Ever notice how quiet it actually is in the grocery store? Appearances say it might be loud and brash, but listen closely…. its actually quite peaceful. A soft murmur is usually present. Conversations muted by aisles of boxed and canned goods. Footfalls softened by the hum of the freezer cases. Interject an occasional “but Mommy…PLEASE?!” Then a squawk over the intercom shatters the air – but that only lasts a few seconds. Ah, back to tranquility.
Yes, the grocery store is my sanctuary. But I maintain a few stipulations. I must have plenty of time - no less than two hours. I must have a small list – about 20 items is perfection. And I MUST be alone. No husband, no children, no cell phone chirruping in my ear. Wholly and completely alone. Again, this means NO husband!
Just the thought of my husband in the grocery store gives me great stress. No, let me rephrase…it terrifies me. Especially if I’m not with him. I wait for the day the police cruiser skims my curb and two uniforms march up my steps. Oh dread! You see, my dear sweet husband was formerly a grocery sacker. And a checker. And he’s from the OLD school of sacking and checking. The one where the question “paper or plastic” is NEVER asked. Where ALL of the cold and freezer items can actually be found together in the same bags. Where breakables are gingerly placed into the bag out of harm’s way. And where the bags are just light enough for my grandmother to carry them…not that she’d ever need to. Not in the OLD school of sacking and checking.
He despises the new fangled grocery store staff. The “Customer Service” Pit Bull. The one who barks at the employees and struts around like a rooster. The checkers. Half-naked, glitter-slathered, unnaturally-hued haired chickies who say “Hihowareyoo” and then proceed with their cell phone conversation while mashing your items onto the scanner. “Oh…NO WAY!! You soooo did NOT say that!!…” And finally, the worst monster of all, the SACKERS. These gangly, multiply-pierced adolescents who toss your PERFECT tomatoes all willy-nilly into the nether reaches of the sack, then pummel them with 19 jars of baby food. The ones who believe your soft, squeezable bread loaf truly desires to be guillotined by a frozen pizza box. Yes, you know them. You’ve most likely harbored ill-conceived notions about them as well. They’ve crushed your Doritos and mashed your bananas. They’ve squashed your shampoo until it dripped on your peaches. They’ve mangled your meat until it squoozed out of the wrapper and plopped onto your cotton balls. I KNOW you know what I’m talking about. And I KNOW you know of WHOM I am speaking.
These shopping trips give my husband great heart palpitations. Just the thought of going into the store and spying “Glitter Chest” poised at the checkout stand sends his blood pressure through the roof! His eyes glaze over and you can visibly see his jaw set and his molars grind. The steering bar of the cart all but snaps like a twig under his white-knuckled grip. He starts spelling out the game plan in the parking lot as we near the entrance. “You get the apples, not too many – the red ones, about 3 or 4, and I’ll grab the lettuce. We’ll meet up next to the bread in front of the tortillas. Don’t get cheese yet…we’ll get on the way out.” As the doors part and we enter the store, his pulse quickens, his color pales and his breathing turns into panting. It’s like the electronic eye of the door zaps him into a pod person. A fine mist of sweat appears on his furrowed brow. His leisurely stroll becomes the Boston Marathon and he starts to sound oddly similar to an auctioneer. “Cereal over THERE, soup HERE, No, not THAT one ...THAT one – get it, GET IT! Put it HERE – NO…HERE - LEMME HAVE IT!” Talk about a man on a mission~
He also has a specific path he prefers to take throughout the store. As one can imagine, his route of preference is usually blocked and a detour is necessary. Oh drama and tragedy – we may have double back for cheese! And for those of you who shop at the same store, it would be wise to choose the correct side of the aisle to drive your cart. Pretend you’re driving your car. Please do NOT stop in the center to ponder a selection or consult your list. You WILL be run over. Most likely with great force and intent. There is no tolerance for lolly-gaggers, such as myself. He shops by a creed - “Get in - get the goods - get out!”
According to my husband, one must ALWAYS begin on the same side of the store and choose dairy and meat products last. There also exists a VERY specific manner in which to load the cart in order to “trick” the sackers into sacking correctly. It goes something like this… If you separatesimilar items within the cart, the checker will grab them in NO certain order, depending on what’s closest, and send them to the sacker. When the goods reach the sacker, they will have miraculously sorted themselves into groups of like items. The poor unknowing sacker then has no choice other than to load the bags properly. Cold things with cold things, cans separated into small groups of 3-4, softer items on the fringes. Yeah…right! It’s a great idea, strange as it may seem, but come on…who’s he kidding? Its NEVER gonna work!
We select our dairy items and meats, and make our way to the front of the store. I wonder if he’s noticed if Glitter Chest is working today? A glance in his direction tells me he has. His jaw muscles are working at a frantic pace and his panting has turned harsh and ragged. There she is. I see her, now. I’m almost blinded by the light reflecting off of the glitter on her chest. Let the games begin.
