Thursday, August 16, 2012

Fried Food, Dr Pepper and Walmart.

On Tuesday I attempted Walmart (and a haircut at Walmart for B) with both boys. By myself. I'm not even sure why I thought this was a good idea, since we had to wait for about 30 minutes for B's haircut. And that was BEFORE we shopped for groceries. It was pretty likely that an implosion of some sort was imminent during our trip at that point. I still thought the trip was doable though, so after the haircut (to which Brayden was SUPER picky to the lady and told her how to gel his hair... oh my!) we loaded in the buggy. Well, actually, Connor loaded in the buggy and Brayden "needed" to walk. I obliged my 3 year old, because really, what good mom doesn't let their 3 year old walk alongside the buggy? Problem is... my 3 year old squirrels easily at Walmart (or any other retail outlet). I can't blame him. It's in his genetics, as I and his Gigi both suffer from the disorder. What is squirreling, you ask? Well, it goes something like this:

You'll be minding your own business trying to get in and get out, but out of the corner of your eye you spot something shiny and cute and -BAM- squirrel! You're there at the new object, completely off track of what you should be getting. That is so my son. He sees cute cups, plates, forks, spoons, t-shirts, pictures of babies with spaghetti on their heads (thank you Nuby for that fun conversation as to why WE don't actually put spaghetti on OUR heads)... he sees all of that and reason flies out of his cute little 3 year old head and he runs to what he sees. The first time I understand. But there are only so many squirrel moments that I can handle without losing my mind.

Anyways. See there I was. Squirreling on the story. Back to Walmart with my 2 children.

Brayden wouldn't stay near the buggy and kept trying to show me his mad running skills. I'll admit, the boy can run. Problem is, Walmart is not the best place to test your 40 speed. So in the buggy he goes. At this point I'm getting my feathers ruffled because (a)Drew couldn't answer his phone, meaning I didn't know how big of a sub to get for our little luncheon (b) Connor is screaming his ever loving lungs out because, God help him, he's stuck in the blasted buggy and (c) Brayden is pissed because he can't show off his 40 speed in the dairy aisle, and therefore starts throwing buggy cargo (read: bread, tortillas and pringles cans) overboard. Add to the fact that the lady in the deli section doesn't really understand what I want and keeps giving me the blank smile stare (you know the one where you smile and nod politely but you know that the other party has no idea what the heck you're saying... yeah, that one). I finally calm the boys down enough to explain politely to the deli lady that I don't want a deli TRAY but a party SUB. Get that order in the books and march down the aisle.

At this point I'm glad the store doesn't sell alcohol, because chances are, I would have stocked up on vodka in large quantities. My next best thing is Dr Pepper, and without looking at the price tag (in fear that my frugal self will return the you-must-sell-your-arm-to-pay-for-this soda to the shelf) I snagged a 12 pack. Almost to the front of the store the boys start wailing again. For reasons I don't quite remember honestly. And that's when my stress level hit up to the "must have fried food" notch. If you're Southern, you'll know what I mean when I say that there's something about fried food that soothes your soul (but not so much your heartburn). We made it back to the deli and ordered a helping of fried chicken bites and fried okra. I kind of wanted to rip the okra container open and guzzle all 16 ounces right there, but I refrained and chose to instead eat 2 pieces at a time. The chicken made the wailing subside and we finished the trip in relative peace.

Walking out of the store I finally realized that the amount of fried food and Dr Pepper that makes it home with me is a direct correlation to how stressful my shopping trip has been. I'd say judging on this week's trip, it was a heck of an experience. To say the least.

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