We finally hit our compatibility wall. Up until now, we've breezed through cooking and menu planning, and managed to get mornings whittled down to only minor confusion. We even survived a week with intermittent cable TV and invisible cable repairmen. But we met our Waterloo last weekend in the grocery store.
My close friends know that I am not territorial in my own kitchen, so sharing with my sister daily has gone well. We generally sit and sip coffee, planning dinners for the week, establishing a grocery list for the sister or couple willing to shop. Together, though, we've never made it past the Blessed Coffee Place when we've been in the store. God may have been keeping us at that baby stage for a reason.
Sunday we ventured for what our husbands consider a girls night out but was merely a trip to Martins and to pick up a kid while checking on her pile-of-dirt-soon-to-be house.
First, we forgot the list at home. It was just like a sitcom scene. "You had it last." "NO - You had it." Hubby R fielded the call, tapped his fingers and saved the scene.
While she's waiting for the text message, I'm working my memory and gathering things in the cart. When she catches up to me, she points to the aisle I've already skipped. "Aren't you going to go down this one?" She asks.
"No. We don't have anything on the list in that aisle" I say, naively.
I had no idea those were fighting words.
There are aliens among us for whom a grocery list is merely a prop. Something to hold in their hand while they meander through every corner and section of the store, selecting items that have little promise for this week's meals. Let's call one of them Cara.
She claims it keeps her from further grocery shopping trips. I claim that is hogwash. NOTHING keeps you from making further grocery trips. While her theory seems sound, it never holds water. Since Sunday, guess who has sent me for chicken one day, then onions and rosemary the next. The meandering alien, that's who.
To me, the grocery store, beyond the sweet ladies in green aprons who keep me sweetened and caffeinated, is a place to be endured quickly and efficiently. The longer I am there, the more tortured and, research proves, the more money I will spend. The list is a tool for efficiency, sometimes even organized by aisles. I may stray off the list, but not my path. Showing up later in the week is inevitable, especially since my apronned dealer stands just beyond the automatic door, twenty steps from my other friend, the ATM.
You can not hurry a toddler through the grocery store. Nor can you inspire hustle into a confirmed grocery store browwwwwwserrrrrrrrrrr. "Get back here," she said repeatedly to me with the cart, looking confused in the beginning, frustrated by the end. She actually whined. I actually sulked.
I was drained, spent, and saddened to learn my shopping partner was one of those people. Swiching to low gear required tremendous submission, stuffing adrenaline aside. Shuffling from frozen food, through dairy and on to deli, I moved slowly, painfully as she perused the selections.
At home, drinking my barista's creation, I recovered, of course. Perhaps the drive by her future home helped. And here is my obvious sports metaphor for the wise to share with the misled. Grocery shopping is not a marathon. It is a sprint!
My close friends know that I am not territorial in my own kitchen, so sharing with my sister daily has gone well. We generally sit and sip coffee, planning dinners for the week, establishing a grocery list for the sister or couple willing to shop. Together, though, we've never made it past the Blessed Coffee Place when we've been in the store. God may have been keeping us at that baby stage for a reason.
Sunday we ventured for what our husbands consider a girls night out but was merely a trip to Martins and to pick up a kid while checking on her pile-of-dirt-soon-to-be house.
First, we forgot the list at home. It was just like a sitcom scene. "You had it last." "NO - You had it." Hubby R fielded the call, tapped his fingers and saved the scene.
While she's waiting for the text message, I'm working my memory and gathering things in the cart. When she catches up to me, she points to the aisle I've already skipped. "Aren't you going to go down this one?" She asks.
"No. We don't have anything on the list in that aisle" I say, naively.
I had no idea those were fighting words.
There are aliens among us for whom a grocery list is merely a prop. Something to hold in their hand while they meander through every corner and section of the store, selecting items that have little promise for this week's meals. Let's call one of them Cara.
She claims it keeps her from further grocery shopping trips. I claim that is hogwash. NOTHING keeps you from making further grocery trips. While her theory seems sound, it never holds water. Since Sunday, guess who has sent me for chicken one day, then onions and rosemary the next. The meandering alien, that's who.
To me, the grocery store, beyond the sweet ladies in green aprons who keep me sweetened and caffeinated, is a place to be endured quickly and efficiently. The longer I am there, the more tortured and, research proves, the more money I will spend. The list is a tool for efficiency, sometimes even organized by aisles. I may stray off the list, but not my path. Showing up later in the week is inevitable, especially since my apronned dealer stands just beyond the automatic door, twenty steps from my other friend, the ATM.
You can not hurry a toddler through the grocery store. Nor can you inspire hustle into a confirmed grocery store browwwwwwserrrrrrrrrrr. "Get back here," she said repeatedly to me with the cart, looking confused in the beginning, frustrated by the end. She actually whined. I actually sulked.
I was drained, spent, and saddened to learn my shopping partner was one of those people. Swiching to low gear required tremendous submission, stuffing adrenaline aside. Shuffling from frozen food, through dairy and on to deli, I moved slowly, painfully as she perused the selections.
At home, drinking my barista's creation, I recovered, of course. Perhaps the drive by her future home helped. And here is my obvious sports metaphor for the wise to share with the misled. Grocery shopping is not a marathon. It is a sprint!
