i bet you had no idea that grocery shopping, a seemingly mundane activity, we must repeat over and over and over and over again is much more abstruse than you ever could have imagined. it involves a complex thought process that embodies our very womanhood – the nurturing of our families, defining ourselves, maneuvering though the female social hierarchy, consumerism, romance, and unspoken suburban customs. so, let’s explore this fascinating dark underbelly of food procurement, shall we?
before we even pull out of the driveway and slightly run over the grass on the right side, we are very hotly divided on the issue of where we shop. we all have our idea of The One which is based on our individual major concerns: such as: is there adequate aisle space for pulling over carts and chatting? what about a chatting threesome? can they accommodate that? can i find those 100 calorie snack packs (who am i kidding, i eat the whole box on the car ride home) easily or have they moved them again when they were just fine they were they were? is the produce fresh or harboring fruit fly colonies? is the meat too expensive? and if so, does the butcher flirt with me adequately enough to make up for that? do they have a kosher and international section worth mentioning to my rabbi and cleaning woman? and what about the deli counter? didn’t i see that deli guy working at home depot last week? where is that damn take a number thingy? and does their health plan cover repetitive motion injuries because i really worry about that 18 year old who has no idea that he’s going to blow out his shoulders by the time he’s 30 from using the slicer 8 hours a day and the union dues he’s paying a ransom for won’t really cover it? and just how much plastic wrap is being used to re-wrap the slabs of cheese and meat between serving each customer? (i could do a page on the deli counter alone.) is the store clean and decoratively pleasing? do they bag for me or do i have to do it myself as the cans are being hurled at me at 50 mph down the conveyor belt? and most importantly, do they have a comprehensive and organized selection of random non grocery shit i can buy at whim so i can be sure i’m spending $200.00 every 15 minutes? but, after much research and hundreds of thousands of dollars in impulse buys, i have come to this simple conclusion: like a man, there is no one supermarket that will fulfill all of my needs. and like the aforementioned demon beasts, some markets have the thickest cuts of meat and some have the largest bananas. others are the cheapest, but don’t have a large selection. some are expensive and gourmet, but kind of self involved and pretentious, never stopping once to ask about me and my shopping needs. some are very attentive with excellent service and keep you coming back, others, leave you feeling cold and abandoned. some are pretty, but mostly empty inside and some are homely, but really comfortable. and in light of this epiphany, i no longer feel that i must choose and commit myself to just one market. i can use them all depending upon my needs and mood at the time…
then there are the personal decisions to be made about the type of shopper one is. major self-defining moments like: am i a couponer or not? if yes, am i extreme or casual and just happy when i remember the one 25 cent one i have that is one hour away from expiration? normally, i just collect them until they expire and then revel in the accomplishment of organizing my purse by throwing them away at the end of each month. can i ever be a preventative shopper or will i continue to only go when i am down to the last unopened can of creamed corn that was from 1994 and why is that even in my house anyway? will i study every store’s weekly circular like it’s the bible and know every sale item before i get there and then run from market to market to get an extra 5 cents off (highly, highly unlikely)? there is the issue of being a brand versus non brand buyer (store brand, which is exactly the same shit for less bucks, is fine for me, but the ex husband thew a fucking tantrum if i bought something otherwise). (and, by the way, remember when you were a kid and it was actually just a black and white label that said GENERIC or SOUP?) am i a holier than thou label reader who won’t buy a damn thing with high fructose syrup or partially hydrogenated oils in it until i get to the organic section and see they want FIVE BUCKS FOR A TINY BAG OF PRETZELS? and think a little bit of that stuff wont hurt them will it? am i an ipod wearer or do i openly sing along to the lite fm, the favored soundtrack of The Suburban Supermarket (which i so dearly love but haven’t totally come out of the closet about. That Brandy really is such a fine girl…)? am i a sampler or a faith buyer? why are grapes universally okay to taste but you can’t take a bite out of an apple? surely, they wouldn’t charge me $8.oo a pound for sour cherries out of season! or would they? and forget the bulk section. do they really think i’m putting the correct sku on the sticker when i’m mixing stuff in one bag that ranges from 1 to 10 dollars a pound? please. i’m taking an average and we all know that. and what about being a recycler with those I’m Greener Than Thou reusable bags? first of all, don’t sell me something that will save you money. give them away free if you want me to use ‘em.
