Last night, noting that we were going Code Red on our wine supply, I decided that this morning I would load up the kids and go wine shopping. (I like to keep both wine racks full--that means 18 bottles, minimum, plus the wine fridge, which is another 9, with a few spares in the closet. I mean, seriously, you never know when you're going to have a REALLY BAD DAY or that the country will undergo hostile takeover and I won't be able to get to Total Wine. Would YOU really want to be stuck in that position? I think not. And if you are uncertain about that, borrow my kids for a few days and get back to me.)
Yes, you heard me correctly. I am, indeed, glutton for punishment. You know how back in the day those Catholics dudes or monks or whatever would practice self-flagellation to atone for their sins? Well, just think of this as my own (accidental) atonement--I drink wine, therefore I must shop for wine. Except my children are WAY more painful than being beaten with a metal-studded leather strap.
By the time we made it home an hour and a half after we left, I had the remains of a strawberry lollipop stuck in my hair, had listened to Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" and Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies" over eleven times each due to the kids' mad DJ abilities, was sporting two new bruises and a small cut on my thigh from being mauled with a shopping cart, had had my arm peed upon from the bicep down by my son while I helped him use the bathroom, had sticky apple juice residue between my breasts (also thanks to my son, who leaned over me to get something and tipped his cup down my shirt), and was ten bottles of wine, a cantaloupe, and a tin of chocolate cat-shaped cookies richer. Dear. God.
Next time we'll just hit the ABC store and go straight for the hard stuff.