Now look, I hate any kind of shopping just as much as the next guy does. Most times, I would rather walk barefoot over hot coals while eating cold worms out of a tin can than go into a store.

However, on weekends, I'm usually the one in the household who does the grocery shopping.

In order to ensure that my “in-store time” will be as brief as possible, I meticulously prepare for the event by doing my homework and gathering information beforehand, much like a fighter pilot preparing for a death-defying sortie behind enemy lines.

I only want to have to do this once a week. So I make sure I know everything that we need before I leave the house.

When I do the grocery shopping, I want to do it by myself. It is one of the few times in my life that I don't want Mary Ellen with me.

Why? Because I target shop, that's why. And, if I go in the store with the objective of purchasing two items, I usually come out of the store with only those two items!

Whenever I shop with Mary Ellen, we go into the store with the intention of purchasing two items. However, as we enter the store, she ALWAYS grabs one of the HUGE, Peterbilt shopping carts, and we do not leave the store until she has filled the thing to capacity.

My first stop on grocery shopping day is the warehouse store. I buy everything that I can there. The only limit to what can be purchased there is the shelf life of the product, since you pretty much have to buy everything there in bulk. No mayonnaise. The fifty-five gallon drum always goes bad in the pantry before it's half empty.

So I go through the aisles checking things off my list as I put them in the carriage.

Then, with my cart full of super-sized items, the next objective is to find the shortest checkout line. There is an art to this. It is not always as easy as it seems. Sometimes, the length of the line has little to do with how fast it moves. For example, if there are four people in one line, and only one person in the other, look carefully. Does the person standing in the shorter line seem competent? Or does he/she look like they have their money all wadded up in a three-inch-diameter ball in their coat pocket? Does he/she have kids hanging off his/her forearms? Does he/she have (shudder! ) coupons??? If any of these conditions exist, choose the other line, because any of these conditions by themselves or in conjunction with each other, will serve to slow the final transaction down.

So, on this particular day, I carefully scrutinized the situation and chose a line that only had one childless and seemingly well-organized person in it.

Wrong!

Seems that that person had credit issues and anger management deficiencies. (In my defense, both of these traits are undetectable to the eye of even the most seasoned shopper.)

Her credit card was rejected. Not just “Error Reading Magnetic Strip” rejected, but “This Son of a Bitch No Longer Has An Open Account” rejected.

After arguing with the pimply-faced clerk for about ten minutes that there must be some mistake, she decided to solve the problem by writing out a personal check.

Now, let me ask you, if you were the check-out clerk, would you accept a personal check from somebody who just attempted to use a closed-out credit card? Even Mortimer, The Pimply-Faced Clerk knew better than this! So, rather than face the wrath of the check-writing, invalid-credit-card-wielding woman, he decided to call in the big guns, and he sent his cashier light flashing red to gain the attention of the store manager.

After a while, the twelve-year-old store manager finally decided to pry himself away from the video game on his cell phone. He made his appearance, and a rather high-decibel discussion ensued.

At one point during the argument, the woman turned to me, saw me watching, and screamed, “What the hell are you looking at, asshole?”

I thought, Don't start with me, bi-otch! Behind this mild mannered persona is a wild man!

As I opened my mouth to say something, the store manager defused the situation by grabbing the woman's shopping cart and moving it to a far wall, away from all the other customers. He then laid the law down to her, telling her that she had two minutes to vacate the premises before he called the police.

Personally, I was hoping that she would refuse to leave, because I wanted the satisfaction of watching them slap handcuffs on her and drag her, kicking and screaming, from the place. With any luck, she would pull a knife when the police showed up, and they would be forced to blow the bitch to bits right before my eyes.

But she didn't. She left in a huff.

And so, after waiting in the checkout line for fifteen minutes as I watched a drama unfold , I finally made it to the register with ice cream dripping out from the metal ribs of the bottom of my shopping cart.

&&&

On the way home, I decided to stop off at a conventional supermarket and finish my grocery shopping. (There are a few items every week that I want to buy in smaller quantities than are available in the wholesale store.)

Salad ingredients. That's it. I should be in and out of the store in five minutes.

As I entered the store, I noticed that there were none of those small hand baskets that were usually at the main entrance. There were only the big shopping carts.

I decided that I didn't want to be bothered with the big carts, since I was only going to buy a few small things. The little, plastic produce bags that you tear off of spools in the vegetable and fruit section would do just fine.

So I walked right up to the nearest spool and tore off a bag. I then made my way over to the vegetables, grabbed a container of grape tomatoes, inspected the contents to make sure that none of the little orbs were black or moldy, and then threw the container in the plastic bag.

...

Sometimes I really think that God hates my mortal guts.

...

The container of mini-tomatoes couldn't have weighed more than a quarter-pound, but it was heavy enough to sail straight through the plastic and rip open the heat seal at the bottom of the bag without even slowing down. The container hit the linoleum tile floor at my feet, and it was like watching frightened little mice suddenly being freed from a cage. The little tomatoes thudded to the floor and then took off in all directions like they were shot of a cannon.

I stood there for a moment staring at my feet, absolutely dumbfounded. When I looked up, there were five other shoppers pointing and smiling at me.

I felt the blood rush to my face. Embarrassed, I immediately dropped to my knees and began corralling the errant little orbs and shoving them forcefully (Like they have feelings, right?) back into their plastic case. At this moment, a red-headed, freckled, stock boy, dressed in a red and white-striped apron, came running to my aid out of nowhere, making a big scene and drawing even more attention to my humiliation. He got down on his knees next to me and said, “Here! Let me help you, sir!”

Too embarrassed to even lift my eyes and look at him, I hissed, “Go away, Opie! Leave me the hell alone!”

Of course, he didn't.

When we finally got all the tomatoes scooped back into the container, we both stood up. He went over to the counter, got another plastic box of grape tomatoes, smiled a gap-toothed smile and loudly said, “Here you go, sir! You take this one and give me that one!”

Under the mirthful and bemused gazes of a dozen sets of eyes, I sheepishly handed him the soiled tomatoes, took the new tomatoes from him...

AND DROPPED THEM INTO THE SAME FUCKING PLASTIC BAG THAT STARTED ALL THE TROUBLE TO BEGIN WITH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Again, the damned tomatoes hit the floor at my feet as bystanders gawked and pointed, this time with audible laughter.

The goodie-two-shoes stock boy stared incredulously at me for a moment. Then he dropped to his knees and began scooping up tomatoes once again.

I stared down at him for a second in disbelief. Suddenly not wanting to grocery shop any more, I put my head down and bulled my way through the ever-growing audience, shouting over my shoulder, “Have at it, Opie!”

Then, I stormed out of the store and drove home to take out all of my frustration on Mary Ellen.