It may be hard to believe, but I’m actually a pretty good cook. You don’t get thighs and a stomach like mine without knowing your way around a kitchen!
So on the eve of a three day weekend, I hit up the grocery store to fully stock up.
I worked from home before I went, which basically means I worked in my pajamas, wore my glasses, and didn’t bother to put on a bra or brush my teeth. I know, I live a glamorous life.
About mid-afternoon I decided to hit up the grocery store instead of waiting until after work hours when the lines would be longer and I would be irritable and far more likely to trip someone in the canned foods aisle. Since I shop at a hoosier grocery store that requires you to bag your own groceries, I wasn’t too concerned about my appearance.
I was wore a pair of men’s sweat shorts that were 3 sizes too big and an oversized t-shirt. I looked like the winner of The Biggest Loser only I didn’t have the stretch marks or the Type II Diabetes to show for it.
I arrived at the grocery store and out of my air conditioned car. At that moment the heat from the day actually turned into a fist and punched me in the face harder than the hit Snookie took in Season Two of The Jersey Shore (only I didn’t whine like a baby afterward).
I then walked from the parking lot to the store in the scorching heat. By the time I reached the door I was drenched in sweat, and pretty sure at least two patrons were convinced I was going to have a heart attack. (I may or may not have been one of the two patrons).
I looked for the cart that had the least amount of grime on the handle, and began my trip throughout the store. Since I had only eaten a small amount of expired leftovers from my fridge for lunch, my stomach was growling with hunger, or I was in the beginning stages of food poisoning…either one were viable options.
Either way, being in a store filled with food wasn’t helping. I felt like…well…I felt like me in a grocery store filled with food. I tried to avoid temptation by rushing through the aisles, picking up the items I needed and a few that I didn’t.
I managed to fill my cart with all the necessary items I needed (yes, grape flavored vodka is a necessity), and I headed to the checkout. There were only two checkers working, and they both had lines several people deep.
Normally I wouldn’t mind the line and usually would stand and read the trashy magazines about how everyone hates The Bachelorette,
but since I have a subscription to many of these magazines, I knew I would only be cheating myself.
I proceeded to the self checkout lane, which this store cleverly called “The Fast Lane.” It looked like a spaceship, and I was feeling futuristic and up for the challenge.
I began taking items out of my cart and putting them on the miniature conveyor belt in rapid speed, as I felt I needed to stay true to the “Fast Lane” mantra. Before I could scan any of my items, the computer asked me what language I wanted to use.
Naturally, I chose Spanish.
I scanned my first two items without incident. After all, I was a star grocery checker back in my high school days when I worked at a grocery store. (Okay, so I wasn’t so much their star checker, but that’s because they didn’t understand my sarcasm. Standing all day in the same spot was hard work and I needed breaks so every shift I told my male boss I had my period and had to go to the bathroom where I would sit on the toilet, clothed, and read Elle Magazine).
The scanning was going along great until the machine began beeping and a woman’s voice from the machine said “Quitar elemento y colocarlo en la bolsa.” What?!
I did remove the item and place it in the bag!!! I was staring at the item in the bag.
What was wrong with this woman, and how did she know anything about the location of my items? I sought the assistance of the rebellious teenager working the futuristic machine and she reset it for me. I was back on track!
I scanned again and it started beeping at me again, but this time my Spanish wasn’t as great as I had remembered, and I had no clue what was going one. (Perhaps I should have paid better attention in Spanish 5 instead of using it as my “siesta” time.)
The teenager with the bad case of acne working “The Fast Lane” was now growing irritated with me, most likely because I was slowing it down to more of the “Regular Paced Lane.”
She walked over to me looking annoyed. I thought about telling her my period trick so she could have a break, but thought better of it. She fixed the machine and I once again began scanning.
Just about the time the bitter teenager returned to her station, the machine beeped again, and I swear the woman’s voice in the machine became more hostile.
The teenager returned for the third time, and I felt like a kindergartner who was called to the principal’s office for eating her friend’s boogers. The checker was not
happy with me.
She asked what I did to the machine to make it continually beep, and when I opened my mouth to proclaim my innocence, I realized that I forgot to brush my teeth, and the smell of last night’s Mexican food filled the air.
While overpowering my urge to grab a bag of chips and salsa for the road, the teenager reset the machine for me one last time and stomped away.
I finished scanning my items, saying a silent prayer the machine wouldn’t call me out once again on my incompetence. I completed my purchase and left the store, my head hung in shame.
I was just thankful I had purchased enough grape vodka to ease my sorrows from such a stressful trip to the store.