There goes my social life

Received some goodies in the post today; a gorgeous range of clothing from Verily and my saute pan from Chef’s Toolbox, which I ordered only days ago and wasn’t expecting till sometime next week before I had a tantrum and it arrive 6-8 weeks later.

That was my moment of excitement for the entire day. I stupidly decided I would utilise the new saute pan and wrote a list of ingredients I would need to prepare some stove top pizzas for dinner, given it was Friday night, I usually do home  made pizzas on a Friday night and have zero to no imagination to think of anything else to cook, despite, or because of, my insatiable desire to watch Masterchef.

(It’s like a train wreck – you know it’s bad, but you just gotta look!)

I am also stuck with that horrible dilemma of stuffing in as much work as possible whilst I am childless and taking them shopping, or going shopping on the way to school pickup.

*sigh* I hate the hard decisions.

As it was, I got caught up on a very important phone call and, thus, avoided the walk-to-school-then-supermarket scenario.

Monkey Boy demanded we drop him and brother at home before heading to supermarket, which, tempting as it was, his most recent treatment of said brother was beyond obnoxious and I wanted the house standing when I arrived home. And, going home was out of the way. Clearly, my thought processes at this time were not sufficient, nor to his liking, as he retreived my phone, rang his father (if mummy says ‘no’, ring daddy) and asked if he could go home.

Grumpy Pants, as I had explained to him several times already, was at work. Grumpy confirmed this by not answering his phone. Monkey Boy left pointed message.

Off the supermarket we head, where, just as I park and put the handbrake on, my phone goes off, Monkey Boy answers and says “Cool! We just parked, but I’ll get mum to take us home!”

Um, I don’t think so.

In we go, retrieve one of those small trolleys, like a half trolley (not the kids ones) put my $1 in to release it from it’s bindinsgs, Monkey Boy decides Chippie wants to sit in it, picks him up, rolls him in, and, subsequently, Chippie smacks his face on side of trolley. Chippie then screams. Not, however, due to face-smackage, but because he doesn’t want to be in (hmmm, I’m sure I said that just before he was dumped in), Monkey Boy stands on front of trolley and is demanded to get off, Chippie throws himself at me as I’m trying to push overladen with 9year old trolley one handed and runs off.

Request Monkey Boy and/or Godzilla go and retrieve Chippie, which they both do by yelling “CHIPPIE!” as loud as boy-ily possible. Which, for those of you who have boys, will know is something akin to the breaking of the speed of sound. This causes everyone in the first 33 isles to turn in our direction and glare at me! OMG! They were judging me!

Godzilla helps himself to handfuls of various foods available for testing – well, they did say “would you like to try”. “Try” is a relative term. For some “try” or “taste” is dipping your finger in, or taking 1/4 of a teaspoonful. For a 7 year old boy, it is grabbing every avaialble cracker with cheese on it that happens to be on the presentation plate at the time, handing one to your baby brother and screeaching loudly at your older brother when he asks politely for a “try”.

He then embarks on a mission to locate the product he has just tested. This mission is significantly different from mine, which entails getting the few ingredients we need for this evening’s meal and getting the hell out without any more yelling, crying, swearing or robbing the liquor shop of their entire vodka stocks in some crazed, mother-of-three-boys-at-supermarket-need-vodka manner.

Monkey Boy requests we go home via the video store, whereby he is informed “Oh, of course. Your behaviour thus far has been just impeccable and I can think of nothing better to do with you than treat you to your selection of videos,” and causing a woman, also kid laden, to snigger into her handbag.

Chippie feels it is his duty to push the trolley (into any other customer within 3 isles range) without help. Getting the spinach prooves to be highly disasterous, yet doable.

Mission accomplished, save the 17 items I’m fairly convinced are not on my list (of five items) plus milk and that I did not place in the trolley.

Loading up the car whilst Monkey Boy climbs the trolley rack thing and complete with woman, loading up the car the other side of the trolley bay, in ranting at our kids and their behaviour at said supermarket, and upping the ante on threats delivered. Nothing like some good support from other mothers. And good ideas.

She had a much younger child, a baby seemingly only months old. I felt for her, and could only do my duty for her.

“Do you have wine at home?” I ask her, ready to race down to the bottle shop on her behalf and buy up all the gin.

She assurred me she was fine in that department, checked I was ok and we set off.

Arrive home, where Grumpy Pants was waiting, beer in hand and serene look on his face.

“Pour me wine! NOW!” I greet him lovingly.

I’m so lucky to have such a loving husband. He knows me so well. At least, I think that’s what it was. It could just have easily have been for self-preservation purposes that he refused to pour me a wine, but whipped up a gin and tonic for me instead.

In the good crystal glass, with a lemon slice and ice cubes.

Sharp knives in one hand (which you don’t really need for stove top pizza, but I just don’t feel as though I’ve cooked properly unless I’ve held one) and G&T in the other, I set about coooking and contemplated this “shopping with kids” debacle.

Sure, I could do my grocery shop online, but can’t help feel I’d be losing a significant proportion of my social life if I did that.

I mean, who else can I verbally vomit all over, but the chick at the supermarket checkout! I have to talk to someone adult.