Bill and I were sitting in that special kind of traffic jam that comes just before the holidays and is the result of a small town growing like an overdose victim of Jack’s magic beans, leaving mundane things like convenience and city planning behind.
The roads were packed like the straw in a peach milkshake. Fruit gets stuck in the end, all movement stops, and nobody gets any relief. With a milkshake you can pull out the straw and suck out the peach pulp. With overburdened roads, the obvious answer is to block off one lane with orange cones and commit to a ten-year construction project.
We'd dropped our kids off at a mega-bookstore at what seemed like a short time earlier, doling out the last bite-sized candy bars from Halloween left in the bottom of my pocketbook to hold them until we got back and could hit a nearby buffet extravaganza. Sometimes eating out, even with two teenaged mouths to feed, is a better idea than a sound investment plan.
In the meantime, the Highway Patrol issued an all-points-bulletin to every mall-bound traveler in the area, describing our location, destination, and current state of irritability. That’s the only reasonable explanation for the fact that our car began to attract morons like a pan of biscuits attracts men named Bubba.
Traffic stalled and Christmas shoppers begin to share the joy of the season with their fellow travelers one finger at a time. I attempted to retain my normal good nature even though Bill was getting testy. He always gets that way when he misses snack time.
Bill: Do you have any more candy in your pocketbook?
Me: Why? Are you hungry?
Bill: No, I thought I would toss some out the window to lure people out of our lane.
Me: You’re being sarcastic because you’re too hungry. (Pointing across six lanes of stationary traffic.) There’s a Wendy’s. And a Chinese buffet. And a pizza place. I'll bet that gas station has candy bars.
Bill: Are you hungry?
Me: (Fumbling through my pocketbook.) No. Why do you keep bringing it up? Look--there’s that place with the wonderful barbecue ribs. I could walk there and back before you got to the red light.
(I find a cellophane-wrapped object which I pull surreptitiously from my bag. I wince as a tiny crinkling sound gives me away.)
Bill: What’s that?
Me: Nothing.
Bill: What is it?
Me: Nothing. Leave me alone, willya?
Bill: You have food.
Me: No I don’t. It’s a cough drop. (Here I wave the cough drop with a flourish. It’s of a nondescript color somewhere in between magenta and pink eye.)
Bill: I want half.
Me: It’s mine. I found it. (I fondle the cough drop like it was the One Ring.)
Bill: We can take turns licking it.
Me: (Pensively) I don’t think I’ve bought any cough drops this season. . .not since I had the flu that year we had the big snow.
Bill: You can have it.
Me: No you. I can wait.
Bill: I can wait, too.
We laughed together, the warm laughter of two people coming together over misfortune.
Under cover of laughter, I shucked the paper off the cough drop like it was a peel and eat shrimp and popped it in my mouth.
Just then, in a holiday miracle moment, traffic parted like the men’s restroom line for a father-daughter combination. Nothing clears the tracks like a man doing daddy-duty with a lace-clad toddler in tow. We picked up the boys, and wheeled into a nearby restaurant.
Bill: See, it all turned out okay because we made sacrifices and worked together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about.
We all smiled at each other like the Brady Bunch on the 29th minute of a 30 minute show. Secretly, I gave thanks for a cough drop appetizer that kept me from acting like a turkey.
Laugh
Showing posts with label toddler. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toddler. Show all posts
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Off The Top of My Head
Today while I was in the shower, I heard a noise, which with bathroom acoustics being what they are, I took either for sixteen cats purring in the bathroom or Seal Team Six landing a squadron of helicopters on the roof.
Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.
Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.
The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.
Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.
In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.
He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.
At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.
Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.
Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.
The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.
Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.
In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.
He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.
At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Kids, Kennedys, and Pizza Coupons
News sources reveal that there’s another Kennedy in Rehab. That’s like having a media blitz to announce that Paris Hilton has bought a new pair of pumps. In a country where politics have always been a playground for the wealthy and eccentric to display the lack of judgment that would reward the common man with enough state-provided room and board to last until Social Security kicks in, the Kennedy Family is to public decorum what Kirstie Alley is to the Jenny Craig diet.
