Last night when I went to pick up a pizza for dinner ( at this great new brick oven place down the road), I saw that they had not even put my order in and I called two hours ahead of time. My ticket was still on the counter, waiting to be placed in the kitchen.
So I went to the grocery store to kill time.
I had forgotten all about Valentine's Day, not that I put much stock into it. But I at least get my kids a pack of sweethearts or something. If the Professor is lucky I get him a card. We're not entirely cheesy romantic.
When entering a store, I never take myself seriously enough. I never grab a cart, I hardly ever grab a basket (tote). By the end of my visit my arms are (literally) ridiculously full and people are looking at me strange.
"You got a lot there," some guy would say.
"Yeah, I am an idiot."
Every time I do it I tell myself I will not do it again, but I always do. I see patterns. I do things the hard way all the time. If there is an easier way to do it, I never choose that route.
So last night I had a large bottle of beer (I had forgotten to put the Prof.'s beer in the fridge), six packs of sweethearts, a pack of candy for the Girl, a Valentine card, two protein bars, a bottle of Caesar dressing, a box of tea, and something else. I just remembered that I had thirteen items and I went into the 12 items or fewer lane and felt guilty for it. My arms were overflowing and I must say I did look quite idiotic.
That reminds me of when I ever do those big grocery shops and I actually do use a cart. When I get home, I try my best to get every single bag in both of my hands. And I mean about ten bags in each hand. I consider it some stupid challenge to get the trunk closed despite this. I also find it a further challenge to get up the porch steps. Often I have to turn sideways to get to the door. Then, not one of the fruits of my womb ever hold the door open. I think they get the idea that I want to be tortured, not helped. In addition, as I am holding twenty bags at one time, I have already made sure that The Oldest (who is nearly 12) is holding the gallon of milk. When he dares whine about that (which is certain to happen) I turn slightly in the cramped porch and say in all my furious glory, "LOOK! I am carrying twenty bags!!!!!!! Deal with it!"
My anger then fuels me just enough to get me to somehow open the door with my foot or nose, or whatever means I have to provide for myself and I put all the groceries in one heap on the floor of the kitchen.
If The Professor is around, he would say, "Make trips! make trips!"
But when he is indeed around, I don't quite go as nuts because he would never allow me to be so moronic. And he helps. And he doesn't cry out that the gallon of milk is draining all of his strength.