You shouldn’t cry over spilled milk, but it’s sure possible
So yesterday I went to the grocery store. The grocery store and I have a rocky relationship. I love it, because I love to cook, and I love to eat, and they also sell ice cream there, did you know? I love ice cream.
I hate it because I always spend way too much money there, and because I feel like I am wandering the grocery store aisles with a vague idea that I needed SOMETHING and a very heavy basket every other day, which can be irritating and a collossal waste of time.
Anyway, getting back to the point. Yesterday I spent all day an hour dutifully restocking the essentials (bread, beer, ice cream) and wandering aimlessly as little as possible, thanks to my trusty list which I am learning to carry in my pocket, not bury in my purse. I’ll get it by 30. Maybe.
I got home with a passenger seat full of eggs and cereal and whatnot, and was opening the passenger door to unload it, when it happened. My gallon of milk, which I had unwisely perched on the edge of the floorboard, tumbled out of the truck and SPLATTERED into a million pieces on the driveway. (Did you know that plastic milk jugs explode when they hit concrete? I didn’t either.)
No, dear ones, I did not cry, but it was not for lack of wanting to, especially when I realized that my pants and shirt would now smell like a dirty cow for the rest of the day.
So today I had to go back to said grocery store to buy milk, as Dani no likey soymilk and I have cookies that are begging to be dipped. The lengths I will go for Quality Dessert Experiences know no bounds. I walked into the store to realize, without a doubt, that summer is back in San Clemente. Not because of the surfers clogging up our street again or the great weather or long evenings, which are all great, but not the sure sign.
The sure sign of summer is walking into the tiny local grocery, and instead of seeing cereal and laundry detergent and canned soup, seeing cheap visors, lounge chairs, sand toys, sunscreen, plus vast landscapes of beer and trashy magazines. Plus, the clientele has swapped from moms with big sunglasses and old guys with Ensure to aging ladies in skimpy attire and over-tanned fellas who smell like a still, so that was another tip-off.
Welcome back, Summer. Oh, and thanks for the milk.