Potassium Roger

I haven’t had a good old-fashioned rant in a while. At least not in the written form. Usually a good source for finding consternation and inducing ranting is a trip to Walmart. Not today. I have decided to rest those useless protests in favor of another. Fair warning to people with a lofty opinion of me I am wearing my swear-bear pajamas and will probably drop some eff-bombs. I find it therapeutic to type the words. It makes me more “Zen” during my normal day-to-day life. Nirvanish? Placified?

Okay. Let’s talk about Kroger. Alternative to the Walmart grocery oligarchy. The Target of middle-class grocery-only vendors. The comfortable shopping relationship that gives just enough to keep you involved but never lets you know where you truly stand as a customer. We no longer have a Kroger on my side of town and it is a damn shame because that one was a great place. We recently got a Zaxby’s though. But this isn’t about Zaxby’s, it is about the grocery store.

Sometimes I stop on my way home to pick up a few things. Essential items, like bread or milk or some combination of protein/carb/cheese that we are having for dinner. We never have all the things we need to prepare a single dinner. So off to Kroger I go. I walk into the warm lighting (from the old style fluorescent tubes), grab one of the mutant grocery carts (who designed these things), and emerge in the vegetable section. What the vegetables lack in ripeness they compensate for with random arrangements and narrow aisles. Maybe the aisles just feel narrow because I am avoiding the never-ending traffic of the suburban mom. These ladies give two-shits about who or what is in their way. I can see it in their eyes. They are stressed and on-edge. They need one fucking loaf of whole grained organic bread so kindly move your ass out of the way. Meanwhile, I loiter in front of a few while I try and decipher what goods are in what aisles based on the hanging descriptions. The arrangement is awful. If the carts had horns I would be honked at. Or gored to death. I guess it depends on what kind of horns. Hateful glaring is much quieter. I barely notice. I’m too busy giving my own hateful glares at the blank spot on the shelf where the generic item should be. Now I get to buy name-brand whole kernel corn.

I will concede that the meat department is awesome. They have beef that was fed pre-softened grasses and heard bedtime stories nightly before they were slaughtered into steaks. And there is an attractive caring woman on the label which really sells the whole approach. It really comes out in the flavor too. Plus, the flower area is super handy at times. I think they sell free range roses.

But God help me find the bread in that forsaken labyrinth. Do they even sell bread? I circled five times looking for bread. I never found bread. Is Kroger gluten free now? Onward to make my tacos.

I found myself in the Aisle of Varied Ethnicity. It was a puzzling mix of politically correct sensitivity and, at the same time, not. For instance, one of our go-to dinners of choice is Taco Salad. I categorize this as “Mexican Food”. I eat lunch about four times a week at a “Mexican Restaurant”. I feel validated because the packaging and the restaurant sign both use “Mexican” as a descriptor. (It may be the best food on the planet. I know that my idea of Mexican food is extremely Americanized but I like to believe that children growing up in the hot, cactus-y, central American deserts at least have the pleasure of enjoying every meal with a bowl of salsa and bottomless tortilla chips. I can’t live in a world where that isn’t true.) How surprised am I that someone has labeled the area of tacos, refried beans, and jalapenos as the Latin American Foods section? Very. I have zero problems with that but I am confused how the Asia food section still gets a breakdown into Thai, Japanese, or Chinese. Is Panamanian cuisine indistinguishable from Mexican? Are there no foods that are unique to Guatemala? What did Mexico ever do to you? Maybe we should shift to a spicy, greasy, or hippie type of classification on our food so not to offend any group. After all, every culture has a signature meat/carb/cheese dish. Except Asian food because of the whole lactose intolerance thing which is okay because they have soba noodles and sushi which is a fair trade.

I’m veering off topic. My main point is that I can’t find anything. The informational boards at the ends of the aisles list individual items instead of general categories. Example, one board might advertise; Brown Mustard, Black Olives, Ranch Dressing… A real store would slap Condiments on the sign and still have room to describe the rest of the aisle. Don’t woo me with tales of exotic toppings. Just tell me where I am in this Neverland. I get all my fitbit steps just looking for things on my logically arranged shopping list.

When I am wandering around in lost in the vintage-1990-value-shopper food wilderness I am forced to admit a dark truth.

I miss the familiarity of Walmart.

It is my safe zone.

It’s the people that really make it great.

