A family of savages.
What kind of a person eats a fried chicken breast whilst driving her minivan down 50th? Not a leg, mind you – a breast - which is a greasy two handed affair under the best of circumstances. I can understand breaking into a bag of chips or sneaking a Christmas cookie after a trip to the supermarket, but I actually got out of the car and went to the back, rifled around in the bags until I located the chicken, liberated a piece from its plastic clamshell, and scurried back to the driver’s seat, steam pouring off my chicken breast as it cooled precipitously in our 6 degrees below zero day. I can’t even begin to imagine what the fancy woman parked in the Range Rover next to me thought of my unsavory on the fly fried chicken consumption. I caught eyes with her, a distasteful moue plastered on her face, after my first bite. You know, the bite that leaves you with half the skin hanging down your chin. Mmmmm . . . Of course, the fact that I even bought a four-piece pack of fried chicken at Lunds this morning is proof positive of the fact that I broke the cardinal rule of supermarket shopping: DON’T GO ON AN EMPTY STOMACH OR YOU WILL END UP WITH A CART FULL OF NONSENSE.
I was famished, as I tend to get when I don’t have a chance to eat breakfast in the mad rush to get everyone out the door . . . and when I get this hungry, WATCH OUT! I turn into a salivating, carnivorous She-wolf and there exists no earthly muffin that will do the trick. I need fatty protein and I need it fast. 10:30 a.m. minivan fried chicken was a first for me I’ll admit . . . but see a gray blue Honda Odyssey driving erratically and chances are I’m at the wheel tucking into some variety of a delicious meat sandwich. This felt particularly barbaric, however, and I half expected myself to throw the carcass out the window after I grunted and wiped my greasy mouth with my sleeve. Instead, the tiny ribcage of this unfortunate fowl is sitting in my car garbage, acting as my very own chicken-scented Glade Plug-in Airfreshener every time I crank the heat. I keep checking my rearview mirror to make sure it’s Devil Baby, not Colonel Sanders, strapped into the carseat behind me.
Is it any wonder my children are a tad rough around the edges with a mother like theirs? Why should I be surprised that they stand on their chairs at dinner, proudly announce when they’ve farted or burped, shimmy up the woodwork, moon each other every chance they get, pick their noses, make up songs about diarrhea and generally act like a pack of wild juvenile chimps? Supergirl is especially unruly and it has taken much browbeating to get her to stop trying to pick up food, silverware etc. with her toes. I wonder if my Bonnie Consuelo obsession is something I might have passed on in utero . . . The other day I caught her full on spitting at Saint James. Now I’ll admit spitting is quite a cinematic way to convey extreme disdain and hatred, crueler and more loaded than a good solid slap across the face, but I’m sorry, spitting is non-negotiable. We do not spit in our family. (Unless it’s watermelon seeds and we’re outside and no one else is around). So I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that spitting is rude and gross and unladylike and forbidden – to which she replied, her words laced with fiery vengeance: “Fine! Next time I’ll wipe my butt on his pillow!”