I got invited to a bunko group last night by some women that mysteriously think of me as a friend. I’m not saying that I’m a bad friend or anything, it’s just that I’ve only lived in this area for 2 months, and I hardly know anyone, plus, it is always so hard for me to make friends, since I’m so shy. Also, I’m a braggart and a snob, more especially while I’m being shy, so people mostly think I’m a pest.

Yet, a few women from church have really been treating me like I belong here, like there’s nothing strange about being BFFs with someone you hardly know. Mind you, I’m not complaining. You all know that I have maybe a tiny bit of chemical imbalance, with the predisposition for leaning toward the low end of the spectrum. So it always surprises me when people are nice to me.

(Interjection, this was just overheard behind me:
Derek:”What?!? Where’s all our money? We had ten gold! What did you spend it on?”
Calvin:grinning and shrugging,”We had eleven. I don’t know. Wrapping paper.”)

When I got home from the party at 2:45 am ( I know! You should be so shocked! It’s almost like I’m a normal adult), Derek and I were discussing Saturday’s forecast, which was for snow. Everybody had been saying they didn’t want to go to the church Christmas party if the roads were bad. Derek said that on the radio, the weather guy had predicted a 100% chance of snow. We snickered about how stupid it was to say that unless you had snow falling on your head.

This morning, right around the time I was gearing up for my 30 minute run, the roads were dry and the sky was dark. Suddenly it started snowing, and suddenly the whole world was white. I gave up the idea of running, even though I’ve already skipped two days in a row for rain and laziness, respectively. Then, an hour and 2 inches of snow later, I remembered that if I was going to the Christmas party, I had signed up to bring 4 dozen rolls. And bugger it if I didn’t have any milk to use in the Fine Cooking best dinner rolls ever recipe.

I was not about to brave the roads in a motorized vehicle. This isn’t Utah, and people here are even worse than Utahans at driving in snow. And they have less practice. So I suited up in two pairs of running pants, two long sleeved shirts and a T-shirt, a rain jacket, a headband, both hoods pulled over my head, and fleece mittens. I went outside, and after 60 seconds of running, I was so hot, and I couldn’t see a thing because the snow made me squint, so I went right back into the house to take off two of the shirts and add my old racquetball goggles for seeing in the blizzard. I decided that if I was going to run, I’d make up for missing yesterday, so I planned 45 minutes. I would run for 35 and end up at the market, then run the last 10 home with the milk. I didn’t have to take any money because this market lets you pay with a finger scan. I love that.

While I was there, I was subtly reminded that it is Saturday, and the American shopper will not be thwarted by rain, sleet, or snow. There were droves of people there, and all the store samples. And as Emily Pig always says, “Yummers!” It is always important to sample new things. This market has samples of things like, but not limited to: Southwest quinoa salad from the deli, crab dip, cranberry blue cheese, roasted brie, spiral cut real ham, chips and homemade salsa, etc., etc., etc. They also have the best caraway rye bread that I’ve ever had, surpassing even my own. It has kosher salt on the crust.

So I got the milk, grabbed a loaf of salt rye, and walked passed the butter that was on sale, so I got a block. I figured that was enough to try to carry while running. Incidentally, I don’t recommend this shopping method. My poor arms couldn’t take it.

When I got home, I was telling Derek we could have avocado sandwiches with swiss cheese for lunch because I’d picked up the rye. Then, I realized that, with minor quantitative adjustments, I had been to the market for a quart of butter, a loaf of milk, and a stick of bread. A quart of bread, a stick of milk, and a loaf of butter. A quart of milk, a loaf of bread, and a stick of butter.

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