If the Kennedys would display as much talent in social interaction as they do in politics, the world could be their Facebook page. This family has had so many members graduate from the Betty Ford clinic, they have their own yearbook, homecoming queen, and valedictorian.
But it’s not really sporting of me to pick on these guys. Having raised two teenagers to angsthood, I remember times when pouring bourbon on my cornflakes was more preventive maintenance than problem drinking. The first time I faced a thirteen year old boy with one body hair wielding a safety razor and a pack of bandaids, I put the insurance company on speed dial and chugged a bottle of the first thing I could find in the cupboard. And while Mrs. Butterworth’s isn’t bad for a complimentary cocktail, the effect wasn’t as soothing to my nerves as I had hoped. But it turned out okay. We just plucked that hair out of his ear with a handy pair of tweezers.
Raising teenagers teaches you about alternate reality. My kids live in a video game world where a quick plunge over a nearby cliff means you just have to wait for your extra life to kick in. Try to explain to the bearer of a beginner’s permit that the family Chevy doesn’t operate like the car on Crazy Taxi. Sure he might be able to drive the whole course backwards with virtual passengers, but load up a real life SUV with two toddlers, three soccer balls, and a Labrador with bladder retention problems and there are going to be more pit stops on the way to the Dollar Store than Dale Earnhardt makes all season.
One thing you can say for the Kennedys is that once you’re on Team Kennedy, you’re a member for life. Where I come from, we don’t put down roots so much as set out sprouts and pray for rain. We don’t even write our names on the mailboxes in permanent marker. I put labels in my husband’s workout clothes that read “Current Resident” and our address.
And nothing says, “It’s a holiday” like the 2:00 p.m. child custody rotation and swap meet. At the designated time, alternate sets of parents arrive and we exchange children like they were pizza coupons. Even now that my kids are old enough that I can no longer claim them as co-dependents, they’ll jump up at 2:00 on Sunday afternoon and run to the car clutching their headphones, a spare pillow, and two video games to be named later.
But the entire Kennedy clan will be engaging in freelance flag football at Hyannis Port on the Fourth of July long after they list my name right before “survived by” and “served as volunteer taster for the county BBQ festival” in the twice weekly hometown paper. Millions of dollars in memorials for charitable foundations will follow the death of even a minor Kennedy.
Just make the checks for me out to Diapers for Dogs.
If the Kennedys would display as much talent in social interaction as they do in politics, the world could be their Facebook page. This family has had so many members graduate from the Betty Ford clinic, they have their own yearbook, homecoming queen, and valedictorian.
But it’s not really sporting of me to pick on these guys. Having raised two teenagers to angsthood, I remember times when pouring bourbon on my cornflakes was more preventive maintenance than problem drinking. The first time I faced a thirteen year old boy with one body hair wielding a safety razor and a pack of bandaids, I put the insurance company on speed dial and chugged a bottle of the first thing I could find in the cupboard. And while Mrs. Butterworth’s isn’t bad for a complimentary cocktail, the effect wasn’t as soothing to my nerves as I had hoped. But it turned out okay. We just plucked that hair out of his ear with a handy pair of tweezers.
Raising teenagers teaches you about alternate reality. My kids live in a video game world where a quick plunge over a nearby cliff means you just have to wait for your extra life to kick in. Try to explain to the bearer of a beginner’s permit that the family Chevy doesn’t operate like the car on Crazy Taxi. Sure he might be able to drive the whole course backwards with virtual passengers, but load up a real life SUV with two toddlers, three soccer balls, and a Labrador with bladder retention problems and there are going to be more pit stops on the way to the Dollar Store than Dale Earnhardt makes all season.
One thing you can say for the Kennedys is that once you’re on Team Kennedy, you’re a member for life. Where I come from, we don’t put down roots so much as set out sprouts and pray for rain. We don’t even write our names on the mailboxes in permanent marker. I put labels in my husband’s workout clothes that read “Current Resident” and our address.
