Grocery Store Chronicles – Part 1

Looking over the grocery list I’d scribbled out while driving, I figured that I didn’t need a cart.  Surely I could handle these items with a basket and a free hand:

  • Pack of Pull-ups,
  • 6-months Napkins (apparently I felt it was necessary to specify the length of time, though I have no idea how many napkins this would be),
  • 2 boxes Juice Box,
  • 2 boxes Popsicles,
  • 2 boxes Cracker Packs

Ah, Starbucks.  Right inside the door.  The conversation with my wife just moments before about a friend who’d quit coffee while on a 10-day vegan detox had given me a headache, so I grabbed a small (Tall) coffee, had a sip, placed the cup in my basket, and started my stroll through the store.

After putting the variety packs and then the juice boxes in the basket, I began to sense my mistake.  But my lack of interest in making the wise choice – returning to the front to get a cart – won the day, so I continued my spree.

As I weaved around another aisle, I saw some marked-down leeks back over in Produce that I just couldn’t pass up.  Oh, and some fire-starter sticks, which also created a strong demand for some firewood, which I ran back outside the store to grab.  Perhaps I thought I would start a fire in the mudroom sink when I got home (to cook the leeks?), because we don’t have a fireplace.  Again, I passed up the opportunity to exchange the basket for a cart, and I dashed back inside.  Who the hell set off the alarm?  Probably some moron who’d left the store before paying for their stuff.

Anyway.  Wow, this coffee sure is strong. And it was hot, too, as I felt it splash through the slats of my basket and onto my leg, shoe and floor.  Jeez.  Where’s the cleanup folks when you need them.

After alerting the butcher about the mess out there, I made my way through Dairy and Frozen and decided, finally, to correct my mistake.  I put everything out on the floor to survey what I had, shoved the wood under my right arm, and decided that the juice boxes and crackers would be the easiest to kick along the floor up to the registers.

I made it to Self Check-Out and began picking out the long splinters that had poked through the firewood sack, through my shirt, and into my ribcage.  And it was then, and only then, that it hit me.

Holy Shit! I have completely forgotten how to put on a t-shirt!  I mean every frickin’ time I’ve put on a dark-colored tee lately I get this embarrassing deodorant smudge.  And as I walked past the Lotto machine while carrying something like eight plastic grocery bags (I had forgotten the enviro-bags that I keep in the front seat of my car for this exact reason) I noticed in its reflection how big my man-boobs had gotten.  Damn, girl!

And I forgot the milk, the reason I went to the store in the first place.