I can’t navigate a fucking grocery store.
Mostly because I can’t plan my route effectively and end up walking around 3 miles back and forth between the health food section, the non-health food section, and then always somehow the auto body parts and paint section. “I was just trying to find a plastic bin,” I explain to the paint mixer as I’m sitting cross-legged on Aisle 53 tangled in the bungee cords I was testing for stretchability.
I don’t believe in Fitbits, because I have enough things to make me feel bad about myself than tracking my calories, but if I did, that shit would be blowing up on Sunday afternoons when I do my weekly shopping.
Hot people, what are you doing at Fred Meyer? I’m not interested in doing anything about you, you just make me feel shitty about wearing a beanie and no underwear. There is nothing worse than showing up to a crowded supermarket when your hungover as shit, because you don’t get paid for 4 more days and can’t afford take out, and the produce aisle is full of attractive couples, holding hands and making you feel shitty about your life decisions.
Last time I was at Freddie’s, I went to grab my grocery list from my purse, (which I don’t even know why I bring because I only eat turkey lunch meat and eggs on this stupid diet) and I ended up pulling out a pair of my own Victoria Secret low-rise hipster boy shorts. Of course, of course I would come to the store, during the most popular time of the day, when all the hot people are here, and pull my underwear out of my purse, in the produce section, and then drop them in front of the potato stock guy. Maybe he saw this as a sexual gesture, like dropping a hanky, maybe I passed for a college sophomore who was having an extended walk of shame. I’ll never know what he thought, because we looked at each other, and I bent down and grabbed them, coughed a chunky I’m-getting-over-a-cold cough, and ran away. I really need to stop stuffing my laundry anywhere and everywhere.
Also, I don’t know about you guys, but Self-checkout stresses me the fuck out. Something bad always happens. The bag is either not in the check out area, or it is and it isn’t supposed to be, and people have to watch the epic battle of woman vs machine for 20 minutes before I can get a receipt. I’ve never felt more helpless than when I have to find my produce code while a line of 5 people watch me sweat, and wonder if my dress is on backwards. News flash dick bags: It is on backwards, and do you want to know another thing?! These aren’t generic almonds. They’re tamari almonds that cost $11 a pound but I’m ringing them up as bulk, non-organic almonds , and the reason I’m sweating so much is I’m nervous about getting caught, so you can all suck it and WAIT IN LINE.
After I’ve walked a half-marathon, and got through the final video game boss of a payment system, I am faced with the ultimate choice. DO. I. PUT. MY. CART. AWAY. There are some catalysts here to consider: Is it raining? Would anyone see you if you were to leave it to the side? How far away are you parked from the cart return? Are you shopping alone? Do you feel like you’re going to puke?
Mostly I try to be an upright citizen and put my cart in the little metal corral. But sometimes…..sometimesssss. I don’t. There you have it, a proper confession. I get in my giant, gas-guzzling SUV, leave my cart in the parking lot, and head home with 1 pair of underwear, 4 bungee cords, one of those $10 for 3 bottle of wine deals, turkey lunch meat, no produce what-so-ever, and a shit ton of tamari almonds.
milky feelings 