Seriously, just don't go to grocery stores the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It's an ugly sight. Rows and rows of SUVs in parking limbo outside while their owners do something that has a lot in common with scurrying, without the 'movement' part and with lots more 'blocking the cereal aisle and access to all the milk because Hubby Dearest doesn't know whether Wifey Dearest wanted 2% or 1% or whole milk and what the hell is acidophilus, anyway?'

You could practically hear the screams of anguished housewives: "WHERE IS THE CONDENSED MILK! I MUST HAVE CONDENSED MILK OR MY THANKSGIVING IS RUINED!"

It's like Kabuki theatre, but with yams.

After we filled our hand-carried basket of items for the next few days, we realized that we only needed a few more items, so we split up. "You go get the chicken. I'll get the cereal and I'll meet you over in the produce aisle." A few minutes and a bag of Brussels sprouts later (Why are you looking at me like that? we LIKE Brussels sprouts!) we were both desirous of a speedy exit.

As we were walking away, I said, "You know what would be awesome? Grocery store terrorism. Go over by the frozen foods and yell, 'Oh my God, they're out of turkey!'"

Jeff paused for a moment and shook his head. "No, there's a better way. Don't yell that. Yell 'Oh my God, there are only two turkeys left!' Then watch the stampede."

I nodded to myself as we passed the cheese counter. "I knew I married you for a reason."