Recommended wine for today’s entry: 7 Daughters white blend. As it says on Sable Minded, a blog that actually has a real readership: “The Seven Daughters white blend contains French Colombard, Chardonnay, Riesling, Symphony, Orange Muscat, Gewurztraminer and Sauvignon Blanc. As if that list doesn’t heighten the senses, the wine itself is refreshing and certainly not bashful when it comes to flavor.” (See http://simplysable.blogspot.com/2009/02/7-daughters-one-juicy-blend.html if you don’t believe me.) Although I only have 2 daughters, at times they feel like 7 …
My older daughter Samantha, recently finished her freshman year in college and has been home, watching Jon & Kate Plus Eight marathons, for three weeks. A job, you ask? Now there’s a novel idea. No, her summer plan is just to hang out with mommy. Every morning — no, every noon, she texts me from her bed. “What are we doing today?” And every day I text her back, “Get your lazy butt out of bed if you want to go the grocery.”
Sam has loved the grocery since she was a small child. She used to tell everyone that when she grew up she wanted to be a scanner person at the store. She even named her grandparents’ cat Grocery Store. Well, today I’m going to tell you why I haven’t been inside one particular Kroger in the past 15 years…
One day, when Sam was 3 and her sister, whose name I’ll change because … well, you’ll see later why … anyway, Megan was about 8 months old. We were running errands near the Nice Kroger. The one in the high-end ZIP code, where all the women stop on their way home from tennis, all cute togs and suntans and the kids home with the nannies.
I was feeling good that day, wearing makeup and clean clothes and all. The baby was napping and her nose was clean. She was asleep, so I loaded her car seat into the shopping cart and everything was fine until I got to the farthest aisle in the store, where, just as I took a giant whiff of a melon, I instead got a noseful of … you guessed it, poop. At which point, Samantha began screaming, “YUCK, MEGAN ROSEN, YOU POOPED! YOU POOPED IN THE STORE! THE NICE KROGER!” Dumbfounded, I hissed, “Shut up, Sam — and why’d you have to say our last name?” And then the baby began wailing and I dropped the melon and the group of us hurtled toward the door.
On the way, the movement of the cart relaxed the baby a bit and she quieted just in time for Sam to announce, louder than the poop alert, “LOOK MOMMY, THERE’S YOUR BEER! MILLER LIGHT!”
The good news is, she was right. She may be loud, but she knew her stuff and I couldn’t help but be proud. She stormed over to about a thousand twelve-packs in one of those pyramid displays that little elves must erect in the middle of the night, because I’ve never seen one under construction. It was a beaut, too, with an inflatable palm tree perched proudly at the apex. A beaut until Sam went and pulled one of the boxes from the lower tier and, as I watched, a huge chunk of beer pyramid tumbled noisily, twelve-packs scattering along the linoleum floor. I’ve never appreciated aluminum more.
But Sam wasn’t done. She immediately put her little hands on the hips of her Oshkosh overalls, flipped her little pigtails, stomped her foot, threw her chin to the air in exasperation and bellowed, “WELL, F#*K ME!”
So if you run into Sam in the next few months (actually, you won’t run into her unless you’re laying on our sofa), but if you do, ask her about the Nice Kroger.