Ever since my grocery store started offering home delivery a few months ago, I haven't set foot or body in the store. Grocery shopping is the domestic activity I despise with the most passion. It ranks above laundry (although you couldn't tell from the overflowing baskets of clean clothes at the foot of the bed), washing dishes, scrubbing toilets, or cleaning up baby puke/dog poop/other bodily fluids/solids. Last night Becca shamed me into going to get her a chocolate chip muffin, because there is basically no food in the house (the odd thing about the home delivery scam is that you actually have to *order* the food before they bring it to you). We ended up with about $35 of junk - eclairs, sugar wafers, cereal, muffins (but no double chocolate Milanos, which had been on our wish list). And a pickle. A pickle in a pouch, to be precise.

A few weeks ago Caitlin had asked me to get her a dill pickle from the barrel at Wawa. When I told her pickles-in-a-barrel had disappeared from Wawa at approximately the same time as the Democrats dropped out of sight in Washington, she was greatly disappointed. As Becca and I were getting ready to check-out last night, she spied a faux barrel filled with packets of pickles. Individual pickles in plastic pouches filled with brine. Garlic pickles, spicy pickles, dill pickles. We picked up one of the classic dills, the strangest impulse purchase I've ever made.

When Caitlin opened it today, it smelled rather dill picklish, but her first bite ended up on the floor as she made a sour, scrinched up face, declaring it "Gross! eeewwwww! disgusting! the worst thing I've ever tasted!" So much for trying to bring her an edible surprise.