Slurpee B*tch

I have these cravings, you see. They have nothing to do with pickles, peanut butter or even midnight runs for some obscure ice cream flavor.

My first craving (and yes, I am eating a bowl of Multigrain Cheerios right now) is cereal. It is more of an obsession. Lucky Charms, Post Raisin Bran (yes, it must be Post), Apple Jacks, oh, and sweet, sweet Cap'n Crunch (with Berries--I simply don't get it without the berries. Seriously, why bother?). A cereal aisle is my personal Disney World.

Chocolate MALTS are my other vice. And no, a chocolate milkshake will simply not due. Quite frankly, any form of thick chocolaty goodness without extra malt is a travesty. A sneer and a flip to my taste buds.

And then there is my intensely snooty love for fruit. I have been known to eat an entire watermelon in one sitting. We won't discuss the after effects of said gluttony--it wouldn't be suitable for this family-friendly blog. While I will eat nearly any type of fruit, I will say that I am a total fruit snob. Grapes must be plump and firm. Bananas bruise free and the perfect shade of yellow (with a hint of green). Apples must be near perfect--any flaw at all and I am certain it will be one of those mealy apples that isn't suitable for anything except maybe a second-rate applesauce. And my berries. Oh, sweet berries. If I'm going to spend $567,987 on you, then you'd better be perfect. That's all I can say . . .

Cereal, malts and fruit. That's what I crave. However, I would give them all up to a train full of naked nuns if I were offered a . . .

Slurpee.

Cherry, preferably.

I see a 7-11 and I darn near break down into a fit of convulsions. The husband doesn't even bother asking. He simply pulls in and retrieves my said drug of choice. Bless him . . .

This brings me to only a few days ago.

I was at a popular big box store where you can purchase a meal for an entire family (pizza, pretzel, Slurpee-wannabe) for under $10 at the store cafe. Seriously, I've had several "date nights" at the big box store so I would know.

JR and I were on our own, making our way toward the exit, when I spotted the Slurpee-wannabe machine. I knew it was there, I just tried to ignore it. But, I failed. Instead, my heavy feet headed in the direction of the counter, dollar clutched in my palm. Within minutes I had my Slurpee-wannabe in hand. Well, JR had it in hand.

The Slurpee-wannabe is served in a cup that is about the size of JR's upper body. While I was packing away the receipt and organizing the cart, I set the Slurpee-wannabe between his legs. He had the straw in his mouth in less than 2 seconds, happily sucking away.

A nearby cashier commented about how cute it was. I quickly responded in a way that let her know I do not give my toddler a gallon jug of red, icy sugar water every day, but an occasional sip I feel is fine. She didn't care what I said, she just thought it was cute watching him try to drink from a cup that was twice the size of his head.

A few more patrons walked buy and all were amused with the tiny toddler with the huge cup sitting between his legs.

Except for one lady.

Now, be forewarned. There was a good chance I was hormonal, overly sensitive or just plain irritated.

"My, look at that. That cup is bigger than he is!" she exclaimed loudly.

I looked up, preparing to remove the straw from toddler's mouth and move toward the exit. I smiled at her and nodded in agreement.

"What is he drinking?" she asked.

"It is an icy drink--it is actually mine, but he loves to steal a sip or two." So he'd been sucking on it for a few minutes, she didn't need to know that.

"Oh," came her arched-eyebrow response. "You know," she continued, "when my babies were young, I would dilute all of their sweet drinks with water. I refused to give them such sugary drinks." Oh, thank you wise one.

My jaw clenched. I take criticism pretty well. I have fairly tough skin. I am open to accepting advice. But, for some reason, I felt a brewing frustration . I mean, she didn't know me, my son, my situation.

Listen, ma'am. I have been with Mr. No-Naps for the day, ALL day. He is showing his most wonderful toddler side by refusing to do . . . well, everything and anything. My house is a mess, I'm feeling a zillion weeks pregnant, I didn't make dinner and I have no clean underwear. Why, because this 2 and a half foot little human is the center of my existence (at least at this moment). We play chase, Play Doh, paint, color, go to the park, sing songs, dance, work on our alphabet and study pre-calculus. And so you know, I barely give him juice at all. He usually drinks water or milk. When I do give him juice I dilute it. Just because my toddler is sitting in a cart, in a big box store with a Slurpee-wannabe tucked between his legs and a straw as long as his body in his mouth does not make me a bad mother. So, while I appreciate your exemplary parenting skills, I'd appreciate if you just kept your comments to yourself.

Breathe.

But, I didn't say any of that.

Instead, I looked at JR, happily sucking down my 100 ounce Slurpee-wannabe and then focused my gaze on her.

"Well," I began, a smile pasted on my serene face, "good for you."

And that's all I said. With that, I turned away and headed for the door.

You know, had I just gone to 7-11 then maybe none of this would have happened. That's what I get for going all generic.

I got home, still a bit twisted from my experience. More twisted that it bothered me at all than by what she said.

In rather dramatic fashion, I reenacted the story for my husband. "You can just call me the Slurpee Bitch," I gleefully bragged (even though the bulk of the conversation never happened.)

"Um, actually," he said, clearing his throat, "wouldn't it be more accurate to say the Slurpee-wannabe Bitch?"

Oh yeah, he did.

And with that, I poured myself an extra serving of Lucky Charms and marched into the living room to watch some mind-numbing reality TV.

Damn, Slurpee . . .

wannabe.