I Wanna' Be a Krispy Kreme Guzzling Queen

LET THEM EAT CAKE DONUTS
I so badly wanted to surrender my morning madness wearied body to the conveyer belt at Krispy Kreme today, unhinge my jaws and suck the sweet creamy nectar from the liquid sugar Niagra Falls-style glazing machine. Mmm. Finger-lickin' Krispy Kreme-ness.

Yes, yes, YES! Take me away Krispy Kreme! Forget Calgon. Who uses that chemically jacked, sensitive bits irritating bubble bath crap anymore anyhow? Nope. A fragrant tub of scalding water just doesn’t cut it as stress relief for me these days, especially not when I have a hardcore hankering for a saturated fat-drenched, powdered sugar-dusted escape.


(Speaking of “hankering” do any of you remember the early 80s ABC TV PSA with the lanky legged cheese cartoon blob who sang, “I hanker for a hunk-a, a slab, a slice, a chunk-a, I hanker for a hunk-a cheese!”? Revisit the creepy-cheesy cowboy source of your childhood nightmares with these videos I dredged up from Yahoo. What a memory trip!)

As I was saying, a long, nice, pruney soak doesn't even come close to the instant decompression I require these days. Not when my kitchen sink doubles as an oversized Petri dish. Not when the boys’ toilet has whole-wheat high-fiber battle scar skid marks loitering beneath its sticky lid. Yes, I went there. Sorry. And especially not when my stagnant-aired bedroom reeks like moldy vegemite from Down Under (Australia, ya' sickos).

I’m in grave need (or desire) of a maid because, well, I’m a lazy housekeeper. Perhaps even to the point of breeding biohazards. The last thing I feel like doing at the end of a frenzied day playing kindergarten, preschool and Krispy Creme field trip chauffeur is Ajax-scrubbing my unmanicured fingers raw along the fermenting kitchen counters.

Yup, once again I gleefully balled up my chore list into something better, something much more fun - two well-deserved points slam dunked into the overflowing garbage can. Next time I might resort to flames. Insert evil insano cackle here. It wouldn’t be the first To Do list I’ve rendered to ash. Stay tuned for a forthcoming incriminating post titled “Confessions of a SAHM Pyro Freak Lady.” Don’t hold your breath. Just hide the matches, k'?

No really, instead of taking out the trash spilling over with steam-poofed-like-Jiffy-Pop pee-bag Huggies and diligently extricating the leaning tower of laundry into anal retentive color categories, I opted for edible escape.


I dragged coughing and sniffling Moody Cheeks McGee, 3, and Pigtail Sprite, 2, to the artery-clogging capital of the developed world: Krispy Kreme, the holy grail of glazed unidentifiable food stuffs stamped into the shape big, fat open pie-holes (a.k.a. mouths in case you live in the dark ages).

Having grown up in New Hampshire, I prefer Dunkin Donuts but they’re in short supply on the West Coast. But what the hexagon, as my son the Maestro of Mouth so nerd-ily says. A donut’s a donut, unless of course it’s a tantalizingly crimped to perfection “D n’ D” French cruller, that is.

Hell, today I deserve five million dozen (is that a number?!) chocolate-yarmulke'd, raspberry jelly-bloated, grease-dripping rewards for my harried but successful three-kid, two-school morning shuffle.

I'd like to see how far you’d get finagling three sleepy-headed cantankerous non-morning kids ages six and under into their dew chilled car seats at 7:30 a.m. on a vacant bitchy belly?

THE MAESTRO OF MOUTH IS TOO COOL FOR SCHOOL
Mouth’s daily kindergarten drop-off, which thankfully I’m only responsible for when my husband’s away on business, went off without a hitch, even on-time, which is gravely out of character for me. Perfect that is until Mouth snubbed my request for a goodbye squeeze.

”Just go, Mom,” Mouth rasped under his breath, shooing me away with his hand. “Please, Mommy. I’ll be fine.”

I suppose it was inevitable. But it's official now: Mouth’s too cool to kiss and hug his mom and younger sibs in front of his big, cool older kid/upper grade school friends. I just didn’t expect the first big blow-off to happen so soon, whilst my first-born baby’s still just a kindergarten newbie. Aw. Sniff, sniff. Again, enter Krispy Kreme sugary coping strategy.

A little maternal disappointment is nothing a super sweet Krispy Kreme festive Halloween sprinkled donut can’t fix in only two ravenous chipmunk cheek bites.

Being the mushy PDA-loving dork butt that I am, I don't think I ever stopped kissing my mom and dad goodbye in public, no matter where we were or who we were in front of.


Actually, now that I think of it, I used to beg my dad to drop me off nearly a quarter-mile from my high school because I was embarrassed of his eerily bullet shaped silver Toyota space-minivan. He so tastefully had it custom painted with a Coors Light beer can firing off like a “silver bullet” trailed by, you guessed it, ingenious whispy smoke streaks suggestive of shots fired. Yup, my dad hired someone to paint a beer can on the driver’s side of his minivan. Top that, one-uppers.

A lazy couch potato teenager like me had to be thoroughly mortified to hoof it even a pinch of the way to school. And to think I was willing to jeopardize my colossal, eagle winged, metal-head feathered Aqua Net shellacked hair flaps amid the damp New England elements!

I could rant infinitely but I suspect you’re already at capacity. Besides, I have a hot, steamy, drippy, sticky date with the last gooey Krispy Kreme I hid from Pigtail Sprite after she unknowingly sat down on it in the van. It's deflated but salvageable, not unlike my retired from breastfeeding milk duds.

Bon appetit and bon nuit!