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••• Saturday, November 08, 2003

A Trip Down the Aisle
I hate grocery shopping. I haven't always felt this way. It just snuck up on me, much like the declining eyesight, increasing body weight and the seemingly uncontrollable need to highlight my hair at frequent intervals.

And like those aforementioned hallmarks of aging, I believe my increasing dislike of and impatience with grocery shopping is age-related, via a primitive, inherent genetic code. For example, way back in the day of the Troglodyte, Bertha Butt (you know, one of the Butt sisters) provided sustenance for the little Butts. It was instinct. Essence encoded.

In consideration of the lifespan of the Troglodyte, if Bertha wasn't already dead by 45, she certainly wasn't feeling up to grocery shopping for the family on a regular basis. That was a chore left to the young'ins.

Even though I'm not nearly dead, I believe that the same DNA code that robs me of my eyesight, signals butt enlargement and provides me with the compulsion to adhere to a strict highlights touch-up rotation, also tells me it's time to hang up my coupon pouch.

I won't bore with all the details, but let's just say that yesterday I came home from the gathering fields feeling quite pissy.

First I want to say that when I get to heaven, I'm going to ask how it is that there can be only 20 cars in a grocery store parking lot, but 13 different shoppers per aisle, inside the store. There are 10 aisles. I'm no good at math, but even I can figure there's something faulty here.

Truthfully, I really don't mind the traffic of us "regular" shoppers, strolling with our carts, lip-synching to K.C. and the Sunshine Band playing on Musak. What I hate are the SWOCs (Shopper's With Out Carts). Swocs are Shoppers on a mission. They're in a hurry. They're bold. They're wearing two inch heels you can hear clicking toward you from an aisle away.

Click click click, stop, "excuse me" as she peers over my shoulder. Two side-step click clicks, another "Excuse me" and a "May I get in here for just a second?" is a signal for us regular shoppers to take two steps back from the shelf. There is a collective seethe as we stare at the canned tomato products, pretending to be amazed at the gazillion things they're doing these days with tomatoes.

I encountered a couple more Swocs before I was done and by the time I hit the checkout lane, I was taking no prisoners. I feel sorry for the bag boy. I know he was only doing his job inquiring "paper or plastic?"

By the time I was pulling out of my parking spot, I was praying that I wouldn't encounter another shopping peeve, the person who slowly pushes the grocery cart down the middle of the parking lot drive. I swear those people are suicidal.

Why was I praying? Because I'm truly a nice person and didn't want to spend the rest of my life in jail.

I made it home safely and saw my family through another successful dinner hour. Regarding my inner Bertha, I'm not sure how many hunting and gathering successes I have remaining.

I think I saw a flier around here somewhere for Schwan's.

Ima Regular Smock Jock
I'm almost done with the back of the Smocking on the Move. I've had a few minor bumps, but nothing significant. It appears Barney Fife has been on sabbatical. I meant to give more knitting details here but my husband is commandeering the computer for the rest of the day and I at least wanted to get this much of the post out.

So more on the knitting front at a later date. And I'm not feeding you a Crock of Smock, because Schwan's doesn't carry it.

Author's Note: I'm not going to be able to proof this post much (I like to do it after publishing once, too) and the husband is buggin' so forgive any glaring booboos, I'll get to them

# posted by Marcia @ 11:28 PM


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