The typical greeting is slung in our direction. “Hihowareyou.” It’s really more of a statement than an actual greeting. With no eye contact whatsoever. He starts in.
He composes himself with the well-practiced and often used old school marm face. “Excuse me…did you say something?” he quipps? She stares up with heavy lids – covered in Girl Power Peach Glitter Supreme eye shadow – and mouth agape. “I thought you asked a question,” he continues, “but I couldn’t understand what you said because you mumbled and wouldn’t look at me when you spoke.” His head bounces around like a Bobble-Head toy. I’m beginning to get that little quiver in the pit of my stomach. The one where you know you’re in trouble but aren’t sure of what you did just yet.
Glitter just smacks her gum and proceeds to grab more items from the cart. This blatant cold shoulder only adds fuel to the fire. “I can’t believe the customer service here! This is unspeakable!” He complains to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear. Recognition finally dawns on Glitter’s face. Ah! She knows who this is – he’schewed on her before. She pauses to glance up at my husband. She knows. And he knows that she knows. His eyes light up and his left foot begins to click a quick staccato. His movements become quick and jerky as he jumps to the end of the sacking station. His lips are pressed into a thin white line and he’s animatedly mumbling to himself. I know what’s about to happen. I’ve seen it too many times before. I also think I’m about to be sick.
My dear, sweet husband begins sacking our groceries himself. He refuses to wait for Glitter to complete her scanning and move on to help the sacker. We’ve dealt with this sacker before, too. He has blue hair and wears it in multiple spikes all over the crown of his head. “Sir…I’ll do that for you,” he offers as my husband approaches. “Not the way I want it done!” Hubby retorts promptly - and loudly. Spike looks as if he’s been slapped. I just want to go over and hug him, but I remain rooted where I stand. The items he’s already sacked are being hastily dumped out of the plastic bags they were in and grouped along the counter. Spike realizes who he’s working with now. He gets the same spark of recognition as Glitter. He smartly lays his plastic bag down and melts over to the next aisle. Bless him!
Paper bags are doubled and popped open, then packed efficiently by my man. It almost looks like an assembly line. An expletive of some sort accompanies each pop of paper, and a stream of mutterings ensues. Lots of phrases like assanine and never coming back and horrible serviceare thrown around. I can feel the stares of other shoppers now. I know what they’re thinking. That poor lady! I numbly move to the card scanner and attempt to act like I’m not melting from embarrassment. I look over at the counter. Empty bags on the left. Standing at perfect attention like a line of wooden soldiers. Small groups of goods huddle together like toddlers on a playground. Next comes the master play. He places one hand inside the bag and then, one by one, scoops the items up with the other. He appears to carelessly toss the jars and bottles into the bag, but they land gently in the hand hidden inside the bag. His head tilts this way and that way in perfect rythym with the cutting remarks he murmurs. In no time the bags are filled and moved effortlessly to the cart. And of course, they’re pieced together just like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
It’s my turn now. I slide the card through the reader. All eyes are on me now. Glitter is waiting to see if I’ll bite off the other side of her head. The gawkers are staring, too. They’re waiting to see if I’m going to be just as crazy. The receipt spools out in a long stream. It makes me think of what my guts feel like. I’m experiencing paralyzing stomach cramps and can’t decide if I want to throw up or wet my pants. My husband glares at me and waits for me to make some snide comment about the total. I won’t. I couldn’t. I never even look at the amount. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to pull me over to the dark side. He glares. They glare. I’m about to pass out. In a fog, I reach out take the receipt. I stammer “Thanks.” I can see a blurry sea of faces, but can’t focus on anyone clearly. My husband kicks the cart around to face the exit. “You’d think after we pay this much every 2 weeks they could fix the damn wheels on the damn carts.” My eyes cross, my stomach lurches and my world gets swirly. Maybe I’ll faint this time. I can only hope. I drag myself towards the door. It hums…and the panels part ever so slowly.
I take my first step outside. I feel like a convict who’s just been released from a long prison term. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Obviously for quite some time now, judging from the feeling of light-headedness and the length of time it takes to empty my lungs. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or fall on my face and kiss the ground. I’ve made it out alive. Again! Vaguely, I become aware of someone next to me. I look only with my eyes. It’s my husband. My man. Light of my life. Joy of my heart. My head slowly cranes to face him. He’s mumbling something. Complaining…I think. He’s regained his composure perfectly. I casually turn back to look at the exit door. I suppose I’m waiting for the barrage of canned good to come flying at my head. No one’s there. They must be gathering ammo. I break into a sprint towards the car. Maybe I can reach safety before the ambush. I jump in and slam the door, leaving my husband standing with his mouth hanging open. I take a look at the slip of paper crumpled in my hand. The grocery list. The tears begin to slide down my cheeks. We forgot the cheese.