It's snowing in Georgia. Not that it's sticking, but I'm sure panic will ensue in some quarters, particularly if the cupboards are bare of bread and milk.
I suppose it has something to do with having kids, but I've never quite understood this shopping directive. So you're stuck in the house for a week, and you're going to live on that? "Mmmmm, nothing beats white bread dipped in two percent milk."
On 9/11, I lived in Los Angeles, where my neighbor convinced me that the terrorist attacks were aimed at landmarks. Since we resided under the Hollywood sign, we figured we best go to the grocery store (better than evacuating, I guess). The Mayfair was hopping at 7 a.m., and Jon, the neighbor, was busy stocking up on bottled water and other staples, including bread and milk.
Not me. Wine, bagels, steaks, Fig Newtons ... why bunker like a prisoner? And the booty paid off, as I, like most Americans, spent the next week glued to the television. I might've put on five or 10 pounds, but if I'm "moving on," I'm doing it in style.
And if I really needed water (or bread, or milk) I could always walk next store. Better to live next to the prepared than to actually be prepared.
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