And nothing says, “It’s a holiday” like the 2:00 p.m. child custody rotation and swap meet. At the designated time, alternate sets of parents arrive and we exchange children like they were pizza coupons. Even now that my kids are old enough that I can no longer claim them as co-dependents, they’ll jump up at 2:00 on Sunday afternoon and run to the car clutching their headphones, a spare pillow, and two video games to be named later.
But the entire Kennedy clan will be engaging in freelance flag football at Hyannis Port on the Fourth of July long after they list my name right before “survived by” and “served as volunteer taster for the county BBQ festival” in the twice weekly hometown paper. Millions of dollars in memorials for charitable foundations will follow the death of even a minor Kennedy.
Just make the checks for me out to Diapers for Dogs.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Foundations of Fire
*Warning! If you are a teenaged boy who lives in the approximate vicinity of the back bedroom of my house and does not allow his mother to say the word “underwear” in public, do not read the following post. To those of you who have ever gone a little wrong in the laundry room, you’ll understand the situation perfectly.
I found out I couldn’t follow directions when I was in the produce section at WalMart.
I was comparing kiwis and kumquats when I felt an unwelcome sensation in what can only be described as the area “where foundations meet the flesh.” It began as a smallish itch under the elastic band and quickly spread to the sensation of having a thousand mosquitoes trapped in the no-nonsense sections of my Fruit of the Looms. This is what it must be like when the entire New York Giants football team wears their uniform pants without running them through the rinse cycle. I began defensive slap-dance maneuvers designed to relieve the feeling that my underwear had a personal grudge against my skin.
Over by the plums, a mother pushing a toddler in her buggy popped a wheelie and crashed into a produce scale while trying to execute a U-turn.
Once my Hanes Her Way became Hanes No Way, I realized something had to be done. In an effort to soothe the beast devouring my tender skin, I danced over to my husband who was somewhat nonplussed at my glee.
“Are you that happy with the fruit?” he asked as I jitterbugged past, trying to calm the situation in the outback.
“I have an itch,” I answered, arms flailing as I executed enough moves to win the title on “So You Think You Can Dance.” I ricocheted off a display of fresh pineapples and careened into a stand of Georgia peaches.
“Is this something new?”
“No,” I answered as I jogged by, still attempting to quiet the fire without an unseemly public display. “I’ve kept it hidden from you for ten years so I could surprise you with my innermost secret in the melon section of WalMart in time for our anniversary.”
“Very thoughtful. Have we changed laundry detergent lately?”
By now I was scratching my sides like a monkey with mange. “It’s the same stuff. Just in that little bitty bottle.”
“Well you probably have enough soap in your underpants to clean a garbage barge. And you’re dancing around like a monkey.”
If he’d thrown me a banana I would have made fruit salad out of him. “Look, I’m finding out that the word hives doesn’t necessarily just apply to bees. Can we move a little faster down the solution highway?”
“Look, it’s in that little bitty bottle because it’s concentrated. Did you use the same amount as always?”
I tap danced over to look him in the face. “I used more because the measuring cup looked so little.”
“Let’s go to the household products section and indulge in a little light reading.”
Sure enough, in-depth research involving the small print on the back of the bottle of detergent (which Bill Dear read while I clogged back and forth past the bleach-added products) showed that the amount of detergent I used had the potential to turn the elastic in my underwear into a material that would defeat the Man of Steel and could be used to coerce terrorists into confessing the use of explosives, weapons of torture, and non-dairy coffee creamer.
My immediate problem was solved with a foxtrot through the lingerie section where I purchased replacement garments for the trip home where I promised to be more conscientious when it comes to reading directions.
Except on those pesky Sara Lee boxes that indicate the contents is intended for more than a single serving.
I found out I couldn’t follow directions when I was in the produce section at WalMart.
I was comparing kiwis and kumquats when I felt an unwelcome sensation in what can only be described as the area “where foundations meet the flesh.” It began as a smallish itch under the elastic band and quickly spread to the sensation of having a thousand mosquitoes trapped in the no-nonsense sections of my Fruit of the Looms. This is what it must be like when the entire New York Giants football team wears their uniform pants without running them through the rinse cycle. I began defensive slap-dance maneuvers designed to relieve the feeling that my underwear had a personal grudge against my skin.
