The Prosecco Store

When B and I talk in Ari's presence about going out to buy things, we say we are going to the thing store. Example: "oh, we are out of milk! Let's go to the milk store." Example number two: "whoops! No light bulbs! Can you go to the light bulb store, sweetie?"

The thing is--it's not really much of a stretch. We live in the Supreme Land of Yuppies. Part of the whole thing is super-specialization. And I fall right into the trap. The other night I came downstairs after an extraordinarily difficult Ari bedtime and looked in the fridge for some prosecco. Horrors! There was none. 

"Hey," I called to B, who was immersed in the J Crew summer sale, "is there any prosecco?" 

"How do I know?" she said, "I don't drink that shit." Then she went back to her screen. So helpful!

I poked around some more in the fridge. I didn't want to bother B again, but I was beginning to panic. "Well, is there cava??" By now, my voice was becoming unnaturally shrill.

"Mimosas. Gone. Sunday." She's not very talkative when she's shopping. 

I couldn't believe this was happening. I searched the wine rack. I can't drink warm prosecco, but that's why God invented freezers! And there is this other excellent chilling method of water in bucket with ice. 15 minutes, people. I promise you. But there was no bubbly anything on the rack. 

"This cannot be!" I exclaimed, to self. I collapsed on the kitchen floor and tried to breathe slowly.

"What? What!?" B said, looking around. "What's going on?"

"There! Is! Nothing! Withbubblestodrinkinthishouse!!!!"

Technically, it is a condo/townhome. But I had no attention to spare for such details. The important fact was the lack of bubbly. Screw slow breathing. I was freaking out. At this point B got up from her summer sale and came over, clearly concerned that if she didn't give me some emotional support, I would Wake The Baby in my hysteria. But I managed to regain my composure all on my own, though I admit it was not easy. 

"I wish," I said softly to B, who had come to the kitchen floor and taken my hand. "I wish there were a prosecco store." I closed my eyes and pictured it, all sideways bottles in cooled racks, and lots and lots of translucent yellow. It was a soothing image. "Why, why," I wondered, wiping my tears away, "do they have to put all the wine in the same store like cattle? It's barbaric! The bubbly shit should be isolated. Pristine."

"Yes," B whispered, "I agree." She knew better than to say anything else. "Would you like me to go and fetch you some prosecco?" she offered.

Poor prosecco is trapped in the back of the store!

So she went to fetch at the cattle ranch wine store. I eventually decided to get up from the floor. I was thinking of all the super specialty stores that have ever existed (Penzy's Spice House, The Pop Shoppe, Wool Winders) and the ones that haven't but should (Shampoo Is Us, Prosecco Paradise, Things with Marshmallows In) and the ones that haven't and shouldn't, but probably will (Jeepers' Riding Crops, Explosives and More, Mooey Milk). Then B got back with my hooch, and we went out on the porch and drank some and bought some stuff from the J Crew summer sale, which we agreed to share. Because when somebody fetches you prosecco at 9:30 on a Tuesday, you let her borrow your damn shirt.

The end.