They have wings, but do they fly?

I abhor grocery shopping. I avoid it more than I do the long, scraping tool of which dental hygienists are such fans. As in all other environs, I want to yell to the gods when a bratty child grabs several boxes of Rice a Roni and defiantly hurls them to the ground. The great vinegar debacle cleanup is always in aisle nine; nine times out of 10 I just happen to be there too. Six weeks ago a pit stop for cleaning products turned into an episode of COPS: DC as two women hurled insults and canned goods at each other across checkouts 7 and 8. These are my Calgon moments.

All I wanted today were four bags of groceries. Four bags is a self-imposed time and weight limit that will prevent me from a) crossing a drama threshold that might prevent me from e’er Safeway shopping again, and b) acquiring purple battle scars on my fingers and wrists as I balance bags from my car to the apartment.

I had my agenda, and I moved swiftly through the aisles to complete it. Pasta. Tomato sauce. Salad dressing. A child performed cart balancing acts near the pickles to impress her cell-phone occupied father. I kept my eye on the prize. Gerbera Daisies. Frozen dinners. The Lean Cuisine area looked like the aftermath at Filene’s on Bridal Sale day. One entire case was bone dry and its interior lights were turned off. I grabbed what remnants I could, found milk with an expiration date later than tomorrow! and made my way to the checkout. I had spent only 20 minutes in the pit.

I located the shortest line and grinned openly at my savvy. I HAVE THE POWER! The guy in front of me clearly lived as I did, and kept it to a three-bag rule max due to what appeared to be some sort of insane tendency to commute by bike. We were not so lucky with the couple in front of him. Price check. Not on batteries, not on Twinkies, not on Windex. No, no. On Poise maxi pads. This is the moment most women dread; I for one would have offered to pay up to 200% of the full price or would have thrown my ample body onto the register rather than have the cashier hold those babies up proudly for all to see.

It wasn’t to be so. We soon learned that the woman was willing to wait for the discount and, joy that the store didn’t have runners to check prices. The cashier must venture into the wild, over babies and bananas, and do it herself. She walked to the back of the store (where feminine hygiene items are hidden, much like adult DVDs at the video store) and returned only after I had consumed the covers of every magazine in her line (is Paris REALLY going after Mary Kate’s ex?) Five minutes and a likely measly 30-cent discount on the pads later, we were back in business.

Price check. I’m sorry, I didn’t rewind my real-life Tivo again, did I? This time the item in question was a whole-roasted chicken, and something was apparently wrong with its hefty price, too. The cashier left again, this time heading to the OTHER back room where they keep the live chickens and cows and hot dogs before their imminent demise. And we waited. Oh yes, we waited. Just as I was about to turn to the mini-horoscope books, the cashier returned with two shiny chickens. The group compared their buttery exteriors and prices, one was finally chosen and rung up, and after only twenty extra minutes the couple could finally SCURRY HOME AND COVER THREE POUNDS OF CHEAP, GLISTENING CHICKEN WITH DISCOUNTED MAXI PADS. Amen!

As fast as I could, I threw my four plastic bags and 15 pounds of cat litter into my car (only to find an unopened box of cat litter from my last foray into Hell) and maneuvered one-way streets and poorly placed stoplights to my home, where I discovered that a neighboring assnut had parked his Saab across two sacred street spots.

I should have known and I will never ignore Its will again. As Nature intended, I will eat my black bean burritos at the dive down the street, order General Tso’s via my cell, and amass Subway club cards by the dozen. And I will open a geriatric-intended Peapod account even before hitting the age of 32.