Disclaimer: feeling feisty this morning.
I could be wrong about this. Perhaps Foster City IS a port of call, a quaint seaside village, or a pirate hideout. Why else would so many of its streets, vast apartment building complexes, and odd areas where every house looks exactly the same, be christened with watery names? Everything is a "cove" or a "landing." Take a left on Balclutha! You'll see it halfway down Admiralty Ave.! Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Bounty St.? She lives on Galleon--just follow the treasure map! So ridiculous.
Foster City, in my little mind, exists only for two reasons: Target and Ranch 99. I Suburban'ed over to the latter yesterday (located in--no kidding--"Marlin's Cove") primarily to buy short ribs for tomorrow's family reunion. But you know how those things go: you grab the ribs, and then you decide you should pick up some of those little panda cookies with the chocolate inside, a couple of pineapples, some bihon, eggs, la di da. And then you remember that there's no spaghetti sauce in your cupboard, and you say to yourself, "One should always have spaghetti sauce for those days when one is too lazy to drag one's butt into the kitchen for any extended length of time." Indeed. And so I scooted back over to the sauce aisle, where every sauce made by mankind can be found. Except, evidently, spaghetti sauce. I ask the guy stocking the shelves to point me in the right direction. "Aisle 6!" he says.
Liar.
I asked a few others. They lied to me as well.
I gave up on the Evil Ranch 99 Parade of Big Huge Liars and decided to use my own noggin to deduce where the spaghetti sauce might be. Many, many minutes were wasted because I don't have the type of mental machinery that would ever in the span of my life imagine that spaghetti sauce might be located in the dried seafood aisle. But there it was. Mocking me.
I sighed, loaded my groceries onto my schooner ship, and sailed out of Marlin's Cove.
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