Your Choice: Complimentary Beach Towel or Lifetime Supply of Lighter Fluid?

Tonight I learned shopping is an activity I should avoid when I’m high on codeine cough syrup. But I needed a few things. And I had to stop the cough. If I didn’t stop coughing, I was going to projectile vomit one my lungs, right through my bronchial tubes. And right now, my bronchial tubes feel about as big as an anorexic ant’s leg; so hacking up a lung would be like a circus trick.

But in all seriousness, my cough hurts, so as much as I hate feeling like a strung out tweaker, I suck down my cough syrup, every four hours. Willingly. And then Hubs ferries me around, and waits for me in the car. Not so willingly.

Tonight I had to go to Brighton. And Walgreens.

I made it through the Brighton trip without getting suckered into spending forty-four more dollars to get the complimentary beach towel, by the skin of my teeth. I mean, I hesitated. And it was painful. And I almost did it. But after I picked out the gift I went in there to buy; and then I picked out a belt I didn’t go in there to buy; and then I paid for everything, I practically ran out of the store crying. It was that hard to leave. Because I heart everything Brighton and I really wanted to spend forty-four more dollars and get the complimentary beach towel. But Hubs was waiting. And I couldn’t think. Straight. Choices.

And then I went to Walgreens.

I went to pick up a prescription, and Hubs wanted lighter fluid, but he didn’t put on shoes before we left home. Hubs was barefoot. Like a hillbilly. So he couldn’t go into the store.

Hubs going around barefoot has been a twenty year battle for me. I choose my battles, and I gave this one up years ago. But I still hate shoe-less-ness. It annoys me. People get worms and other hoof-to-mouth diseases from going barefoot. Hubs knows how I feel so I didn’t point this out to him for the millionth time.

So, when I went into Walgreens, I got lighter fluid for Hubs’ new Zippo. The store clerk asked me how many bottles of lighter fluid I wanted. One? Two? Wow. Two. But that means there was one bottle left. No, they were on clearance. Wow. A sale. Okay, I’ll get three bottles. Three. I tell the clerk. Then, the clerk tells me they have four bottles left; and he asks me if I want all four bottles. Sure, I tell him. And when I got back to the car, I told Hubs…

“Lighter fluid was on sale, so I bought you four bottles.”

You realize you just bought me a lifetime supply of lighter fluid. Kelly, we don’t even smoke. We’ll NEVER use that much lighter fluid.

“Well, it was only $1.50, a bottle and since you’ve had such a hard time finding it, I thought it might be difficult to find, you know, like bullets. So, I bought all they had. Plus, it was on sale.”

It’s not hard to find. I only looked at one store. And now you’re probably on some kind of government watch list. Four bottles is A LOT of lighter fluid. Kelly, that’s over a liter of lighter fluid. Put it this way, we could light a memorial torch now, and keep it burning until Alex retires from the military, in sixteen years.

And later, when he went to fill his new Zippo, he made sure to point out to me, his lighter took less than one ounce of fluid, leaving over 47 ounces of extra lighter fluid.

“Well, you should’ve worn shoes.”

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