Now the kids do the grocery shopping for me, not with me. Time flies….
“You have to come do groceries with me,” I bellowed up the stairs. Silence. “I know you’re up there, you’re the only one home,” I continued.
“Fine….” Ari, 13 came trudging down, realizing that resistance was futile. I hate grocery shopping, and demand that someone comes to help share the misery. The Poor Sod likes shopping, so the boys are usually spared the pain.
I made Ari carry in the canvas bags I so responsibly bought, and usually leave in the van. Or, more usually, in the house. Entering our No Frills, we were greeted by the Wall of Chocolate Things begging me to be festive. Ari’s eyes lit up like a carnival, and I hauled him away to the produce section telling him if he ate that much chocolate crap he’d be sorry. You’d think by this age they’d be able to guess what kind of morning follows a chocolate covered evening.
“Hey! The baby oranges are in!” he exclaimed. He plunked a carton of them into the cart, and declared that these ones were “his”. I nodded, knowing that if he found a single pit in one of them, the whole case would become “Mom’s”, because mothers eat the broken crackers, the brown bananas and cheese that’s curling a little on the edges.
I hadn’t taken either of the boys grocery shopping in a while. It was interesting to be told that we needed jujubes, because we were out. Like bread and milk and eggs, you can apparently be “out” of jujubes. You can also be out of pepperoni sticks, ice cream, and a multitude of cheese-based items that, eerily, don’t require refrigeration.
“Do I like eggnog?” asked Ari, staring at yet another holiday display of angina-triggers.
“I don’t know. Your grandpa used to love it, and I always bought him the first carton of the year,” I told him, as my eyes misted.
“What’s it taste like?”
“It’s pretty disgusting,” I admitted, as the moment passed. He put it in the cart, not realizing I’d abandoned my reverse psychology in aisle 4.
Later at home, I came upon Ari and his brother Christopher, 16, staring at a glass of eggnog. Turns out Christopher loves the stuff, and was daring Ari to try it. Ari took a tentative sip, grimaced and handed the glass to his brother.
“Ew. That’s gross. Now I know why Aunt Rozzy calls it egg snog,” he said. “I’m gonna eat my oranges. How many can I have?” he asked as he plundered the crate.
“Six. Stop at six, you can have more tomorrow,” I replied. “If you think an overdose of chocolate is bad, you don’t want to know what those innocent little clementines can do to you.”
The next morning as I was putting lunches together, I reached for some of those innocent little clementines to put in Ari’s lunch. He stopped me.
“No, no more,” he groaned. I looked at him. The season has just started and we usually go through a couple of cases a week until they disappear in January.
“What do you mean no more? You love these!” I looked closer at him. I’d seen a pile of peelings on the coffee table the night before, but it was hard to tell how many there were, and I hadn’t dusted them for prints.
“How many did you have?” I demanded.
“Fifteen,” he admitted with a sigh.
I might as well have bought the chocolate.
Fifteen … I laughed so hard it brought tears to my eyes , thank you .
I remember that one. Those go the same way at my house but my boys usually stop around 4. I can’t begin to imagine what 15 would do to your stomach.
Ah the joy of grocery shopping with walking fridges, AKA teenaged boys. Always an adventure as they are basically walking stomachs and the hormonal fluctuations make them pretty, um how do I say this nicely…..stupid. Forturnately my just-turned-17 year old is starting to show some semblance of getting back to normal, but the peels from 15 oranges sitting on the coffee table sounds just like my home. I was making dinner the other night when he arrived home. I noticed he had left dirty dishes out and asked him to put them in the dishwasher. I then turned my back to him to continue making dinner. Oh I forgot to mention the TV was on, which apparently adds a whole new challenge in trying to get dishes into the dishwasher. As my back was turned, I assumed he picked up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I did not realize that travelling the five feet required could be such a challenge. When I turned around, there he was, exiting the room and the dishes had gone from the island to the counter top. Okay, half a point for making it to the counter top that is over the dishwasher. I called him to come back and get them in the dishwasher. He looked completely surprised at the sight of his dishes sitting on the counter top, like alien forces unknown to mankind had moved them there from the island. He went to grab them, then he stopped to watch something on the TV. Everything went into slow motion after that. It was actually quite fascinating to watch, kind of like the Six Million Dollar Man when they would show him doing something in slow motion and use that funny springy special effects sound. I think around a full minute later the door to the dishwasher actually openned and the mess was deposited inside. He then left the room, leaving the dishwasher door open. And they wonder why I keep after them?????????
I hate to admit this but as the proud owner of my first real dishwasher, (hubby used to do all the dishes) he’s been rendered totally incapable of loading or unloading the thing. Maybe it’s chromosonal?
Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!!! Being a registered member of the heterogametic sex, and the proud owner of two distinct chromosomes, I take exception to that comment.
So does my dog (pictured above) who, incidentally is one of you single chromosome bearers. My dishwasher is run with military precision. Little forks, big forks, little spoons, big spoons, and knives all have their individual receptacles. The sixth one gets used by the dog for her toys (although she always pretends to put them in there to get them clean but we catch her climbing right in and licking everything clean… well… her version of clean, anyway.) I am always the one moving everything from the sink and counter into the dishwasher.
Chromosonal my bootyliscious patootie.
yeah but, you’re not the garden variety of normal dudes. You know how to keep a poinsettia alive (just got my new one and remembered the CB tips from last year). Now if only there was a tip to keep the new cat away from the damn thing. I checked and they have to eat a large quantity to get sick. He already eats carpet fuzz, dust, wallpaper as well as whatever is lying around in our post renovation world.
p.s. I don’t nag. useless tool. nagging, not you CB.
I am sure my kids would say you don’t nag him enough like their mother does.
My Irish Father wouldn’t buy a dish washer because he said he was raising 3 of them .