Too busy to blog? Surely I jest!
Normally I count it a busy, active day if I have to get up from the couch three or four times to fetch a cup of water for some member of my brood. I sit, I sit, I sit; I blog; I read all of your blogs and squeeze my wee little brain until it thinks of a comment to leave upon a few of them; I deplore the state of the world; and I sit some more.
Today, alas, involved more activity than I usually squeeze into the average month. Grocery shopping -- both Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, which I still insist on referring to as Bread & Circus, both because that is what it used to be called, back in the days before it was acquired, and because the old name resonates vaguely with Bread & Puppet, which I was never cool enough to attend myself, but felt a bit of secondhand coolness in being able to use it as a cultural reference every time I went to the grocery store. (Could that sentence be any longer or more meandering? Feel free to rewrite it to make it so.)
Anyway. Grocery shopping involving one extremely cranky baby who needed to be carried on her mama's back in both stores, and a grand total of ten grocery bags filled. (Paper, in case Ianqui is wondering. I assume the environmental costs are roughly equal on both side of the paper/plastic equation, but feel free to correct me if I am wrong, as I so often am.)
I sometimes toy with the idea of bringing my own bags to the grocery store, but the thought of shlepping ten canvas bags along with my kids, keys, wallet, kid-carrier devices, extra diapers, wipes, and the kitchen sink makes me tired. And that increases the likelihood that I will continue to put off a trip to the grocery store until there is nothing left to eat in the house except for petrified Cheerios left under the couch by the baby on her travels. And then where would we be when the apocalypse-of-the-month hits? (Hat tip to Scrivener for the link. Feel free to suggest a more entertaining apocalypse for the upcoming month, however.)
Luckily, since I did indeed make it to the grocery store, we are now equipped to survive an apocalypse lasting for one week. That is, if everyone in my family agrees that dry (non-petrified) Cheerios make an excellent foundation for the post-apocalypse nutritional pyramid. Look, kids, vitamin fortified! And we have six boxes of it! (Feel free to tell me what you think might be a better foodstuff for the apocalypse.)
After the grocery shopping, the desultory attempt to put groceries away. Half successful: perishables are indeed in the refrigerator. Everything else is still sitting on a countertop, where I expect to find it all in the morning, glaring at me banefully. Then the even more desultory attempt to eat lunch, which was interrupted by the suddenly wakeful baby, and the pressing need to retrieve LG from his day camp. (Feel free to inform me that my penchant for words like "desultory" is an extremely irritating tic that threatens to overshadow all the meaningful profundity of my writing.)
After the day camp retrieval, the getting of the allergy shots. A lovely time was had by all. (Feel free to applaud vigorously for the getting of the allergy shots.)
After the allergy shots, the return home -- briefly -- with just enough time to seriously consider leaving LG in his room for the rest of his minority. There is a long story there involving vanilla pudding, but I'll save it for tomorrow, when perhaps I'll be short on material. Because, you know, disjointed ramblings about my grocery shopping does NOT COUNT as being short on material. (Feel free to tell me a story of your own involving vanilla pudding, just to pass the time until tomorrow.)
After the return home, a playgroup reunion in the gracious backyard of a playgroup member, involving inflatable kiddie pools, sprinklers, lemonade, beer, and all the grass clippings you could eat. I had forgotten that interacting with actual real live people can be almost as much fun as with pixies. (Feel free to disabuse me of that notion.)
After the banquet of grass clippings, home for a bath, dinner, and some more fascinating debate on the subject of vanilla pudding. (I've got nothing here. Just feel free.)
After the above, the unceremonious kicking of all family members out of the house so that I could eat half a box of Joe's Joes and discharge my manic Monday in peace. (I feel free to be you and me, and yourself?)
Today, alas, involved more activity than I usually squeeze into the average month. Grocery shopping -- both Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, which I still insist on referring to as Bread & Circus, both because that is what it used to be called, back in the days before it was acquired, and because the old name resonates vaguely with Bread & Puppet, which I was never cool enough to attend myself, but felt a bit of secondhand coolness in being able to use it as a cultural reference every time I went to the grocery store. (Could that sentence be any longer or more meandering? Feel free to rewrite it to make it so.)
Anyway. Grocery shopping involving one extremely cranky baby who needed to be carried on her mama's back in both stores, and a grand total of ten grocery bags filled. (Paper, in case Ianqui is wondering. I assume the environmental costs are roughly equal on both side of the paper/plastic equation, but feel free to correct me if I am wrong, as I so often am.)
I sometimes toy with the idea of bringing my own bags to the grocery store, but the thought of shlepping ten canvas bags along with my kids, keys, wallet, kid-carrier devices, extra diapers, wipes, and the kitchen sink makes me tired. And that increases the likelihood that I will continue to put off a trip to the grocery store until there is nothing left to eat in the house except for petrified Cheerios left under the couch by the baby on her travels. And then where would we be when the apocalypse-of-the-month hits? (Hat tip to Scrivener for the link. Feel free to suggest a more entertaining apocalypse for the upcoming month, however.)
Luckily, since I did indeed make it to the grocery store, we are now equipped to survive an apocalypse lasting for one week. That is, if everyone in my family agrees that dry (non-petrified) Cheerios make an excellent foundation for the post-apocalypse nutritional pyramid. Look, kids, vitamin fortified! And we have six boxes of it! (Feel free to tell me what you think might be a better foodstuff for the apocalypse.)
After the grocery shopping, the desultory attempt to put groceries away. Half successful: perishables are indeed in the refrigerator. Everything else is still sitting on a countertop, where I expect to find it all in the morning, glaring at me banefully. Then the even more desultory attempt to eat lunch, which was interrupted by the suddenly wakeful baby, and the pressing need to retrieve LG from his day camp. (Feel free to inform me that my penchant for words like "desultory" is an extremely irritating tic that threatens to overshadow all the meaningful profundity of my writing.)
After the day camp retrieval, the getting of the allergy shots. A lovely time was had by all. (Feel free to applaud vigorously for the getting of the allergy shots.)
After the allergy shots, the return home -- briefly -- with just enough time to seriously consider leaving LG in his room for the rest of his minority. There is a long story there involving vanilla pudding, but I'll save it for tomorrow, when perhaps I'll be short on material. Because, you know, disjointed ramblings about my grocery shopping does NOT COUNT as being short on material. (Feel free to tell me a story of your own involving vanilla pudding, just to pass the time until tomorrow.)
After the return home, a playgroup reunion in the gracious backyard of a playgroup member, involving inflatable kiddie pools, sprinklers, lemonade, beer, and all the grass clippings you could eat. I had forgotten that interacting with actual real live people can be almost as much fun as with pixies. (Feel free to disabuse me of that notion.)
After the banquet of grass clippings, home for a bath, dinner, and some more fascinating debate on the subject of vanilla pudding. (I've got nothing here. Just feel free.)
After the above, the unceremonious kicking of all family members out of the house so that I could eat half a box of Joe's Joes and discharge my manic Monday in peace. (I feel free to be you and me, and yourself?)
posted by Phantom Scribbler at 8:22 PM 
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