My hubs has a thing for hardware stores. I used to refer to it as the “Oooooh needle-nose pliers” reaction. He can happily wander the aisles of both neighborhood hardware places and big chain stores for hours on end, ogling LED light bulbs and snow blowers and charcoal grills. I, on the other hand, could easily accomplish most of my hardware store shopping within the first five minutes after I enter the place.

For me, it’s restaurant supply stores. We used to live not far from an Ace Mart in San Antonio and I found I could never just pop in and out. I had to stroll down each aisle, studying the really cool restaurant tools and fixtures that seemed amazingly cheap compared with what you paid at the upscale gourmet stores.

The problem always came when I started thinking I needed to buy some of these things. Storage containers, for example. I love the square plastic ones with the measurements on the side, the kind that I always picture marinating a pot roast in. And the Asian bamboo steamers and wire spider strainers. And the Mexican cast iron fajita pans with wooden coasters. And the shakers and syrup dispensers and creamers and miniature teapots. I always want them, and I always have to make myself stop and think carefully. Do I really need these things? Will I really use them? Yes that’s a really cute shaker, but am I actually going to put together that wonderful all-purpose BBQ rub or am I just kidding myself?

We all have stores like these, I think. For some people it’s shoes. For others, it’s books. An unfortunate few lose control at chocolatiers. If you’re shopping by yourself, these “trigger stores” can result in disaster. You arrive at your house with five pairs of shoes and an empty bank account. What you need in this case is a judgmental friend or relative, someone who’ll say “You already have three pairs of silver sandals. And those aren’t even pretty ones.” In extreme cases, you need someone who’ll just grab your arm and pull you away from those glass candy cases, muttering “Come on, we’re late.”

This is what the hubs and I provide for one another. I’m the one tapping my toe in impatience in the electrical aisle of the hardware store, reminding him we already have a bountiful supply of LED bulbs and we really don’t need another extension cord. He’s the one peering over my shoulder at the restaurant supply store, shaking his head at the bento box (“What would you do with it anyway?”). Between the two of us, we’ve probably saved thousands.

But I still want a square plastic food container.