Tag Archives: Starbucks

Hubs and Grubs

1 Feb


Have you noticed how difficult it is making your way through the grocery store to pick up a few overpriced necessities lately? Packs of preoccupied people (say that fast five times) obstruct the aisles – – and all of them are busy chatting, texting or squinting away on their cell phones. Enough already!

Put the phone down!

Not only is efficiency lost, but there is gridlock in the frozen food section, tailgating in the produce section and fender benders in the cereal aisle. Head-on collisions occur. Chain reaction crashes involving multiple shoppers result in cart loads of injuries. Hit and Runs abound.

“Clean Up on Aisle Four!” used to refer to a split sack of flour or a dropped jar of pickles – now it’s a call for EMTs and body bags.

Road rage in the health food aisle is also a big problem. I note that strict vegans are especially cranky, but my thinking may be dull from the fat and sugar in the Starbucks super sized blueberry lemon cream muffins I reward myself with more or less on a regular basis  (I call it m-o-t-i-v-a-t-i-o-n!)

Perhaps it’s time to station traffic cops in the local Safeway. (After all, it is called “Safe” way…) They can keep it moving, hand out warnings, issue tickets to repeat offenders, and if necessary, confiscate those smart phones from not so smart cookies.

Exemptions can be made for befuddled husbands struggling to comply with grocery lists meticulously composed by their wives.  They will be permitted three emergency phone calls per trip unless they exhibit a sore lack of diligence or gross gender subordination such as – “Screw it honey! There’s no friggin’ difference between Diet Swiss Miss Cocoa and No Sugar Swiss Miss Calcium – they both make you FAT.”)  Oh, boy…

Welcome Home Dear!

Tolerance and compassion will not be demonstrated for such right brain challenged dolts.  No “Express Check-Out” privileges for you, sonny.


Top Mom: Flight Log of a Helicopter Parent

1 Nov

6:00 a.m.     Strength train for endurance.  Focus on flabby upper body muscles.  Remind self that helicopter parenting is an ultra marathon, not a cakewalk for wimps.

6:30 a.m.     Fuel up at Starbuck’s on a tall quadruple Espresso Roast, Komodo Dragon Blend – no milk, no sugar, no cup.


7:00 a.m.     Drill preadolescent kids with calculus and chemistry flashcards over Omega-3 rich, low-fructose breakfasts. Remind them: “Bone up, those AP courses are right around the corner.”

7:30 a.m.     Drop off sweet, attention-challenged male child and intense, snarky female child at middle school with detailed instructions for the entire day.

8:00 a.m.     Check female child’s “MySpace” page. Enter grandiose compliments anonymously to improve her body image and boost core self-esteem.

8:30 a.m.     Install filter on male child’s laptop so those “naughty thong girls acting wild and wet” web sites don’t inexplicably pop up again on his favorites list.

9:01 a.m.     Answer call from whining school principal upset with male child’s “inappropriate” lunchtime behavior. Listen politely, threaten multiple lawsuits and 911 calls to the ACLU and Huff Post. (Make note to confiscate said child’s pocket video camera.)

Smile honey!

9:30 a.m.     Crank up on personal stash of putrid herbal energy supplements since hovering requires continuous, active corrections from the pilot.

Wow! Better than a Polaroid!

10:00 a.m.    Call male child’s cell phone.  Leave firm message that “trying to appreciate the female gender” does not include filming the morbidly obese school librarian straining in the teachers’ lounge, then posting it on “You Tube.”

Golf is in your future

Geez, what will Harvard think?

10:30 a.m.    Drop by schoolyard at snack time and nudge female child, thus aggravating both your eating disorders.  “Are you relishing your vegetables?

Repeat the mantra: “Remember, broccoli is brain food… and it’s slimming, too.”

11:00 a.m.    At biweekly appointment, ask therapist to define “hover.” Deny lack of stability ‘til the friggin’ malevolent methane emitting cows come home.

Fuel Up!

12:00 noon    Fuel up on iced mocha double double espresso Frappucino Gazebo Blend with cumin sprinkles and whipped cream. Top off with a scrumptious giant cherry apricot scone for extra lift.

12:30 p.m.    Incessant helicopter din and teeth-rattling vibration grating on already rattled nerves.

Get lube job (and mani-pedi) at tacky day spa.  Have mechanic sharpen motor blades and check torque tension.

1:55 p.m.      Ignore slacker husband’s remark, “Why do you think they call it HELLicopter?”

2:00 p.m.     Do research for female child’s science project on “Hummingbirds and the Physics of Flight.”  You gotta earn those A’s!  (They don’t grow on trees – especially on our family tree!)


2:45 p.m.     Call female child’s English teacher and berate her for that “B” on the Macbeth essay last week.

2:55 p.m.     Call male child on cell phone and insist he text message his score on the afternoon’s spelling test now. Excellence waits for no one.

3:00 p.m.     Call therapist. Demand she clarify “too involved.” Disagree vehemently and vow innocence ‘til Iceland melts off the geothermal map.

credit telegraph.co.uk

3:15 p.m.     Detect ominous downward spiral at accelerating speed. Panic creeps in.

3:16 p.m.     Reflect upon therapist’s comment, “Helicopters are very unstable; hovering is like balancing yourself while standing on a large beach ball.”

3:17 p.m.     Chopper pitches and rolls like a drunken windmill.  “Holy F#@*!!!”

3:18 p.m.     Tear up parent card and toss pilot wings in the trash.

3:19 p.m.     Prepare for a crash landing as fuel abruptly runs out.  View is totally obscured by stress-induced, adrenaline juiced brain fog.

Hello Kitty Parachute IPhone APP

3:20 p.m.     Collapse at cyclic switch, kiss your asinine aspirations “adieu” as your chopper shakes to a million bits in mid-air.

3:21 p.m.     Plummet to a sure death of regret and many broken bones — but then land miraculously… in an empty nest.

3:33p.m.     Vegetate there while deviant male child and dour female child learn to fly on their own two feet – and perhaps some day in the very distant future – elect to conduct a Search and Rescue Mission for you – their “Top Mom.”

Get Stuck On Smart

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