There was a time when I enjoyed the grocery store. Before kids, of course. After kids, when someone else is watching them and I got to go by myself. The paradise of silence, no whining or crying or attempt to run away from wherever I was. The pure luxury of it all. Wander down the spice aisle. Ask the nice man behind the meat counter to grind something for you. Just for the hell of it. Ah, the wonderment of Ralph’s kingdom and sanctuary of food-related items.
Now I plead and pray for my mortal sanity, just for one goddamn day when I don’t have to go. It never comes but it is a truly a consummation to be devoutly wished. To die, to go to Ralph’s no more! Or Von’s or Lucky’s or Safeway or any other damned store that I’m constantly needing approximately 8 things at. Maybe I need a vacation.
I just need a parking spot anywhere, not even the best one. In and out, quick and painless. Don’t care where, but I would of course be happy to wait for you to come out of the first handicapped spot blocking the rest of all traffic in and out of this wonderful place. Take your time, you don’t want to hit anything with your immense van. Slowwwwwwly now. Safety first. Now go forward. Now back again. Now forward. Hey, stopping to wave at me is a nice gesture. No worries, I’ll just wait! Have no choice! Backward. Forward. Keep looking at me so I can’t even grimace while I am hating you with every fiber of my being right now. I guess that’s good. Not to have facial expressions of intense hatred pointed at people. Bleeding from my ears. Backward. Forward.
Have to stop at the ATM first. Cue our cow town’s oldest living individual to give this new fangled machine another whack. Well I wasn’t in a hurry anyway. Need some help? Sure, it must be really hard to get by in today’s harried world when you actually dated General Custer. What’s it asking you for? Your pin number. Personal Identification Number. OK, put that in. No I won’t steal your pin number, honey, here’s your 20 dollars and don’t forget your card. Let’s go inside and find out what’s next!
More old people, for sure. Weirdos and morons and fat people and old people and me, a little bit of all of that. I’d like the cart with the wheel that suddenly stops rolling halfway through the store, then squeaks and wobbles incessantly. I’ll fill up my cart with a bunch of crap I don’t need because I’m hungry now. They’ll be out of what I came for, of course, so everything I’m doing here now is officially pointless. Pointless but fun! Let’s be a good giant corporate consumer and wander down the aisles like a depressed psychopath, vacuuming up crunch sweet salty things and frozen commodities as well as all the plastic impulse buys that they jammed in the only available walking space in the aisles to the point that we have to jostle around each other like we’re at a standing room only soccer match.
We really are becoming another larger, slower species and it is most evident at the grocery store. They’re really pushing the snacks and we’re really eating them. High fructose corn syrup and palm oil, please! Put some wheat crunch on there and some kinda dye on it pronto, this belly ain’t gonna grow itself. Hurry up, I’m due for the crowded parade of the banal in the frozen section.
After my near nervous breakdown in the snack aisle, it’s time to go. Put these 15 completely unrelated and unnecessary items on the belt and wait for this newly arrived visitor to our planet to figure out our quaint payment system. Of course you can pay with a check. Two separate orders, each with a check? Perfect, I get paid by the hour and the kind gentleman behind you insists on it!
Finally. Leaving. Walking. Behind. Really. Old. Woman. And. Her. Mother. Riding. Rascal. Pulling. Cart. Outside. Total. Age. 150. Between. Them. Speed. 0. MPH.
This has got to be it, right? Got my bag out of the death cart, to the car, to the door. Someone’s pulling in the space so I’ll wait again. What’s one more minute among all my rowdy friends, right? They straighten up their parking job only once, hey that’s progress! Both of them open their door, and the passenger door on the Lincoln continental reaches all the way to clink my driver side door. Where is the passenger? Hello?
Some people don’t like to get out of their cars. I see them all the time. Sitting in their car, doing nothing. Talking to themselves. Summoning up the will to do the next thing in their life, I guess. I can do this. I can get through this next thing. Then they’ll open the door, but they’re still not ALL the way ready. Gotta muster up the strength and gumption to get out of the car. Take a few deep breaths, tighten the girdle, count the money. Take stock of yourself and the whole situation before you rush headlong into the next series of events. They could be your last, you never know, you’ve got to have your shit straight before you just GET OUT OF YOUR GODDAMNED CAR AT RALPH’S GROCERY AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
Screaming at the top of your lungs is a very cathartic activity in a grocery store parking lot. No one really notices. Maybe because they all assume it’s just coming from their own head.
I crawl through the passenger side door with my bag, screech out of the parking lot before anyone else can torment me and go home. Whatever I did to bring on this karmic cavalcade, I’m sorry. I’ll stay home. I’m staying away from the grocery store ring of purgatory forever. Or until we run out of stupid milk again. Crap I forgot the stupid milk! See you tomorrow, Ralph!
Thank you for being kind. Some harried young people are not. It is a luxury to sit in the car and compile the grocery list, check for the wallet, look for the coupon, answer the cell message, assure the dog you’ll be back and check the mirror one more time trying look presentable. It’s a luxury to “wander” the grocery aisles looking for new releases. A daily outing. Old people should only drive Priuses and VW bugs. They should pass their tanks and mafia mobiles on the their children. Grocery chains should have designated shopping hours. Old people only from 5-8:30 AM while parents are rounding up and dropping off their kids. Again in the afternoons during pick up, snack and homework hours. Simple solution. This is great stuff. Brings back wonderful memories.
So true Matt. I’m going everyday spending $100 for one bag o shit and have to smile and be pleasant to all the parents and co-town living peeps who look familiar but there names escape me. 10 deep slow breaths and get the fucking milk.