The broken smile of the older lady on register 4 who should be able to retire but Medicare doesn’t cover her diabetes supplies. The man with the bottle thick glasses who has to check items out very slowly and in precisely the right order. He is going to be on Criminal Minds one day played by a more attractive but equally crazy actor who kidnaps remote tollbooth workers to feed a toe eating fetish. Or the lady who rode to Walmart last night on the back of her boyfriend’s Honda Shadow to run in and get some supplies. These people were either camping or cooking meth and given her twitch and what seemed like a few too many scabs, I’m going with meth. That’s judge-y of me. Maybe they had been camping AND making meth.

Totally plausible. These two were in the self-checkout lane when Skinderella realized that she hadn’t eaten in four days and wanted a prewrapped turkey roll from the deli section. She ran and grabbed the lunch meat roll and, with a giggle, launched it towards the checkout like a football pass. It landed in the self-checkout area and exploded a colorful lettuce and tomato burst. Her boyfriend muttered something that rhymed with “Crazy Bitch” and continued to scan his beer. Commerce and comedy at 9:00 at night. I made my trip worth the drive. Happy Memorial Day! This is what the veterans were fighting for!

But not at Kroger. Most of those trips are monotonous grinds of a hurried life. Memorial to nothing in particular. There are crazy and dangerous people at both venues but the difference is somewhat like a well run zoo versus a walking tour safari park where the tigers might eat you in the parking lot because the rangers don’t give a shit. Plus the tigers are high, hungry, and mad that they dropped their turkey roll.

Who knows where I was going with this. Welcome to my week. If you find any piece of this remotely interesting this one is for you. I realize I didn’t manage to swear as much as I felt I was going to at the first. What can I say? Shit happens. Hope I didn’t fuck up the experience. I’m such an asshole. Oh and to Kroger. Nothing but love, locate the bread better, get some real carts with capacity. Carry on.

You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.


Orgeenic Againic

Many of you may recall a rant I had on the Orgreenic Non-stick pans that are the polar opposite of non-stick. Hate is a mild term to describe my feelings on these pans. Anything that adheres to butter is not fit for cooking. If they used the special green ceramic coating for things like skyscrapers then the window washer could just walk up the side like Spiderman and eliminate all those pulleys and platforms.

The only survivor of my previous rage-smash of the Orgreenic products was the soup pot because, surely to God, chicken broth would be fine against this non-stick surface. I have all but forgotten about the feelings of betrayal and violation that I had after throwing away my ‘As Seen On TV’ cookware. Then Supermom made Rice Krispy Treats… In the Orgreenic soup pot.


What could possibly go wrong here. Worlds Stickiest Pan + Worlds Stickiest Treat.


Military Grade Adhesion

I have made an executive decision. I have a three step plan for eliminating the Orgreenic Non-stick problem. First, I will douse the entire pot in charcoal lighter fluid and light it on fire. Once the smoldering flames subside I will fill the demon pot with a high strength concrete. After the concrete sets inside the pot and creates a Rock of Eternal Sadness, I will cast it into the first swamp that I can find. I will laugh maniacally as it sinks into the marshy sludge and secretly I will hope that the pot will be preserved as a fossil for future civilizations to analyze. They will be amazed at our barbaric technology and have a renewed sense of appreciation for the standard of living that they have achieved. Or some asshole will sample a piece of the surviving coating and reverse engineer it only to sell it on an infomercial, touting the lost technology as some type of Lost City of Atlantis bullshit. Some future mega-store will sell it to trusting saps who will follow my same progression into madness only to end the spiral by smashing the “godamn pots” to pieces with a ten pound sledge hammer in the middle of a washed concrete driveway while the neighbors stare at them and silently judge the decaying pumpkins that are STILL on the front walkway. Well, they can cram those pumpkins into what’s left of this pot. Like I give a damn.

If you hate being sold crappy products this post is for you. You’re welcome. Again.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Six Reasons To Lose My Mind

Time for a frustrated dad rant. Where the hell are these things? Any of them?

I am forever looking for something which is beyond amazing because at the same time I am stepping on everything. Have I eaten a moldy breakfast cake with hallucinogenic chemicals? This is a strange trip and I am laughing and talking to myself while I type. Inspired by insanity. 

I understand that keeping up with laundry, dishes, and toys is a numbers game. Six total people. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, baths, bedtime. Six spoons, twelve forks, six rags, six towels, six outfits, six pajamas. Every day. I have ranted about this before I’m sure but the landslide of frustration gets to be humorous.


