Dudes! This blog is my 100th. The next blog I do will be a celebration of my 101st Blog. I have some questions to answer, some reader-love to deliver, and some apologizing for being so lame in the 100 Miles department lately. It’s all happening tomorrow. Don’t miss it!
So, Meeps is cooking me dinner, right? And my job is to pick up the ingredients. Which, in case you couldn’t tell, combines one bemused 2N and parts of the grocery store hitherto unfrequented by me (i.e., other than the frozen food section, or perhaps the dairy aisle).
I have my shopping list copied down from email (because I’m too cheap to buy a cartridge for my printer) onto a napkin and stuffed haphazardly into my purse. I have my cream-colored peasant skirt, dark green tank top, and combat boots on. I am prepared and ready for this shopping excursion. My interior monologue is going nonstop.
I locate a parking spot. I’m not too concerned about how far away I am from the front of the store, unlike the asshole in front of me that’s been circling the lot until he finds a spot that’s perhaps 20 feet closer than mine. I am amused when I see him still circling as I am entering the store.
I receive a sizing-up-type look of death from a woman on my way in the store. Ladies, you know the look. The one that starts at your combat boots, travels up to your skirt, your shirt, your sticky-uppy hair, and settles on the oversize sunglasses perched on your nose. A faint look of condescension crosses the woman’s face. I, of course, return the look. I realize that the “look” is nothing to be concerned about, as it is being delivered from a woman dressed in pink polka-dot pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. I move on.
The automatic doors whoosh open and I cross the threshold, greeted by a perky blond in a black Safeway apron. I pause to consult my list.
Item One: Small garlic bulb. Is that what they call the garlic thingies? Cool. I ask the perky blond where I might find the garlic. I had assumed somewhere in the bread aisle. Not sure why, it just sounded reasonable at the time. Actually, it’s found in the produce section. Go figure.
I proceed to the produce section, after first getting distracted by the previously-viewed videos. Which really aren’t on the way to the produce section, but they were there, so.
I’m a little worried now because the produce section is a little big and I have no idea where to find a smallish bulb of garlic. How will I know it is small? I have no frame of reference.
I look in what is called the ‘organic foods section’, where there is a variety of root-looking things, larger mushrooms than I have seen in my life, and assorted green-looking things. No garlic. I do actually know what it looks like, so I feel reasonably well-prepared.
I wander around for a couple of minutes. By the tomatoes? No. By the fruit? No. But there are some tasty looking little somethings, not sure what they are but they look good. I move on.
I find the garlic by the onions, which kind of makes sense to me when I think about it. But all the bulbs look the same size. Plus, I note that there is a special, and it is two bulbs for a dollar. I must get two, because I love a deal, and I know Meeps likes garlic. So I experimentally pick up a bulb and heft it in my palm. Does it feel small? Medium? I have no clue. I look around, because maybe there’s someone around that might be able to tell me. No luck, the only other shopper is an (at first) likely looking gentleman, but when he turns around he has this look about him that screams “I am here only to case out prospective victims.” I move on. I’m hoping I have a small bulb.
Item Two: five or six ounce tub of grated parmesan cheese. Not store kind. Sometimes it’s in the dairy section, sometimes in the deli. Okay. I travel to the back of the store, thinking that I have actually seen that type of thing in the deli before. I am looking for Frigo. All I can see is the damned store brand. I ponder a few minutes. I move on, I figure I’ll come back to that one.
I pass the wine rack. Shit! I left the bottle of wine at home.
I rack my brains in vain to remember the type of wine, because I really don’t want to drive all the way back to my house. It’s like, fifteen minutes away. And I have a whole entire selection in front of me. If I can remember what the frickin’ wine was.
Okay, I can’t remember. But I’m thinking that maybe, with chicken pasta, that a white wine would be good. Except everything comes in dark bottles. And I know I don’t like chardonnay, I had a riesling the other day, and beyond that the only thing I know is I don’t want to bring a white zinfandel or wine-in-a-box.
I move on. I’ll come back to that after I pick up Item Three: boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Foster Farms or better.
Okay I’m pretty sure that I’m not supposed to bring over frozen chicken breasts. So I walk around until I find the cooler thingie that has the chicken stuff in it. Chicken breast tenders, thin-sliced chicken breast fillets, regular (?) chicken breast fillets, and holy crap! Chicken is expensive. I vacillate a few minutes between the chicken breasts that were packaged today with today as the “sell-by” date but with the various “dollar off” stickers on it, and the non-stickered ones that have seven days to go until their expiration date.
I go for the stickered one. It’s a good deal, and I can’t resist a good deal.
Next item: Item Four: Small box fettucini noodles. Oh jeez. Where the hell is the pasta?
Four aisles later, I locate the pasta. The only problem is that, based on the cheese requirements, I don’t want to get the store brand, and there is a very wide variety of all kinds of pasta noodles. There’s like, three or four types of spaghetti noodles alone. There’s various size packages. I don’t know what to do, and now I’m getting desperate. AH! There’s a non-store brand package of fettucini noodles. I grab it and run.
Next item. Oh crap, we’re back to wine and cheese. I head back to the dairy aisle. I don’t see Frigo. I get distracted by the wine aisle. I look for five minutes. I have no freaking clue. I’m going to cry.
I go back to the cheese. Finally, I find one that is not the store brand, but it’s shredded, not grated. I have no idea if this will make a difference! I grab it anyway and toss it in my basket.
Back to the wine.
Fuck this. I’m going home to get the bottle sitting on my counter.
I get to the line, and the checker is wearing a size-too-small white button down shirt with a slightly dingy Oscar the Grouch embroidered on the breast, beneath which is embroidered, “I Don’t Do Nice.”
Awesome. Just rad.
I juggle the basket, my purse, my debit card and the stupid pen for the do-it-yourself club card entry where you scan your card.
I exit the store, only $10 lighter, and head to the car. I speed back to the house, let the dog out again, grab the stupid wine, and fifteen minutes later I’m on the road, with the smell of summer coming through the windows and the wind in my hair, thinking: Jeez, I really need to work on this shopping and cooking thing.