It's 11 p.m. and I don't know where the spaghetti is. We must be the only house in the neighborhood without a box of bow ties or elbows. It was a cheese sandwich dinner tonight.
We have lots of condiments and cans. I am right now going to put one of those cans into my daughter's lunch box. A 600 calorie can of Ravioli-os. I must stop shopping like a boa constructor, planning on one meal a month. Actually, I can stand the grocery store only about one time a month and we're at the end of the cycle.
Every trip to the grocery store is like a hostage crises when I take my daughter, and I always take her. I offer to buy her one thing of choice. She wants 10. Apparently, we've been feeding a classroom's worth of kids. Chloe likes the pickles and she promised Lexie the rice crispie treat.
"You taught me to keep promises, mommy."
I say choose between cheddar and provolone, she says both. The we're off to choose whatever else we subsist on. Smartly, I tell her the snack aisle is being besieged by lightning, as it's been for the past year. She's scared of lightning so has developed a fondness for the snacks in the fruit and veggie section. Her favorite: Freeze dried fruit at $20 an ounce. It's healthy mommy, she says. I supplement the option with baby carrots. The chips are cheap. I go for the healthy for her and will eat the chips for my lunch, in the garage, where she can't see me. I hide it next to the warm soda. To her generation, soda is what cigarettes was to mine. Thankfully, the smell of soda doesn't olfactorily pollute my hair.
I am bummed I am out of pasta. This means the Sunday trip to Publix is a must.
Hire me if you plan a trek to the North Pole. I've just about got grocery shopping down to a science. I'm just one box of pasta short.