:30.
Wife: Which time zone?
Husband: Ours. Smartass.
Wife: a.m or p.m?
Husband: (click).

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Being married to me is no fucking picnic. Neither is taking kids to the grocery store.

Monday, June 6, 2011

What the Fluff?

Conversation with my seven year old…

“Sweet mother of mine, I would be ever so grateful if you took the time this evening to bake up some delicious cookies. Would that be an inconvenience for you?” “Oh, my darling sweet child that I birthed from my loins, I would love nothing more than to bake you the best cookies in the world!”

But what really happened…

“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM, MOOOOOM!” “What in tar nation are you screaming at me for?” “Will you make brownies?” “I ain’t got no brownie shit, but I’ve got a pack of cookie mix. Is that cool?” “Yeah, that’s cool. You rock woman.” “Word.”

Shit you’re gonna need:
One of those Betty Crocker packs of peanut butter cookie mix (And don’t you sit on your couch reading this judging me for using a prepackaged mix. Sandra Lee has made millions from that shit, so get off your soap box.)

The stuff you need for the cookies; egg, water and oil

½ to ¾ of a cup of semi-sweet mini chocolate chip morsels (You really don’t even need to put these in. My kids just happen to think if you put chocolate chips in something, that Jesus for sure made it and they have to eat it. No CLUE where they get their drama from.)

Fluff (See picture below. It’s the stuff you make a Fluffer Nutter sandwich with. Never made one? Go back to 1974 and ask your mom. That shit never goes bad and you don’t need to put it in the fridge. It’s a win win people.)

Other shit you’ll need:

A Ziploc baggie

Shit you’re gonna do:

Preheat your oven to 350 and cover a baking sheet with aluminum foil and spray that bitch down with some Kitchen KY. Nope, didn’t use a silpat. Nope, didn’t use a baking stone and nope, don’t plan to. Ever.

Mix together your cookie mix with the ingredients that it tells you to use. Stir it up and then if you’ve got the balls to put the chocolate in, this would be the time my friend. Stir it all together and roll up palm size balls, then flatten them a little and then put them on the sheet about an inch apart. I fit eight flattened balls on the pan. I live in a house full of boys. I don’t stress myself with more balls than I can handle.

Now, here comes the fluff. Scoop about ¼ cup of fluff into the bottom corner of your Ziploc bag. Don’t go get a measuring cup you brown noser, just use about two big spoonfuls and you should be fine. Once it’s in, snip off a tiny bit in the corner of the bag. Not too big; this shit is runny and you want control over this crème, not that controlling the amount of crème and when it comes out is all up to you, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t end up with a handful of it. (bah!)

After you’ve got control over your fluff, squeeze a little squiggly line on each cookie and then bake for about nine minutes. And yes dumb ass, I know they’re not going to look like they’re done. They’re not. There’s enough sugar in one of those little shits that will continue to bake long after you take them out of the oven. I suggest you leave them on the cookie sheet for about five minutes before transferring them to a cooling rack. Yes, I have a cooling rack. I have just about everything that Pampered Chef has ever made. I’m not saying I use it all, because that’s damn near impossible and would be WAY too many things to pull out and use and then have the hubs wash, so it’s best to use a little bit here and there.

Back to the cookies. I highly encourage you to eat these warm. If you haven’t shoveled these into your face ten minutes after they’ve baked and you actually have leftovers, you should heat them up in the good ‘ol micro to get back that warm feeling in your mouth. Yep. Went there again.

Before cooking...
(insert picture of me shoveling these into my pie hole.)