once you have a cart in hand*, you must navigate a battlefield littered with social landmines that spurn endless internal dialogues that go something like this: there’s that bitch and her friends from the pre-school who i see like 8 times a week but they never say hello. they shun me at the supermarket. who still does that after high school? and i look like shit, but i’m coming from the gym. what’s her excuse? at least i exercised. just wearing gym clothes doesn’t make you thin, you know. shit, did she see me? avoid avoid, alter course. whew, narrow escape. oh no, there’s that crazy chick who talks my ear off. quick, hide in the magazine section. omg, i just want to get a few things. why did i come here today? and OH SHIT, is that The Senior’s Bus? crap, now i will never get out of here. i know they have to eat and i know i will be old one day but i have like 40 minutes to get everything done before i have to get the girls (damn my after bus stop napping) and if i get stuck behind one, it’s All Over. omg, there’s a gf i haven’t seen in ages, but i feel so fat today and i have like no makeup on. plus she is with her ugly kid, who’s name i can never remember. head down. keep moving. maybe she won’t see me. and there is that chick with the twins i don’t actually know but i see every single time i am here. god, she always looks so exhausted. i feel like i should just say hello at this point, but what if she wants to talk? i don’t want that. i’m a lone milf today hunting down my groceries without the pack!
*do i really have to tell you that i drive carts about as well as i drive actual cars? i actually crashed a car cart with my child in it into a freezer case. and just imagine how i attempt to master the whole coffee or cell in one hand thing while i attempt to steer with the the other – one handed. plus at 5’0, i am scarcely taller than the cart, so it’s just like the old lady in ferris beuller who eyes are barely above the steering wheel. this is why i wear heels.**
of course, if i have come fresh off a mani/pedi, shower, haircut, and a loss of 10 pounds in a fabulous outfit and heels** (because it’s always appropriate to shop for food in heels. what these old things? just threw them on) because this is my only major event of the day, then it’s a whole different scene. then i am there for at least 3 hours seeking out everybody i can to chat with like i’m at a reunion and flirting with all the underage produce guys until my frozen foods defrost. look at these melons, boys. you got any bananas? yah, im old old enough to be your mother, but no one else pays attention to me, so suck it up and check out my cleavage, buddy, because someone better tell me i am hot today. and where else can bored, unappreciated suburban housewives find self worth if not in the produce department? certainly not in poultry. and forget seafood. though, i did once stalk an adorable front end manager for a year until he asked for an out of state transfer. boy, i sure do miss Cute Joey.
and after i have made my way through every single aisle for my goods, waited endlessly at the deli counter because some people do their entire shopping there buying things i have never heard of like a pimento loaf (wtf is that and who eats it? well, that guy before me i guess), narrowly escaped that frightening, grabby, disembodied hand from the other side of the milk case, annoyed countless stock boys to bring me out a box of anything that wasn’t already out, noticed that the guys stocking up the freezer cases are wearing parkas and gloves for below zero conditions (do they actually go to alaska for the frozen salmon burgers?), wasted 25 minutes reading all the funny cards in the stationary/random balloon section (who is paying $4.95 for a card in this economy?), wasted another 25 in the floral department (before realizing my stupid cat will just east 30.oo worth of tulips), nearly seized at the amount of teas and neighboring cheese counter choices, witnessed mounds of cardboard disappear ominously into The Back, mistook every outside vendor with a snack bag for someone who works there that i can ask random grocery questions of, wandered like a lost child looking for those tiny elusive crackers my kid likes that aren’t where they were last time, checked out/stalked any available looking age appropriate man, spent 30 minutes in the hair care and makeup aisle before deciding everything was way too overpriced and i will just go to Harmon where they take Bed Bath and Beyond coupons (for shizzle, peeps), repeated the same exact thing in the vitamin aisle, noticed an entire gluten free section that wasn’t there last time (is this really such an epidemic now? i had no idea.), successfully avoided my nemesi, drank 2 cups of coffee (one of which was a refill which i deemed complimentary), scarfed down a tray of sushi, eaten every sample that came my way and pretended i would buy to make at home (never gonna happen, sista), patronized the attached but somehow separate booze shop because new jersey is bizarre when it comes to drinking, and slunk out of the pharmacy area with the knowledge that the pharmacist knows too much and i may have to kill him at some point, its finally time to check out.
