It was raining and unusually chilly, so it was a great day for the supermarket (store names are omitted to protect the guilty). So off I went for a new adventure among the shoppers. “Ah”, I mused, “My thoughtful wife provided a list of goods and goodies and today will be fast and easy.” Wrong!
My first reaction on entering the store was shock and awe – oops, that was Iraq. Substitute shock and amazement. Almost everything was out-of-place and confusion reigned. Little old people were wandering hither and yon like busy ants. Many had completely blank expressions. Where are the frozen vegetables? Who moved the ice cream? If there is such a thing it was quiet bedlam. Folks were frantic, but too numb to speak.
Within a matter of days the Supermarket Gods decided to change things around, much as my mother did with our furniture, mostly I believe, to confuse my dad after a long day at work. In any event I joined the Kabuki Dance. Instead of following my usual route from one aisle to another while carefully knocking off items on my list, I roamed around the store searching in whole new territories. I really needed a map and compass to keep on track, but there were no helpful signs or navigational aids.
I took down a box of cornflakes as I wandered into the former soft drink aisle, figuring that I could leave a trail of cereal behind me so that I could ultimately get on track. It didn’t help since I found myself crunching my way back and forth over the same path. At this point, had I been driving with my wife beside me I would have heard the familiar murmur, “Isn’t it time to stop at a gas station for directions?” Alas, no wife or gas station. I would have ignored the wise suggestion anyway. It’s a male thing.
I lurched drunkenly from aisle to aisle randomly picking things off shelves and trying to find them on my list. As a result I bought baby wipes instead of napkins, baked beans instead of canned tomatoes, a $35 bottle of champagne instead of $.89 generic ginger ale, and frozen broccoli sprouts instead of fresh shrimp. By the time my shopping venture ended before a befuddled checkout clerk my cart also had a bottle of Lysol, egg noodles, a tomatillo, a small can of anchovies and a quart of spumoni.
If you know anyone who would enjoy a very special dinner of noodles in a tomatillo/anchovy sauce with sides of broccoli and baked beans, and a spumoni dessert, accompanied by pretty nice champagne in an antiseptic dining room, with soft napkins that resemble diapers, please call. Don’t talk to my wife.