Given my disinterest in cooking and most things food, it should come as no surprise that I am not a big fan of shopping for groceries. I tend to wander up and down the aisles like a fish out of water, half-heartedly pulling items from the shelves and often forgetting to buy whatever it is I went shopping for in the first place.
That’s why this year my New Year’s resolution was to become a more organized shopper. No more would I be intimated by those perky, shopping list-carrying women who smugly check off each item as they take it from the shelf and place it in their perfectly stacked carts. I vowed to make lists. I was determined to clip coupons, organize them by food groups and carry them in a colorful little coupon carrier. I promised to make sure I’d have the store’s flier in my cart so I could zero in on the sales items. And I swore I would place my groceries on the checkout counter, heavy items first.
Who was I kidding?
My resolution was quickly put to the test after the holidays when we needed milk and bread. I did a fast inventory of the fridge, checked the pantry and jotted down a few items on a pad with cute little pictures of fruits and vegetables. A good start, except that I forgot the list and left it and my new coupon holder next to all the other coffee-stained lists on the kitchen counter.
List-free but undaunted, I charged into the store and grabbed the last available cart. I quickly discovered why the cart was there for the taking. It had a horrific squeak and a wonky wheel that made it pull to the left.
As I struggled down the aisles, I prayed that my cart wouldn’t go rogue and suddenly lurch into the displays of cans that seemed to be stacked everywhere around the store. Mustering my best game face and trudging on, I ignored the pained looks on the faces of the other shoppers as my cart heralded my every move with nerve-jangling screeches and squeaks.
I was embarrassed by all of this of course, and I knew what is coming next, because when I least want to bump into someone I know, half my neighborhood will be in the store. No makeup, hair a mess, a less-than flattering outfit or, in this case, the cart from hell, all guarantee a close encounter of the worst kind. And sure enough, there she was. I turned a corner and came to cart-to-cart with Candace, aka She Who Does Everything Perfectly.
Eyeing the frozen dinners in my cart with obvious disdain, Candace nodded and said, “I was wondering where that awful sound was coming from.”
“What awful sound?” I asked and quickly moved on, lifting the back of the cart off the floor in a vain attempt not to make that awful sound.
Still smarting from my encounter with Candace, I headed for the deli counter and Thelma, the deli dictator with a voice like sandpaper and a mole on her chin the size of Rhode Island. Thelma was finishing with a customer and as I stepped up to order she barked, “Take a number.”
I dutifully pulled number 25 from the ticket dispenser and was delighted to note that 24 was up on the board behind the counter. Assuming I was next, I approached the counter again just as Thelma shouted, “32.”
I looked around to assure myself I was the only person waiting to be served, and offered my slip with the number 25.
“Sorry,” growled Thelma, “we’re on number 32. You missed your turn.”
Feeling like I had been sucked into an alternate universe, I pulled a strip of tickets from the dispenser and handed Thelma number 32.
“What would you like?” she asked.
“The usual,” I responded as Thelma removed a turkey breast from the case.
Shaken by the lunacy of this exchange, I made my way to the checkout counters and sighed. It’s a sure bet that if you want to get on the slowest line in the store, queue up behind me. I was not surprised then to find myself on line with an elderly gentleman who removed a plastic bag of singles and change from his pocket to pay for $63.81 worth of groceries. By the time he finished counting out his money, my frozen dinners had thawed and I felt compelled to check my driver’s license to make sure it hadn’t expired.
I left the store exhausted, and as I drove home I came to the only logical solution to my inherent supermarket ineptitude: screw my New Year’s resolution. Feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders, I brought the groceries into the house and only realized what was missing after I’d put everything away.
“Honey,” I called upstairs to my husband, “we need milk and bread.”