now, let me begin by saying, i think it’s wonderful that my favorite supermarket strongly believes in equal opportunity employment and hires The Handicapable to work there. everybody has a place in this great land of ours, but i just don’t think that place is on the front lines of battle at the checkout bringing the whole war to a grinding halt. this is the place where a store can make or break my shopping experience. and, frankly, there are just too many cashiers to avoid at this point in my shopping career: there is overly friendly, high functioning, autistic man who wants to be my facebook friend, deaf guy with whom communication is impossible due to my lack of ASL proficiency, crazy/angry cat lady who’s black shirt is completely covered in cat hair, sports a cat lapel pin while discussing her 8 cats, and admonishes me for mixing my peppers even though they are all the same price per pound. there’s Germophobe Betty who wears blue medical gloves for my protection or hers more likely- i’m not completely sure, and practically blind, 83 year old guy with an extremely limited range of peripheral vision and motion who tosses my food near the bag and hopes most of it makes it in. the star cashiers are always holed up in the express lanes which i never qualify for even when i come in “for just a few things.” and even if i were brave enough to flout social convention and ignore the limits and go over, by say, 5 or 50 items, i can’t take the openly disgusted glances of the people behind me (since i’m totally one of those annoyed people when it suits me). and i always wonder if the cashier is looking at what i bought with judgement. like, does she approve of my organic fruits, but wonder where the 47 cans of chef boy ardee fit in? and what if she knows i don’t wash my produce before eating it because i don’t think it really makes a difference, but that it sends my mother into a tizzy? and at this point, it seems fitting for me to address those of you still writing checks these days: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? it’s time that was just outlawed.
all of this aside, there are rare times when i am the mode of The Super Shopper and my food adventure is always so full of promise. when i relish my arrival at my favorite market, full of vigor and vim, and park 27 rows back, because why not get the exercise? thank god i am healthy with all of my limbs i say. with my super duper list in hand, my weekly menu painstakingly planned, and my coupons clipped, i glide effortlessly like i am jesus walking on water up and down each aisle, scrutinizing every nook and cranny, crossing off items as i gently place them in perfect harmony in my cart (here carrots, you go next to celery. soon you will be soup brothers), and feeling smug for remembering things not even on the master list (thought i would forget you randomly sized lithium battery, didn’t ya?). i painstakingly pore over every ingredient on the labels as i imagine my darling children eating perfectly healthy snacks and balanced meals that i have lovingly prepared like the earth mother i am. no bags of salad for me -i will chop my own vegetables, make my own fruit salad, and mix my own dressings. and after two extremely self-satisfying hours, i place all of my items on that magic conveyor belt in a food utopia, grouped by category and temperature needs of course, at the register of the cashier i have elected to share my prize with that day. and after it is all accounted for, (“oh, don’t forget the water on the bottom of the cart,” because i am such the very honest shopper…today), on a receipt at least a foot long, and i have swiped my “club card” which tallies my purchases to collect endless secret information about my fascinating buying habits, but never actually births a coupon, i am, oh so, pleased to swipe my credit card through the machine and pay the over priced booty for my cart full of pure love. on the ride home, i can just see myself slaving away over my home made meals born of the very best and purest ingredients. we will gather round a properly set table and discuss our day at great length. and when i get home, i can’t wait to put everything away, which inevitably always spawns a new reorganizantion mission of my pantry and fridge. then i sit back and revel in my fabulousness. did you say cook tonight? oh no, i must rest from achieving this selfless feat of human endurance. and the house was just cleaned. tonight, i got us a rotisserie chicken – already cooked, of course. maybe tomorrow i will make one of those planned meals, but i wont bother with the salad because, really who feels like doing all of that chopping after a whole day of work? and the fruit salad can wait too. they can just eat an apple for now. and by day three, i am serving microwaved, but still partially frozen waffles on a paper plate callously tossed across the counter without so much as a hello. day four i’m throwing out all of the spoiled fruit and vegetables because canned and frozen just weren’t good enough for my brood. and day five, i’m putting the uncooked meats in the freezer vault not to be seen again until a protective layer of ice for maximum freezer burn has formed over them. and, besides, if i do make something and then there are leftovers, i will need the perfect, exact size of tupperware in which to store the remains. and what if i don’t have it? that is storage blasphemy. no, i can’t risk it, maybe i will open a can of tuna and possibly mix some lemonade. but, i’m positive i will repeat this whole shopping process again and again regardless of this predictable course of events, because next time will be different…
well, i will be sure to avoid you next week at the market. 
Update
