Category Archives: Crap I can’t get in the Suburbs

Special Delivery

I confess, my list of “Crap I Can’t Get in The Suburbs” is much shorter than I anticipated when we planted our flag in this uber-green little square of suburbia over a year ago.
I begrudgingly admit that. (I’d never admit it to The Mr., but to you? Ok.)

(Here comes my big old BUT again.)

There is a food delivery option shortage issue about which I can no longer hold my (hungry) tongue.
Pizza, or Chinese.
Pizza, or Chinese.
Pizza or Chinese.

Don’t misunderstand, you can get all kinds of wonderful TAKE OUT from delicious places that will box up faves from around the globe.

Except I am sick.
I seem to have ACTUALLY contracted the dreaded “man cold” that The Mr. claims to come down with each time someone sneezes within a mile radius of him, as I feel like he ACTS each time that happens.
We are talking “huddle-on-the-sofa-in-a-Jabba-the-Hut-sized-pile-of-blankies-and-whimper” sick.
“Call-the-hazmat-team-to-contain-the-used-tissues” sick.
Sicky sick sick.
Like whoa.

I don’t want to cook. I don’t even want to defrost one of the frozen casserole-bricks I have stashed in the freezer for just this type of situation. “Cooking” right now is pouring another glass of cherry 7-up.
Also, I am fairly certain that any public appearances at this point would be met with extreme disdain from those around me, as I have no intention of getting out of these flannel pants or doing anything else crazy like combing my hair or using some concealer to douse my Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer nose. Hell to the no.
If I saw me waiting for a to-go bag at the local sushi joint right now, I would turn right around and walk out, calling the heath inspector as I peeled out of the parking lot. I am super gross, yo.

HOWEVER, I am not one of those people who gets sick and loses her appetite. Quite the opposite. I lay in my blankie heap on the sofa in a NyQuil induced haze, drifting in and out of delicious dreams of the various food-stuffs I am convinced would cure me. Sometimes I get up enough energy to act on the desire, and defrost some green chile from the freezer – but inevitably I end up falling back on to the sofa and into a nap, only to find my defrosted, spoiled snack in the microwave hours later. (Eating food that has been hanging out in the “temperature danger zone” is NOT going to make me less sick, this I know.)

Who will bring me food? Yesterday I KNEW a cubano sandwich would FOR SURE have stopped this plague in its tracks. But that does not fall into the two categories that actually deliver a-way out here.
Pizza or Chinese.

I need a food truck hotline number that I can call in emergency situations – surely they would understand that a vat of white cheddar queso could mean the difference between life and death, right?


While we are at it, the liquor store at the end of our city block used to have a runner. Is it really too much to ask to have my Jack Daniels supply replenished? Mama needs a toddy tonight.

An open display of shameless begging request from a clearly dying woman (it really MUST be a “man cold”, eh?) someone, somewhere up here, open a joint that makes a little bit of everything and is willing to bring it to my door.

Bring me some more tissues while you are at it, k?

Leave a comment

Filed under Crap I can't get in the Suburbs, musing

Not. Right.

I have resigned myself to the fact that there will be some crap that I just can’t get in the suburbs.

Actually, that is what I call it when I talk about that category of stuff with The Mr. “Crap I Can’t Get in the Suburbs.”

The list isn’t as long as I thought it might be –  but the things on it are meaningful and dearly missed.

One thing I did not anticipate being on that list hit me square in the eyeballs before we had even closed on the Casa.

There I was, a refugee wedging my family into my generous parents’ house, awaiting our closing date with nothing to show of a roof of our actual own except a key to a storage shed behind an abandoned K-Mart where the movers had piled our life up on top of itself precariously, and driven off leaving me standing in a sea of green metal garage doors the week before.

I needed some “normal.”

Grocery shopping is as normal as it gets, right?

So off I went, Jr. in tow, list in hand, to stock up on all the family essentials.

Parked in the insanely large parking lot of the insanely large grocery store, ready to learn the layout of what would be our “home” store with my trusty co-pilot in the cart (container of “go-fish cackers” firmly in hand) to assist me.

I can’t remember what we were talking about, but in that time frame (7 months ago,) it was probably Old MacDonald (he had a farm I hear,) or if we were happy enough and knew it enough to clap our hands. (Not for long!)
It makes sense that I wouldn’t remember what we were saying because out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a thing that made me gasp breath clutch the cart like I had been stung by a devil bee.

There, in white lettering on a brown background, right at the door, was a sign that started with the words “Store Hours.”

I stopped midway across the threshold and drug Jr. and the cart backwards and sideways to get RIGHT next to the spectacle.

There it was.  As true as God.

“Open: ___________ (don’t remember/doesn’t matter/so not the point)”

“Close: Midnight”


I can’t be responsible for the volume of the exclamation, even if I did startle the elderly couple walking out the door so much that not-MY-granny-anyway had to steady herself on not-my-granddad’s cane.

The grocery store does NOT close.

I mean maybe on Christmas and Thanksgiving for a few hours or whatever.  But not EVERY DAY!

It all hit me at once…  what if we ran out of Diapers, or Milk, or precious baby medicine, or QUESO DIP, at 1:15 a.m.!?  A wave of insecurity washed over me, like a fan dancer in a wind-tunnel – I just KNOW something is going to happen, and when it does there is NO WAY I can cover my behind.

Have we ever, EVER, gone, either one of us, to the grocery past like 9pm since Jr. was born?  No, not that I can recall.

But still.

It is the IDEA of it.

It just CAN’T be good.

1 Comment

Filed under Crap I can't get in the Suburbs, musing