Over by the plums, a mother pushing a toddler in her buggy popped a wheelie and crashed into a produce scale while trying to execute a U-turn.
Once my Hanes Her Way became Hanes No Way, I realized something had to be done. In an effort to soothe the beast devouring my tender skin, I danced over to my husband who was somewhat nonplussed at my glee.
“Are you that happy with the fruit?” he asked as I jitterbugged past, trying to calm the situation in the outback.
“I have an itch,” I answered, arms flailing as I executed enough moves to win the title on “So You Think You Can Dance.” I ricocheted off a display of fresh pineapples and careened into a stand of Georgia peaches.
“Is this something new?”
“No,” I answered as I jogged by, still attempting to quiet the fire without an unseemly public display. “I’ve kept it hidden from you for ten years so I could surprise you with my innermost secret in the melon section of WalMart in time for our anniversary.”
“Very thoughtful. Have we changed laundry detergent lately?”
By now I was scratching my sides like a monkey with mange. “It’s the same stuff. Just in that little bitty bottle.”
“Well you probably have enough soap in your underpants to clean a garbage barge. And you’re dancing around like a monkey.”
If he’d thrown me a banana I would have made fruit salad out of him. “Look, I’m finding out that the word hives doesn’t necessarily just apply to bees. Can we move a little faster down the solution highway?”
“Look, it’s in that little bitty bottle because it’s concentrated. Did you use the same amount as always?”
I tap danced over to look him in the face. “I used more because the measuring cup looked so little.”
“Let’s go to the household products section and indulge in a little light reading.”
Sure enough, in-depth research involving the small print on the back of the bottle of detergent (which Bill Dear read while I clogged back and forth past the bleach-added products) showed that the amount of detergent I used had the potential to turn the elastic in my underwear into a material that would defeat the Man of Steel and could be used to coerce terrorists into confessing the use of explosives, weapons of torture, and non-dairy coffee creamer.
My immediate problem was solved with a foxtrot through the lingerie section where I purchased replacement garments for the trip home where I promised to be more conscientious when it comes to reading directions.
Except on those pesky Sara Lee boxes that indicate the contents is intended for more than a single serving.
Monday, March 17, 2008
True Colors
My Mom never had The Talk with me. I had to find out by trial and error and I almost lost my socks. All in all, the first time I tried it, the results weren’t pretty.
I don’t know if it was the toddler size sweater I wore fresh from the dryer, or the “Just My Size” underwear clinging statically to my back as I strolled down the hall, but as people turned to stare and gawk, I felt like everybody knew that I’d tried it for the first time.
Dirty laundry. It’s a tough lesson to have to learn on your own.
A true friend would have told me about fabric softener. A few tips on Use and Care Instructions as a second language wouldn’t hurt either.
These days I’ve been doing laundry long enough to know how to handle my delicates, but I still have questions.
Exactly how do you wash a shirt that’s both red and white? If it says, “Wash in like colors” do you put it in with the reds or the whites? I’ve tried it both ways. Luckily pink is my favorite color, but now my husband won’t get undressed at the gym.
Deep down I understand why Mom never talked to me about natural fibers and the danger of shrinkage. But why didn’t she tell me that too much bleach would rot out the seat of your underwear like month-after-Christmas fruit? Was she afraid to tell me about laundry? Afraid that hot for whites would be too much for my tender psyche?
Not on your stain stick.
She didn’t raise four kids without honing her survival skills. The odds were good with four kids running around, that if she brought out the laundry products, somebody would be likely to try to remove the spots from the cat.
So she kept her pre-soak hidden on a high shelf and her spray starch tucked away behind the family Bible and never worried that we’d find it.
I shudder to think what would have happened to the cat if we’d found that starch.
