A glass of wine, too much chicken

SO I’M OFF TO THE SUPERMARKET ON

Mother’s Day morning -- early, while most of the other sinners are still sleeping -- eager to shop with all the fathers whose lives have spun away from them like a bad in-bounds pass. We dive for loose

cabbage. We scramble for dessert. Male desperation is a

sport all its own. On Mother’s Day morning, you could sell

tickets.

“Hey, watch the cart,” a dad says as his kid bumps him hard in the end zone.

“Where’s the cheese?” mutters someone else.

At the meat counter, I stare down over the chicken. What’s easier than chicken, right? All I need is a package of thighs, breasts and wings that will fill a barbecue. That’s the story line for tonight: Boy meets grill. Boy marries grill. Everyone lives happily ever after. The end.

“Chicken is fine,” my wife had told us earlier. “I love chicken.”

“Call me Colonel Sanders,” I told her.

And now I stand at the chicken case, regretting those words. Instead of a big bag of grill meat, there are specific packages that are not very relevant. Whole fryers. Or packages of 80 drummettes. Fourteen cuts of chicken breast. This being Los Angeles, breasts come in many choices. Eventually, they’ll sell them according to cup size.

I wind up buying too much chicken, then grab assorted other stuff around the store. An avocado at Aisle 14. Loaves of sourdough on Aisle 2. A cake in the glass bakery case with the fingerprints on the front. Man, it’s cold in grocery stores. Forty degrees in meats. Near zero at the dairy case. A box of Chiclets, and I’m outta there.

“Oh, no,” I say when we get home.

“What?”

“You already have avocados?” I ask as I unload the goods.

“That’s OK,” my wife says, “because the one you bought isn’t ripe.”

She picks it up and spins it in her hand.

“Anybody want to go bowling?” she asks.

“You pick it off a tree, Dad?” asks the older daughter.

Never fear. Our house has a way of aging things. I figure the rock-hard avocado will ripen by noon. By evening, we’ll all be guacamole.

TRY TO IMAGINE TAKING OUT A HELP-

wanted ad for a mother: No pay. No benefits. No days off. The hours? Twenty-four. No sick days. No retirement plan. Must be able to drive with a dozen kids in the car and to speak several languages, including baby talk and teen angst. No vacations. Chances for promotion: zero. Awards or bonuses: zip. We’ll pay you in hugs and hand prints on the woodwork. By the way, just when you think your day is done, someone or something will vomit in the hallway.

Who would take a job like that? No one, yet someone had to or you wouldn’t be reading this. One day a year, we salute the moms of the world.

We pull out all the stops too. A plate full of barbecued chicken, baked beans, a lovely salad made by people who probably forgot to wash their hands. If she’s lucky, a glass of wine, from a bottle open since last Friday.

Live it up, Mom. Later, there’ll be dessert and a movie.

“THEY RENTED WHAT?” MY WIFE ASKS.

“ ‘Drumline,’ ” I say.

“You’re kidding,” she gasps.

She can’t contain her excitement. Finally, after years of disappointing gifts, after years of putting others ahead of herself, the kids reward her by renting “Drumline,” perhaps the finest film ever made about college marching bands. (Say what you will about the meandering second act. When the two drum lines square off at the end, I dare you not to get shivers.)

“We do OK today?” I ask as we sit on the couch watching the credits for “Drumline.”

“You did fine,” she lies, then scrapes cake crumbs off my shirt.

“Shushhhh,” says one of the kids, not wanting to miss a word.

The other night while watching that last episode of “Friends,” their mother got shushed three times. Chandler and Monica had just brought home twin newborns who never cried. Who never let out a peep, soiled a diaper, wet the sheets or thought daybreak came at midnight. Who could blame a real mom for laughing in disbelief?

HELP WANTED: EAGER SELF-STARTER

with a high tolerance for physical pain (childbirth) and good intentions gone horribly wrong (Mother’s Day). Good people skills a must. Must also be able to whittle, sew, arm-wrestle, paint, set a sprain, read a compass, glue a Christmas ornament, tie a square knot, fix a go-kart and occasionally remove odd objects from noses.

Also, teach trig, discuss Descartes, add RAM, fix a fax, repair a flat, chaperon a dance, season a steak, chase a hamster, hang a picture, patch drywall, unstick a zipper, pull a tooth, soothe a sunburn, massage an ego and deliver puppies.

Know the perfect candidate? Of course, you do. Or you wouldn’t be reading this.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.