|How people look at you when you say you like grocery shopping.|
|5 year old me may or may not be buried under there.|
THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TAKE PLACE
EVERY SINGLE TIME I GO TO THE GROCERY
ARRIVAL: I'm already upset by the parking lot situation. Everybody walks a little bit slower in a grocery store parking lot, every car parked a little bit worse. Nobody looks when they pull out of their spaces, and that old lady is walking RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD INSTEAD OF OFF TO THE SIDE LIKE REGULAR HUMAN UGH. OK I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'm getting upset already. Inevitably we park much farther away than we should, and trudge sullenly into the grocery store of choice (please god not Food Lion).
FRUITS/VEGETABLES: After wrestling free a shopping cart from the long row of carts, getting some unidentifiable gunk all over yourself from the handle and getting another cart, you realize that your new cart is WORSE THAN THE FIRST CART RRAARRGH. It's probably got the gunk from the first cart, as well as a bad wheel, and probably a moldy McDonalds cup or somebody's lost child in it. If I were by myself, I would hastily grab several apples, a bundle of bananas, and some lettuce and move on. Thankfully Lars Barnarnars is there to calmly and carefully select an appropriate array of fruits and vegetables for the next couple of weeks while swatting my hand as I reach for the croutons and craisins. She'll thank me for the practice when she has some kids.
MEATS: As the roomate takes care of the ground beef and chicken situation, I swagger confidently (Sons of Anarchy style) to the hot dogs/sandwich meats section; here is something I can handle. The selection:
- One 8 pack of hot dogs, Ball Park. All beef franks, or honestly whatever the hell hot dogs you want. It's all the same.
- 1 pack sliced turkey
- 1 pack sliced roast beef
- 1 pack sliced ham (optional)
|What I expect to find in every toothbrush box.|
WHATEVER IS NEXT. CEREAL? BEANS OR SOMETHING?: Confronted by an impossible selection of delicious cereals (not even Lars can save me here), I go in to total shutdown mode. I make what is probably the worst possible selection health wise (BEST OPTION DELICIOUS WISE) and throw it dejectedly into someone else's grocery cart. Peanut butter has also been bought, which makes me vaguely happy.
SALAD DRESSING: The only time where my roommate steers me wrong. I think we generally spend an hour here as she carefully chooses the most healthy and probably very delicious choice. I'm unwilling to accept her sage advice, grabbing
|Free at last, Dobby picked up a second job as Doughnut Goblin|
BREAD/CHIPS: Sensing the end, I devolve from 11 year old to 6 year old with ADHD. The shins and ankles of Lars Barnarnars become a victim of blunt force trauma with a shopping cart. Everyone is very impressed by the authenticity of the trumpet and race car noises I'm making with my mouth, and also how far I can ride the cart without touching my feet to the ground. BBQ chips please.
CHECKOUT: My face becomes more and more frowny as the total climbs ever higher. Bagging is a whole new frustration, usually best left to the professionals. If the roommate is present, I usually meander over to the Redbox and don't get anything while Lars handles the business. Check is in the mail, Ms. Barnarnars!
THE END: Unparalleled joy. The ordeal is over, and I have food for my own refrigerator that I have to PREPARE in order to EAT IT like SOME KIND OF IRON CHEF AMERICA. Oh no, the pain of the grocery store never ends. Never.
So, in case it wasn't clear enough, here are the scores of the grocery store experience:
Grocery store- TERRIBLE out of TERRIBLE. Because it's TERRIBLE.