Nervous Breakdown on Aisle Six

If there is one place most adults visit on a regular basis, it’s a grocery store. Depending on where you live in the United States or even outside of our country, you likely have a preferred destination for your grocery shopping needs.

I know my home supermarket Winco like the back of my hand. I could probably go in there blindfolded and get everything I needed for my famous spaghetti dinner without knocking anything over or running into another shopper. Well, perhaps if it’s not on a Saturday.

It can get busy and a little stressful when it’s a full house. I often feel as if I’m playing a game of Frogger, what with my tendency to push my cart briskly through the store. I am not a fan of human interaction at this stage of my life, at least when avoidable. I want to get in and out quickly. and move on.

I’ve found that by pushing a shopping cart at a brisk speed with a determined look on my face, most shoppers will move out of my way. Yet there are always those who have no concept of their place within the grocery store. These are the ones who will park sideways or diagonally, dead in the middle of each aisle, and then act like moving out of someone’s way is a big, federal crime.

These people drive me nuts. I’ve literally pushed my cart past theirs on two wheels, to edge past them. Like how the Duke Boys would tilt the General Lee on its two left or two right side wheels and drive it sideways, as realistic as that was on the show. I pull it off pretty easily unless my cart is fairly full.

At least I’ve never tipped it over on its side or crashed into anyone else. As quickly and aggressively as I might navigate our local Winco, I’ve never bashed into anyone else with my cart. I’ve also never knocked over a display full of anything before.

Here’s a rundown of my typical trip through our nearby Winco. It’s nice living just across the street from it. It’s within walking distance if you only need to pick up a few things. A short car ride, if you have a lot of shopping to do.

I walk in and grab a cart. The very first point of frustration is when someone has just grabbed their cart ahead of me and blocks the entrance to the store while using Clorox bleach wipes on the handle of their cart. C’mon, leave the entrance clear, at least. Or wipe it down quickly.

Hell, wear a Hazmat suit if you’re that worried about it. It’s a shopping cart, not a batch of meth we’re cooking with Walter White and Jesse Pinkman. “GROCERY SHOPPING, BITCH!”, I feel like yelling in an Aaron Paul type of way. I move on.

Winco is set up so that you have to start to your left and zoom down a long aisle before reaching the produce area. I am not the biggest fan of the produce section. Cooking with onions and mushrooms often, as well as having a daughter who’s very into her fruit consumption, it’s unavoidable.

Why do I dislike the produce area so much? It reminds me of going to the bar. No, really. You’re there, scoping out the selection. You’re examining the possible candidates to take home. You hope that you don’t select one that’s been handled, groped, or poked too many times. I move on.

The next area I move to is the bathroom product area. With three other people in our household, all of whom are female, there is almost always a need for products. Body wash, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, and even feminine products. These purchases usually land on me.

I don’t get men who are so weird about buying tampons or pads for their family members. Like, Bro. Do you think I’m judging you by you scanning the products and trying to decide if you need slim or jumbo tampons? I know they aren’t for you.

I’m not going to judge you if your loved one has a wide-set vagina and a heavy menstrual flow. I probably don’t even notice you shopping for them, unless I’m right there with you. I have bigger things to worry about. I move on.

Now we head to the aisle I am most familiar with. The Italian aisle. Also known as, the pasta section. When our house specials include spaghetti dinner, baked pizza spaghetti, lasagna, baked ziti, and fettuccini alfredo, you’re bound to be familiar with the pasta and sauce aisle.

After putting what I need into the cart and giving Chef Boyardee the bird or that hand under the chin motion that my Italian cousins do, I move along. We have more to accomplish during today’s trip.

I head to the beer and wine section of Winco. Living in good ‘ol conservative Christian Idaho, I guess we’re lucky to even be able to purchase beer or wine. I’ve lived in places where you could get Grey Goose or Belvedere vodka along with your groceries.

