We're home again, after a whirl-wind trip down South for Grandma Carrie's funeral, which OHMYGRANNY, I hope to tell y'all all about very soon (I was debating it in my own mind, but Al says I MUST!), after addressing a few more pressing items on my agenda, not the least of which is a trip to the grocery store.
Because we do not have any butter in this house.
Not even a single little pat.
A situation which renders me quite useless in all of my respective roles as a woman.
Knowing that I have plenty of butter on hand for any butter-related activity I may be pressed to pursue, like, say, lying on the sofa reflecting contentendly upon my readily-available ample supply of butter? Well, that's just fundamental to my sense of well-being. Without the firm knowledge that there's a at least couple pounds of butter in the fridge, I'm reduced to an addled, mumbling, hand-wringing mess, just standing forlornly in the kitchen with my eyebrows macrame'ed into one of those monkey-hand bracelets you used to craft-up at summer camp.
Thus the butterlessness must be rectified before I can move on about my life in a confident and, well, lucid fashion.
You can't say I don't have my priorities straight, people.
I'll be back.