The other night I hung out with a friend and her daughter, and then decided to go to the liquor store for some libations for Asher's birthday party. He was turning 3 on Saturday, and I REALLY didn't want to have to go to the liquor store in the morning. Judge as ye may.
Anyway, both kids in the back seat, we go RIGHT PAST THE LIQUOR STORE ON THE WAY HOME. I mean, it's practically a no-brainer, right?
Got the kids out of the car, and Asher starts asking if he is going to get a snack where we are going. I tell him this is a store for mommy, and he starts singing, "This is just for mommy. This is just for mommy."
I imagine him 35 years from now, sitting on various therapists' couches, telling them all about his Joan Crawford mother who drank from 4 PM on and never got out of her bathrobe.
Consequently, his only aspiration in life is to be the Holden Caufield of the 2030's. And, also, women won't touch him with a 10 foot pole, which is why I have no grandchildren and he puts kitten puzzles together as a hobby. His mother beat him with hangers and made him eat tacks, after all.
He wears a wife beater to bed, and also uses them as seat covers in his 1994 canary yellow Camaro.
Ah, where was I?
So, anyway, after explaining to my 3 year old that, "Yes, honey, we are going to the liquor store together," I saunter in like I own the place. Dirty looks from three different men, or maybe they are just checking me out, stains on my shirt and all.
Lucy starts touching each individual bottle, telling me the ones with the "pretty pictures" are the ones I should get. I am particularly interested in a really cheap pinot grigio when I spy Asher, wrestling with a 4-pack of Kahlua on the 2nd shelf.
"This is for KIDS!" he shouts triumphantly, lured in by bright yellows and reds. I scuttle on over, admonishing him in a not-very-nice voice that that is for mommy, too.
Another dirty look from a man who looks like he's spent one too many evenings with a woman named Betty Lou.
So, up to the front desk, where the woman keeps repeating something that rhymes with "cop" and rummaging around behind the counter for somethingi that's apparently out of sight.. I start to sweat a little bit underneath my bra and wonder if maybe it is ILLEGAL to bring children into a liquor store. I finally realize she is saying "lollipop", and instead of a gun she produces two lint-covered Dum-Dums.
The children cheer.
I pay for my sins ($20 for 3 bottles, definite sign of high class), and scuttle out the door.
After that, we go to the RedBox, where I rent "District 9" and Asher tells me the whole way home, "This isn't for kids, mom. This is bad. This is bad. This isn't for kids."