Off the rack

There's a rusty little picnic sized grill up on a cinderblock outside our back door. I said, “You know what would be cool? I'll find an old metal cocktail cart and cut out a circle to fit the grill,” and she said, “It's 13 years old. Let's get a new one. With legs.” Harrumph. But I didn't get grumpy. I took a look into the depths of my soul - pretty shallow going. It turns out my virtuous thrift was really aesthetic snobbery. In the time and place where I exist, there is nothing more deadeningly banal than making a purchase.