Monday Morning Shopping

I should point out that I try not to go grocery shopping on a Monday morning, unless there is something essential, we need.  Like dinner for tonight, or cleaning supplies of which we’re out.  There are three, yes, three supermarkets near us.  One has better prices and weekly sales that the other two don’t.  Technically, the sales go into effect on Sunday, but the store is clogged with younger shoppers and families whisking about the aisles, and there are a multitude of small children.  So, the senior population, at least everyone not hitting the dollar store, waits until Monday morning. 

In I went, and I couldn’t believe the crowd.  Should have known – the handicapped parking was overflowing.  And the “riding” carriages, the ones where you sit down and cruise about the store were all in use. That’s never a good sign.  But I went in anyway.  Apparently, I’m one of the more mobile members of the senior community, because I was moving pretty well.  A fair percentage were at a crawl, or as Meryl Streep says in “Devil Wears Prada”, moving at glacial speed.  Many tend to lean over the handle too, and I get it – the joints definitely aren’t what they used to be. 

What I find interesting is that many come in pairs.  An older couple, often one of whom is less ambulatory than the other.  Which makes up for the fact that the one that can move has an untended hearing loss, which leads to a degree of, shall we say, tension in the aisles.  Some are a team, while others are more like the Yankees / Red Sox, down to the last out in the 9^th inning.  They have great difficulty agreeing on their purchases.  One overhears comments like, “that’s not the one we buy” and “no, I told you the one in the blue package”.  “Why are you buying that?  We don’t eat that.”  You have to ask yourself, these folks have lived together, maybe for forty years or more, in the same house.  Have they not noticed, nor do they know what they use from day to day, week to week?  More than likely, they cancel each other out in the voting booth too.  Paper and cleaning products seem to generate the most controversy, followed closely by fruits and vegetables.  Also, to the casual observer, neither has a list, so these two contrarians are roaming the aisles, largely improvising and selecting on the spur of the moment.  Another observation is that the one sent to wait at the deli is often unaware of the required purchases.  They’ll look over everything, trying to decide.  Then they choose to order a slice or two of everything.  Those are the ones that are really fun.  Older women, possibly on their own, are the best.  They never order more than a quarter to a third of a pound of anything, but they also like variety.  Most deli stations now have prepackaged meats and cheeses, but they avoid those so they can tie up a deli clerk for a considerable time.  There was an older lady in line last week that took a number and then wandered off, so she missed it when they called her number.  The deli guy moved on to me, only to have the lady come back quite indignant.  He asked her, quite rightly, where she was, and she told him that she was blocked behind the carts (meaning mine). He politely explained that he’d take her order when he finished mine, which didn’t suit her.  She informed him that she didn’t like his attitude.  I stood there like Switzerland, not wishing to get involved. 

I was in produce yesterday, angling toward the green beans, but there was a gentleman in a seated cart right in front, close but not fully blocking the way.   I managed to maneuver in front of him, and, being the thoughtful person I am, asked if there was anything I could do to help him as he looked a bit distressed.  He told me that his cart had either broken down or run out of juice, and somebody had gone to get him another one.  As it had been some time, I told him I’d check on their progress when I got up front to the cashiers, which I did.  The manager was standing in the front, and I told him there was an elderly customer stranded in produce, and he went to check.  I’m rather hoping he’s not still sitting there.

A visit to the grocery store is a true treasure trove of curious and quite amusing life situations.  I play a game with myself to see the purchases of the people in front of me and try to envision a meal from all those things.  Men, particularly those that look single, will have a couple of cases of beer, a stack of frozen pizzas, possibly one or two tv dinners (for the sake of appearance, and to counteract the pizzas), and a bag or two of cookies. They think they’ve got the food groups all covered, which of course they don’t. If there is meat at all, it’s steaks or hamburger, sometimes some bacon or ribs. Everything other than the beer is pretty much in the category of “prepared” foods. Not much is fresh or natural, unless you count the hops in the beer. There could be the occasional fruit or vegetable, but the fish and chicken are usually sitting safely back at the meat and seafood counters.  I like to go during the week and mid-day, because there are fewer people to slow me down.  Some shoppers prefer the “aimless wandering” approach.  These folks are much like first timers at Disney World.  Each isle is a whole new world of wonder, to be taken in slowly from the exact center so that nobody can get by on either side.  Although in truth, Her Ladyship accuses me of doing that too.  These shoppers, as I mentioned before, are typically found draped over the cart handle in almost a “v” shape – they probably have several La-Z-Boy products at home, and they’ll never get caught picking up unseemly speed. 

Her Ladyship and I shopped together during a brief period, before she informed me that it was easier for her to do it by herself.  She would move ahead, clearing traffic and setting the pace, and I’d follow pushing the cart.  I was usually too far behind, in which case she’d be giving directions to complete strangers, or I’d be too close and would run the cart into her ankles.  After an aisle or two, she would assume control of the cart and send me in search of something obscure.  I guess that would take me off her hands for a while.

I have been accused, mostly by our daughter, of hoarding. I like to keep back-ups in case we run short on something.  And in fairness, when she’s home, she likes to cook, and will ask me, “Dad, do you have . . . . .?”  I like to be able to say I do, although this week, surprisingly, we were out of sesame oil. She does spring those items on me, along with fresh herbs, sea salt, such things at the last minute, but as I mentioned, we have several grocery stores within striking distance, so it’s not typically a problem. In the store the other day, I picked up an extra two-pack of paper towel, as I only had one roll in reserve.  Cleaning out a closet a while back, I came across a 10-pack of toilet paper that I ordered on line during the pandemic.  But, as you know, times were tough and it wasn’t always available. And, it’s one-ply, which I hate.  That has the rugged construction of a handful of lint. I also picked up an extra ice-melt because we’ll be heading into the winter storm season soon, and I only had one in reserve, plus, of course, the one I’ve already started using.  And I had to order a couple more filters for the furnace because I used the last one.  (I know – that’s shockingly negligent.)

Some people, I’ve heard, actually do run out of some items before they buy more.  Unless it’s something perishable, like bananas, with a duration of about a half hour, I personally can’t imagine that.  When we had meatloaf over the weekend, I pulled some ground turkey out of the freezer, leaving only one in reserve.  I’ll pick up one or two more when I go the store next.  The Princess tells me that finding something in our freezer requires a skilled team of archeologists. But there’s something very comforting about having what we need on hand.  It’s like being a survivalist without the underground bunker.

In summarizing my Monday morning shopping excursion, bobbing and weaving in and out of old people like a cyclist in the Tour de France and giving some my best “band director” stare in the direction of a few others at the deli counter, and waiting with infinite patience outside as they and their cartloads make their way across the crosswalk, it was successful.  In fact, a scratch ticket I bought for Herself was a winner – $20.  I’ll invest that wisely in new plants for the garden, although Her Ladyship “is thinking . . . . . . . no.”