"Mom, I need a chicken wing for school."

"You need a what?"

"A chicken wing. For science class."

That explains everything. Not.

"So what kind of chicken wing do you need?"

"I dunno."

"A cooked one?" (Digging furiously in the freezer)

"Nope."

"Voila!" I produce a bag of frozen chicken wings, wave it in Son's face. "You're saved!"

"It has to be fresh."

"Oh." Hero to zero, three seconds flat.

"And it has to be all in one piece."

So I'm in the grocery store at 7 a.m., unshowered, my pj top under a sweatshirt, digging through the poultry case and wondering what happened to the gross, squishy worms and nasty frogs in formaldehyde.

Ahh, the good old days...