I find this a bit troubling:
Early last night (after a week at a Texan-driven pace), I was cooked, and so I lay down on the couch before addressing dinner. And I might have been a bit whiny. And pathetic.
“I’m tiiiiirred. And there isn’t any blankey on this couch. And my teacup is empty. And there’s still so much to dooooo, and I’m tiiiiired. And I can’t go grocery shopping until I shower, and I’m too whiny to shower.”
Isn’t that attractive? Foolish children, instead of shunning me as they should, they find it really amusing when I’m like this. They humor me. They almost encourage my bad behavior.
Matt offered to write the grocery list, and this is what my eleven year old came up with. Blogosphere, reading this list, wouldn’t one come to the conclusion that Matt is living in a home much like the one featured in Angela’s Ashes? Seriously, doesn’t this list seem to suggest that the boy’s mother regularly gets her drink on? But here’s the thing: I don’t even know what “Captain Morgan Limb Bite” is. It sounds like something Hannibal Lector would enjoy, and so I have to assume Matt has spelled the name incorrectly. Great, now I’m the alcoholic mother of a misguidedly thoughtful kid who can’t even spell.
38% of my son’s grocery list is alcohol. Why? People, I might have a couple of drinks a week, tops.
But you know what else? This isn’t even good alcohol, and that worries me. Mike’s Hard Lemonade? Really? Miller Lite? Coors Lite? Does the boy think his mother is attending a NASCAR event at Talladega? Has he met me? The only alcoholic beverages the child has ever seen me consume are red wine, hard cider, and witbier. Why? Because I’m a beverage snob, and the highbrow or European connotations of these drinks makes me feel superior. He should know this.
Geez kid. If you’re going to imply that your mother is an alcoholic, at least get it right.
And I never buy frozen pizzas.