There was one — ONE! — thing on my list: STAMPS. That’s it. Stamps. Forty U.S. stamps good for U.S. mail. I could’ve gone to the Post Office, but I figured the grocery store would be quicker. Stop at the customer service desk, I told myself. Five minutes, tops.

WRONG!

An HOUR. An hour to drive there, park, walk into the store, wait in line at the customer service desk, get my stamps, get back to my car, get out of the lot (totally not easy because everyone looking for a spot was too impatient to stop to let me out so they could get mine), get home.

Because I forgot the golden rule of grocery shopping the days before Thanksgiving: DON’T. Or, if you really have to get some food, do your shopping between the hours of midnight and five a.m., when, even if there’s a crowd, you usually won’t have to deal with the geriatric crowd who mill around the aisles like non-brain hunting zombies.

I mean, for chrissakes, even leaving, the blowhard behind me was just laying on his horn, as if one extra ounce of pressure could get me to accelerate into the intersection. I mean, sure, I had the green light, but did anyone tell that to the idiots who were running their red light? Of course not.

You know what I’ll be thankful for? ARMAGEDDON!