Where are everyone’s pants? No one seems to want to wear pants. No one can find pants for school. The pants we do find don’t fit or have stains. We are always washing pants. Loads of pants. I’ve checked inside the dryer, no pants. Now I have trouble finding my own pants. What do pants look like? Are you my pants?

Inside of the dryer. No pants. That was my last guess.

Inside of the dryer. No pants. That was my last guess.


We need additional silverware sets. Our forks are numerous enough for two meals. We need to do a load and a half of dishes per day. The forks never have a chance to get fully clean. I stop the dishwasher and pull out the half washed forks and finish rinsing them in the sink so we have something to eat with at dinner. Then after dinner we put up the dishwasher of clean things and surprise our only dishes are dirty forks. You might wonder about plates but we went to paper plates a long time ago. Unless we don’t have paper plates. Then we might eat dinner in large bowls or on paper towels. I would feel worse about this if the kids actually ate anything I prepared. Ever.


I trip over shoes constantly. They are everywhere yet finding a pair for anyone to wear out of the house is impossible. My heart breaks for ancient sailors who died crossing the sea for lack of fresh water. As I float around in this sea of boots, flip flops, and tennis shoes I suddenly feel like I have scurvy. I am not above grabbing two shoes of the same size and forcing them to wear a mismatch to Wal-Mart. I have been doing it with socks for years. I think it is a trend now actually and I think we started it. My disorganized laziness has propagated into a tween fad.

The shoe phenomenon is even more confusing to me because all math and statistics break down. For example, at any one time there are 7,689 individual shoes floating around my house. That is obviously an odd number so at the best one is a loner and we have 3,690-ish pairs of shoes. Worst case is that we have a full 15,371 pairs of shoes that have lost a mate. I think the second option feels more correct. But the damn light up shoes never get lost. They are always at the ready and begging to throw me into an epileptic seizure if the yelling and high blood pressure don’t beat them to it.

4) Baby Wipes

Before I begin I need to issue a warning. Specifically to my Grandma, there is nothing proud about the text that will follow here. I love you and I want you to continue to respect me so let’s make a deal. You skip the next paragraph and I will put a picture below with a thumbs up. Start back after the picture. Okay?


Thank you.

*Deep Breath* Where are the fucking wipes! I saw them thirty seconds ago! Which one of you handsy bastards did it this time?!?

We have emergency rations stashed all over the house for emergencies. Since the youngest one has taken to grabbing handfuls of self-made Play-Doh (poop) if we turn our eyes for five seconds we have to be ready. (Sidenote: Playing the cooties game in elementary school has real-world application later in life.) It never fails that someone has played pretend and wasted 63 wipes on a naked Barbie or lined the piano with wipe wallpaper. Naked Barbie doesn’t even need wipes, the five layers of Chapstick that you stole out of your mother’s purse and crushed into Barbie’s face will protect her from dry rot and UV rays for the next hundred years. Quit losing the wipes or I am going to lose my mind.


All Clear - No More F*Bombs

All Clear – No More F*Bombs

Welcome back.

5) DVD’s

Honestly, why do we even take them home anymore. We should open the package in the parking lot of the store and just fling the disc across the parking lot, take the insert out of the front cover for the baby to chew, and then jump up and down on what’s left of the case. We will pick everything up, tape it together and place it on the shelf with the other unwatchable mirrored coasters that we call movies.

Yeah that should play just past the intro-scene so we can spend thirty minutes waiting to see if it will keep going.

Yeah that should play just past the intro-scene so we can spend thirty minutes waiting to see if it will keep going.


Similar to socks and shoes, these items appear abundant but it is a mirage. Pacifiers are everywhere about five minutes before bedtime. The girls wear them like rings and hang them around their necks. They look like a bunch of white, midget groupies for Run DMC or Flavor Flav. Then bedtime rolls around and we can’t find one that isn’t riddled with teeth holes. Juice cups are lost, milk bombs, or the little plastic insert fell into the heater of the dishwasher and melted making the entire cup useless. Nobody comment that juice cups should be hand washed because honestly who has time for that crap.

Wow. Thank you guys. I feel much better. Feel free to comment your mystery items below and share this with your friends. Together we can solve the mystery.

To everyone who feels worthless at finding things. My life is one giant “Where’s Waldo”. The answer is “Not Here.” You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.