As an adult male I’m somewhat of an anomaly in that I really like to shop. I even like to grocery shop. But earlier this week at the supermarket something went horribly wrong. I had the list ready. It was a beautiful autumn day. And I was in a fine mood.
When I shop I like to park as far away from other vehicles as possible. Not only do you risk having your doors dinged and bumpers bruised but you are at the mercy of those discourteous souls who wouldn’t dream of leaving their pet untethered, but for some inexplicable reason release their shopping carts to the powers of the wind and gravity rather than take the extra twenty steps to the cart coral. These carts can’t find their own way home but they know exactly where to find my car — every time. It’s why they sell rubbing compound at grocery stores.
Feeling secure with my spot half a town away, I got out of my car carrying my returnable bottles and at my feet was a shiny dime. My lucky day!
Meijer, the largest supermarket in town, was recently remodeled with outdoor access to a dedicated bottle return facility. Multiple state-of-the-art receptacles line the walls just waiting to accept your empties on their kelly green conveyors while scanning the barcode, all without human intervention. It was all going swimmingly until I came to the final six bottles. As the belt returned the first bottle of Bell’s Third Coast Beer, the screen alerted me “This Brand Not Sold Here.” Since I had just purchased the beer at this store the previous week I tried two different machines. “This Brand Not Sold Here.” With no attendant present and a firm grasp of Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity, I decided to take it in stride, grab my bottle return receipt for $4.30 and get on with my grocery shopping. Besides, with my lucky dime, I was really out only fifty cents. Shake it off. Onward to the main entrance.
I absolutely detest those large shopping carts. Nothing can be worse. I never need that many groceries and I always feel like I’m maneuvering a motor home through Smallville. When I grocery shop I always look for the small shopping carts. It’s a bit like a mushroom hunt though. Seemingly everybody’s looking for one and there aren’t that many to be had. And this is where my happy thoughts began to fade. Out of one eye I spied a single small cart in a herd of dozens of monster carts. Out of the other eye, an elderly woman similarly focused on me and said same cart. No contest, right? OK, in my defense she was deceptively quick. Something made me think about that old Seinfeld episode with the last marble rye but I pushed that out of my mind. Perspective. Still without a cart and none to be found inside at either entrance, I returned to the parking lot and found a whole cart coral of them. It must be great sport.
First on my list was yogurt. Unbeknownst to me yogurt was on sale and turning the corner I thought, “Holy Mother of God!” A Yoplait feeding frenzy was taking place right before my eyes. Oh, the humanity. I have since learned that the only thing that rivals a yogurt scrum is a sale on canned soup. There was blood in the water and Harvest Peach on the floor. Having long arms is particularly handy at times like these and I decided to wade into the fray desperately hoping no one would steal my small cart. I had just clenched my hand around three possible candidates when an aggressive senior in a souped-up power chair plowed in – running over my foot . Once going forward and once backing up. Now in serious pain and having dropped one of my three conquests, I ran to daylight. The two yogurts were not what I wanted, but they’d have to do. Lick your wounds and move on.
Making my next turn I ran smack dab into a major case of aisle rage. Vendors had half the aisle closed restocking. A combination of small and large carts were tangled together and unable to get past. And it was then that I realized I was wrong that nothing could be worse than a large cart. Because in the middle of this traffic jamb was a super cart. The basket is the same size as a large cart, but directly behind are living quarters for the four-or-so kids that were hanging off the sides. It’s the double-bottom trailer of shopping carts. The language that was flying prompted me to search for what was within reach in case I had to defend myself. I finally settled on canned tuna. They’re small, can inflict a fair amount of pain, and my rotator cuff isn’t what it used to be. Luckily I was able to slip out unnoticed but I had lost my enthusiasm for shopping and headed to the checkout. Not much longer.
I did not learn my lesson and waited in line for the self-checkout with my two containers of yogurt. I watched as items failed to scan correctly, customers suffered from pilot error and attendants were called over for liquor purchases. Finally my turn arrived and I scanned my two items sending them down the conveyor belt. I paid little attention to the final tally and fed cash into the machine. Grabbing my receipt I finally realized my items had obviously rung up incorrectly and I summoned a nearby attendant much to the chagrin of the dozen or so people who were waiting for my checkout. I said, “I thought yogurt was on sale.” She said, “It is sir, but not the Thick and Creamy. Would you like to wait here while I get someone to exchange it for you?” I didn’t even have to look. I felt every pair of eyes boring holes in the back of my head and I knew I would never make it out of the store alive. “No, thank you.” Get the hell out of here!
The walk back to the car gave me a chance to cool off until I realized, out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, someone had parked right next to me. I mean a pregnant squirrel couldn’t make it between the cars. My driver’s door was right even with the passenger door of the close-parker. With no chance to get in the driver’s door I got in the passenger side and slithered over the console. Behind the wheel I took a deep breath and placed my purchase on the passenger seat only to find I had dragged someone’s fresh Bazooka along with me. What else could possibly go wrong? And as I reached into my pocket for the ignition key, I pulled out the returnable bottle receipt.
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