It goes like this: blogging drought … blogging drought … blogging drought … BLOGGING MANNA FROM HEAVEN!!!
Yes, I have been literally wading through the bloggable moments lately, beginning with a Friday night shopping excursion to my soon-to-be-closing-its-doors-forever favorite grocery store, Copps. J and I felt this would be a fitting way to follow a romantic dinner at Red Robin, which brought us this close to becoming dog people. (From time to time, I find I’m not that keen on balloons and small whirling dervishes hopped up on soft drinks, spraying crumbs and chaos from every orifice. I once had the same reaction to some very rowdy, short adults at a Dave & Busters in Chicago.)
Ah, grocery shopping on a Friday night. Could there be anything more delightful? Could there be any other activity that so perfectly says to the world, "Why no, I haven't shaved my legs since Easter of 2005! How'd you guess?!" Our cart was growing full when a manager announced we were under a tornado warning, so we needed to come to the front of the store where we all kind of stood around and looked at one another, daring one another to say, "Screw this, I have a dinner party to prepare for" and then hightail it for the deli department. I couldn't stop laughing in a breathy, panicked kind of way, because I always laugh like that in the face of doom. Or when I go to church.
Unbeknownst to me, my mom was also shopping in a city half an hour away as the tornado hit. She tried opening the doors to JCPenney at the mall, only to find them locked. So she tried Kohl’s. An employee standing outside the store greeted her with, “Ma’am? We’re under a tornado warning, so we’re closed. But you’re welcome to stand in our young men’s department.”
My mom opted to outrun the tornado and go to Target, which was not encouraging anyone to stand in hardware or personal hygiene or electronics.
I laughed for nearly ten minutes after I heard that, and then my neighbor—from the crazy, assaulting-one-another-in-public (but meaning-well family)—came over and invited me to a ‘Pure Romance’ party this Friday. The invitation to this fiesta del marital aids was addressed to “Our neighbor on the corner.” Oh dear Lord. How do I get out of going to this dildo party? J and I wished that such an experience could be on a television show akin to The Office, in which cameras followed me to capture my surreptitious horrified and amused glances. I’d totally go then.
Also, I have a jar of "Grandma Salad" in the fridge. No, I'm not kidding about the name. It's some kind of pickled vegetable product I bought in 2006 so I could do a taste-test blog for you. Think it's still good? Should I eat it just so I can tell you about how awful it was?