So, it's 2:30pm and you've suddenly decided that you NEED a pint of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream. You can either walk into the kitchen and find a healthy replacement that won't cause you to crash your carefully thought out New Year's diet that you give about a week to forget about, or you get in your car and decide to brave the elements to head to your local grocery store. After sitting in traffic behind scared, old drivers who keep their turn signal on THE ENTIRE WAY TO THE STORE, you reach your destination.
Finding a parking spot that won't ensure that you have to give even the slightest semblance of exercising, you grab your cart and begin the delicate dance. Making sure you walk in the proper door, never knowing when they will decide to lock your usual choice on you only to have you fly into the door with your cart like a brain dead bird flying into a patio door (I SWEAR they do it just for the security footage!), you walk in, keeping your eyes away from the entrance where tons of sale items are stacked up, all challenging you to look their way so that they can tempt you with their flashy wrappings, sugary sweets, tangy tastes and convenient sizes. The fresh smell of produce wafts over you as you remind yourself that every time you purchase any produce, you forget about it until it becomes that smell in your refrigerator. You turn your cart toward your destination, the frozen foods aisle. But, you'll never make it alive. Or at least without a few criminal charges.
The main culprit? The sheer wall of people standing in the checkout lines, stretching back into the aisles, making any forward progress impossible. Seeing this, you decide to think quickly and dart down a free aisle, determined to get to your prize. Ah, so simple, yet so brilliant! But the cunning people at your local grocery store have already thought of that possible solution and have conspired to thwart your feeble attempts at stress free shopping. You know them as those pain in the ass pallets stocked high with shit you don't need, the shelves don't need and the employees are only pretending to put out and those uber perky fuckers with their sweet, helpful smile until you ask them a question as they bend over merchandise and hear them sing the happy song of, "Sorry, I don't work here." They also go by the name of stock and vendors. And they crop up everywhere you least expect them!
Stock doesn't seem so bad on the surface, we need more product, there's the product waiting. Bam! Problem solved. But look at the situation a little bit closer. Does it seem to you that they place these islands of needed merchandise in the craziest places possible? Like RIGHT next to a display of crackers with boxes only begging for the slightest touch to enable them to leap to the ground to get caught in the shaky wheels of your cart? Or that carefully arranged display of glass jars of jelly meant to do nothing but commit suicide by diving to the floor in an effort to make someone announce a cleanup needed while making you look like the worlds most uncoordinated person on the planet? It's a conspiracy perpetrated by the security crew to give themselves something to laugh at while ogling young women's breasts via perv cam.
The vendors are a whole different story. They are the only people that seem happy to be in the store in the first place. They care about one thing only, their specific merchandise. You could ask them for something within their direct line of sight and you will still get the same answer. "Sorry, I don't work here." They take up precious aisle space with their boxes full of items that are never the flavor, brand, size you are looking for and seem smug in their uniforms with their intricate inventory hand held scanners. After an hour of grocery shopping, I'm ready to wing a box of tampons at their head and tell them just where they can shove it! Do your business and move on, we've got places to be!
Finally, you get to the frozen foods area, with a brief stop in the chip section because if you're going to screw your diet, do it the right way! Sweet with salty is a must! You look into the fog covered door, struggling to find the treasure you seek and what do you know...empty. Closing your eyes and breathing so that you don't go all Hulk on those unfortunate enough to stand near, you decide to check carefully in case Ben & Jerry aren't flushed enough to have a personal vendor come to keep their shelves properly maintained. You open the door, the cold air instantly turning your nipples into weapons that could be considered a shank in prison, the air in your lungs protesting madly at the sudden temperature. You think you spy the flavor your looking for hiding behind the Phishy Food and reach for it, only to find out it's Cherry Garcia. Prepared to launch the pint at the nearest person like a frozen grenade, you continue to look. Amidst the half gallons of Bryers, you spy it. Peanut Butter Cup! And it hardly looks molested!
Feeling victorious, you head to the front, prepared to use the 10 items or less line, only to see a line stretching back to the pharmacy! What the hell?? Why would EVERYONE with just a few items get into the same fucking line? Don't they realize the stupidity of standing in one line where each person is guaranteed to need a full transaction verses the one or two people that have three carts worth of groceries. So, what does a sane, thinking human being do in such a situation? Start scoping the other lanes. They are your usual mix of parents with a horde of children screaming at one another, one deaf elderly person talking to an equally deaf elderly person about the high price of fruit as they creep forward at a snail's pace. The chatty individual that can't seem to realize that all the cashier wants to do is ring them up as fast as possible, not giving a shit if there is a difference between regular and fat free taste wise. The one person left on the planet that still uses checks, deciding to whip it out after the order is rung up, despite knowing that some form of payment is needed, looking desperately for a pen. That lovely individual sending their kids back to pick up one more thing as the kids crash against your cart because, obviously, depth perception was a recessive gene in their family. And finally, the one person that needs to argue every single price that's scanned, storming off in indignation in an attempt to prove their point, only to come back empty handed and try it again with another item. Mixed in with all those are people who, like you, just want to get this shit over with.
So, you start doing the estimating math. Which line of doom will be the fastest option? Which one will feature the least annoyance while while still showcasing the most competent cashier? You start watching the speed and accuracy of the cashier, dividing that time with the volume of the carts in the line. You check your own lane to note that the friendly, elderly cashier is asking for the second price check in five minutes. After a full minute of this sheer torture, you make your move. You head to the lane boasting three carts, but a mighty fast cashier. It does include a screaming toddler and a shopper with a fistful of coupons, but the cashier doesn't miss a beat. He clears the first shopper, then the second, he's halfway through when the unthinkable happens. He's tapped out by a dead eyed teenager with more zits than personality telling him that he's got to go on break. Out of sheer desperation you inquire if he has to leave right this second and he shrugs helplessly and walks off, leaving you in the greasy hands of an idiot.
Three items into his shift, he does an over ring. He mumbles into the PA system that he needs a manger to the front with a key. Of course he doesn't say which lane and simply flicks that annoying beacon known as the lane light. Standing with your cart and your impotent rage, you try to keep your cool. The toddler decides to pull items off the rack nearest her and toss them into your cart. The mother simply chuckles and tells her she's a naughty little thing. She doesn't offer to pick up the shit her little DNA sample felt the need to gift upon you, so you shimmy your ass in to unload tasty treats that are begging for you to reconsider and go with the flow since they're already in your cart. Resisting the urge to lob a Snickers at the precious child, you continue to wait for the manager, a very responsible person who takes pleasure in leaving their post by the returns and chatting with the hot guy from her school to deal with the bothersome details of her actual job. She walks over with the almighty key, simply turning it and hitting one fucking key before sauntering off. A couple of near misses by our ever diligent cashier and finally it's your turn. The heaven's rejoice and you eagerly put up your two items, Doritos and ice cream. Don't judge me. He scans your items and then it happens. The printer runs out of paper. You've already swiped your card. You've done your portion of the buying experience and there's no turning back, the transaction has been approved. All he had to do was rip that little ticket to freedom off the printer and you'd be on your way to calorie heaven. But life can't be that simple, can it? You're left with no other choice than to stand there and wait as he tries to Forrest Gump his way through a simple procedure that would have taken you about thirty seconds. The minutes tick by as finally he gets it right. You snatch the paper, tossing off something resembling your signature and happily haul ass out the door.
Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom! You fight off the urge to open up the carton right in the car and use a Dorito like a spoon and pig out in your parking space. A buzz from your cell phone alerts you to a text. Reading it, you begin to swear like a drunken sailor that slammed his wang into a car door. It reads: Pick up toilet paper while UR out.
