Snow Day

I realize that I missed my regularly scheduled update day yesterday, because the time I had set aside for blogging ended up turning into emergency grocery store trip time. Once you’ve tackled Market Basket when half of Boston thinks they’re about to die, you don’t really have the mental fortitude to do anything but curl up on your couch in a small ball and listen to a white noise machine.

(Market Basket, for the non-Bostonians, is one of the local grocery store chains. It isn’t the prettiest of stores, you’re unlikely to find anything labeled organic, fair trade, or gluten-free, and the floors are usually coated in a thin layer of sawdust. But it is so cheap you don’t even care. They also have an entire aisle devoted to Goya products, which is how they won my heart along with my wallet. My preferred location is next to a historic graveyard, because Boston.)

It was terrible. The lines for each cash register extended at least halfway down all ten aisles and I nearly had to sell a kidney in exchange for a basket. There was a police officer directing traffic in the parking lot and another one making sure that everyone in the express lane really had 12 items or less. Though I’d like to tip my hat to the man in the line next to me who was clearly preparing for the world’s biggest blizzard taco bar and pushing around a cart that was overflowing with nothing but various meats, taco shells, Tostitos, and jars of salsa. I think there were a few tomatoes in there, hopefully alongside avocados because what kind of blizzard taco bar doesn’t have homemade guacamole.

I also went out this morning because we realized we were almost out of wine, which would defeat the purpose of a blizzard altogether, and came home with a bottle of wine, a miniature impulse-bought St. Germain, a bottle of gin (because you need something to put the St. Germain in, completely negating my argument of “but it’s only $3.75!”), and a sled.

Luckily it didn’t start snowing in earnest until I was safely ensconced back on my couch with my fleece pants on. Now it’s just me, this fuzzy sweater, and the allegedly terrible BBC Robin Hood starring Richard Armitage’s leather pants.


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