Also, the old woman was shrewd. Except for choosing in favor of dessert and against doing dishes, I was never a decisive child. She knew that if it came to sorting cotton blends from washable wool, I’d just give up and stay home and she’d be stuck when me forever.
Why not let dirty clothes be a little secret lurking just around the coin-operated laundry?
And drycleaning just a mess that you clean up without a mop.
Smart woman.
I don’t know if it was the toddler size sweater I wore fresh from the dryer, or the “Just My Size” underwear clinging statically to my back as I strolled down the hall, but as people turned to stare and gawk, I felt like everybody knew that I’d tried it for the first time.
Dirty laundry. It’s a tough lesson to have to learn on your own.
A true friend would have told me about fabric softener. A few tips on Use and Care Instructions as a second language wouldn’t hurt either.
These days I’ve been doing laundry long enough to know how to handle my delicates, but I still have questions.
Exactly how do you wash a shirt that’s both red and white? If it says, “Wash in like colors” do you put it in with the reds or the whites? I’ve tried it both ways. Luckily pink is my favorite color, but now my husband won’t get undressed at the gym.
Deep down I understand why Mom never talked to me about natural fibers and the danger of shrinkage. But why didn’t she tell me that too much bleach would rot out the seat of your underwear like month-after-Christmas fruit? Was she afraid to tell me about laundry? Afraid that hot for whites would be too much for my tender psyche?
Not on your stain stick.
She didn’t raise four kids without honing her survival skills. The odds were good with four kids running around, that if she brought out the laundry products, somebody would be likely to try to remove the spots from the cat.
So she kept her pre-soak hidden on a high shelf and her spray starch tucked away behind the family Bible and never worried that we’d find it.
I shudder to think what would have happened to the cat if we’d found that starch.
Also, the old woman was shrewd. Except for choosing in favor of dessert and against doing dishes, I was never a decisive child. She knew that if it came to sorting cotton blends from washable wool, I’d just give up and stay home and she’d be stuck when me forever.
Why not let dirty clothes be a little secret lurking just around the coin-operated laundry?
And drycleaning just a mess that you clean up without a mop.
Smart woman.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Cart Wheeling
Not long ago, I had a near-death experience in the grocery store. I was bending over to check out Mrs. Fields’ fat grams when a woman wielding a grocery cart like it was a runaway bumper car rounded the corner on two wheels. If it weren’t for quick thinking on my part, I might have required a trip to the Crisco aisle to disengage that buggy from my body. For a second I thought I saw a bright light, but it turned out to be Register Six calling for assistance. Later, when I got lapped in frozen foods by a gray-haired granny with a number 5 pasted on the side of her grocery cart, I could see the need for a list of safety rules posted in a conspicuous place, perhaps tattooed on Little Debbie’s left cheek. With that thought in mind, I offer 8 Simple Rules for a Successful Supermarket Experience.
Show proper care for your vehicle. For the safety of everyone on the floor, do not select a buggy with uncooperative steering that can be guided only by a team of Iditarod sled dogs. Also, be on the lookout for features that may interrupt the aerodynamics of the cart such as toddlers left over from a previous shopper.
When perusing different item choices on the supermarket floor, please be sure to park only in traditionally acceptable parking areas. Nobody cares if you set up camp in front of internal organs in the meat department, but if you pause to check the fat content in the cookie aisle, we will forcibly transport you to the dairy case and secure you to the yogurt section with string cheese.
Please observe crowd-friendly speed limits. I know you’re in a hurry to rush home and get those tacos on the table, but don’t careen around the corners so fast that you initiate a forceful meeting between Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher.
Practice defensive shopping. Try to remember that there are people with immediate dietary concerns that may require them to effect a sudden stop in front of you to compare chocolate chip content on the cookie aisle. Likewise, you must understand that if you stop in the middle of the aisle while trying to decide between creamy and crunchy, you are likely to become a temporary member of the fresh fruit display. Take heart in the fact that kumquats should not do any permanent damage to your complexion.