As much as I enjoy my cabernet wine and occasionally a few beers, I suppose it’s better I can’t easily get my mitts on vodka in the grocery store. I tell a redneck-looking fella “Cute top!” after seeing his Police Lives Matter t-shirt. I grab my vino and beer, count my blessings, and I move on.

Therein lies the secret of grocery shopping. Moving on. I am not one to browse and take my time, as mentioned earlier. I do not shop for a week or a month at a time.

As poor as my memory tends to be at times, there is no way I’d remember all of the ingredients needed for a week’s worth of meals. Shit, half the time I can’t even remember if I put drawers on before heading to the store. There’s no way I’m remembering every ingredient in seven different meals.

I pick out some treats for the family as my final part of this trip. Hi-Chews for my Bride, some popsicles or Dippin’ Dots for my daughter, a rawhide treat for Libby Mooch, and we’re ready to check out. I almost always use the self-checkout line to ensure as little human contact as possible. However, it’s full, plus a lengthy line. Ugh.

I quickly notice a normal checkout line with only a lady and a toddler in line ahead of me. I grab my toddler repellant, spray myself liberally, and hold my breath. I grab a couple of candy bars in line and this proves to be a tactile error of gross negligence on my part.

The toddler saw me do it! He then starts reaching for where I grabbed it and starts screaming for candy. His mother, who looks like she’s hanging in there by a Xanex and glass of wine tries to reason with him. This causes him to yell even louder.

“I WANT IT! I WANT IT, MAMA, I REALLY REALLY WANT IT!” He shrieks, looking toward me, hoping I’ll grab it for him. Sorry Kid, I don’t speak Whinese. I look around from side to side as if I don’t see him. This causes even louder yelling.

“BUT MAMA! I WANT IT! I WANT ITTTTTTTTTT!”

She looks at me with desperation in her eyes. She’s on the verge of tears. I need to help fix this situation, stat. It’s time to act.

“SO DO I!!!!! SO DO IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”, I yell.

Jesus, that played out funnier in my head than it actually ended up being. She runs out of the store bawling. Dammit. Now I not only have to bag all of these groceries, but I have to hunt her down in the parking lot to return this squalling toddler. Fantastic.

I kid, I kid. Once Hurricane Jackson and his mother reaches landfall or their Land Rover, rather, it’s actually peaceful again. I move to one side to bag my groceries as the lady behind me in line does the same. At Winco, you bag your own groceries and that helps them keep the line moving two customers at a time.

I notice some sort of vegetable that I can’t quite name off the top of my head in my groceries. Maybe it was a dragonfruit or a Jicama. Not knowing. I hold it up and the other lady says, “Oh, I think you got one of mine!” I check the receipt and indeed, I paid for her produce. I assure her that it’s totally fine and hand it over to her.

“Oh, thank you so much! Can I pay you some cash?” She seems stressed about this small inconvenience to me.

I reply in my best Adam Sandler-style voice, “Oh, uh no. It’s ok. Maybe next time you can buy me an apple or a pear.” She laughs at my joke and appreciates my kindness. I smiled and shuffle off toward the door, plotting my escape.

Just when I think I’m in the clear, the lady running the H&R tax booth tries to accost me. This was back at the beginning of spring, so they were set up to help people file their taxes.

“Sir! Can I interest you in some tax help?” She asks.

Sigh. I just want to get to my car. I hold up my case of beer and tell her, “Oh no, I’m ok. I gotta get home and drink all of this beer. But thank you, anyway.” I smile like Shrek and she smiles awkwardly back while saying a silent prayer for my eternal soul and likely my liver.

Such is life. I estimate that I make this type of trip to our nearby Winco at least 200 times a year. That’s quite a bit of cart-dodging. Dozens of two-wheel shopping cart maneuvers. Cases of wine to swerve and avoid. And a handful of toddlers to reunite with their mothers who have noticeable eye twitches. I move on. &:^)