Case in point: This past weekend, my mom, her best friend Lorraine, and I decided to hang out in Litchfield for a couple days. We all got there on Friday afternoon and--you guessed it--immediately busted out the beer, wine, and spiced rum.
"What are we having for dinner?" I eventually asked, already two drinks in.
"Uhh, well, I brought us this roast," Lorraine declared, pulling it out of her cooler. "And here's some...potato salad. But it'd be nice to have bread, wouldn't it? Or some kind of real side?"
We peered into the freezer and were greeted with a loaf of freezer-burned Sara Lee. It was not appealing.
"Hmm," Lorraine mused. "Well, I suppose we don't need bread."
"Someone should have gone to the grocery store," I sighed. "Why does this always happen? It's like, everyone gets here, starts drinking, and we just have to make do with whatever is here because everyone is too blitzed to go to the PIGGLY WIGGLY!"
Another time, my poet-friends and I started imbibing and woke up the next morning, famished and craving a hearty breakfast. Of course, there was nothing in the fridge or the freezer except for old biscuits and American cheese. Not even eggs. And while we laughed at ourselves while eating our eggless, cruddy, cheese biscuits, I know we were all secretly disappointed.
So, now that I've gone and made this issue public by blogging about it, I think I'm going to have to fix the problem. Therefore I solemnly swear, the next time I go to Litchfield, I am stopping first in Pawley's Island to buy the essentials. After all, drinks are best accompanied by food.
Y'all hold me to it.