Please show concern for the safety of other shoppers. Do not execute a sudden lane change without at least warning the gentleman who is presently rolling his cart over the heels of your Reeboks that he may suddenly find himself neck deep in summer squash. Likewise, don’t speed up suddenly, causing the six-year-old boy who is riding below the cart in front of you like a mudflap on an tractor-trailer to wrap around your front wheel like freshly chewed bubblegum.
Do not accelerate like Richard Petty on the straightaway at Talledega to beat me to the Express Lane, especially if your buggy is loaded like a Conastoga and you’re counting all 24 cans of Little Friskies as one item to make the 10-item limit, and all I’m carrying is a gallon of milk, two packs of Ho Ho’s, and a box of Ben & Jerry’s that has created a layer of freezer burn up to my elbow. I have killed for less than that.
Remember to return your buggy to the cart corral after you load your car. You may feel justified in aiming it toward the gate and assuming it will roll downhill to the target by itself, but let me assure you that grocery carts are not domesticated animals and will take every opportunity to separate from the pack and make a break for freedom. Lassie is not available to pull the buggy from quicksand, a well, or the tailpipe of a new Jaguar that happens to be in its path. The aftermath of the ensuing chaos will involve your insurance, and this is one case when the term “deductible” might be unsetttling.
Most importantly, steer clear of the lady dressed in a New York Yankees T-Shirt, stretch pants, and flip flops, who is wringing her hands and doing laps with a cart that contains two boxes of Ding Dongs and a frozen pizza. It’s me and I can’t decide what to have for supper.
Show proper care for your vehicle. For the safety of everyone on the floor, do not select a buggy with uncooperative steering that can be guided only by a team of Iditarod sled dogs. Also, be on the lookout for features that may interrupt the aerodynamics of the cart such as toddlers left over from a previous shopper.
When perusing different item choices on the supermarket floor, please be sure to park only in traditionally acceptable parking areas. Nobody cares if you set up camp in front of internal organs in the meat department, but if you pause to check the fat content in the cookie aisle, we will forcibly transport you to the dairy case and secure you to the yogurt section with string cheese.
Please observe crowd-friendly speed limits. I know you’re in a hurry to rush home and get those tacos on the table, but don’t careen around the corners so fast that you initiate a forceful meeting between Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher.
Practice defensive shopping. Try to remember that there are people with immediate dietary concerns that may require them to effect a sudden stop in front of you to compare chocolate chip content on the cookie aisle. Likewise, you must understand that if you stop in the middle of the aisle while trying to decide between creamy and crunchy, you are likely to become a temporary member of the fresh fruit display. Take heart in the fact that kumquats should not do any permanent damage to your complexion.
Please show concern for the safety of other shoppers. Do not execute a sudden lane change without at least warning the gentleman who is presently rolling his cart over the heels of your Reeboks that he may suddenly find himself neck deep in summer squash. Likewise, don’t speed up suddenly, causing the six-year-old boy who is riding below the cart in front of you like a mudflap on an tractor-trailer to wrap around your front wheel like freshly chewed bubblegum.
Do not accelerate like Richard Petty on the straightaway at Talledega to beat me to the Express Lane, especially if your buggy is loaded like a Conastoga and you’re counting all 24 cans of Little Friskies as one item to make the 10-item limit, and all I’m carrying is a gallon of milk, two packs of Ho Ho’s, and a box of Ben & Jerry’s that has created a layer of freezer burn up to my elbow. I have killed for less than that.
Remember to return your buggy to the cart corral after you load your car. You may feel justified in aiming it toward the gate and assuming it will roll downhill to the target by itself, but let me assure you that grocery carts are not domesticated animals and will take every opportunity to separate from the pack and make a break for freedom. Lassie is not available to pull the buggy from quicksand, a well, or the tailpipe of a new Jaguar that happens to be in its path. The aftermath of the ensuing chaos will involve your insurance, and this is one case when the term “deductible” might be unsetttling.
Most importantly, steer clear of the lady dressed in a New York Yankees T-Shirt, stretch pants, and flip flops, who is wringing her hands and doing laps with a cart that contains two boxes of Ding Dongs and a frozen pizza. It’s me and I can’t decide what to have for supper.
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