Curse of the plastic bags. Or whatever.

Today I had an adventure. Grocery shopping does qualify as an adventure when judged by The Hellholian Scale of Excitement. Besides, when you’re living with Pooch, who has a habit of licking things that should not be licked and developing farts that smell just like the circus, a change of air might not be such a bad idea.

There I was, puttering around between the isles, my little, blue plastic shopping basket in one hand and my shopping list in the other. Ten minutes later, I had worked up quite an impressive selection of items, some of which I needed but most of which I simply wanted. And deserved, dammit.

“Would you like a bag?” the cashiere with the dead eyes asked me, after she’d finished the laborious task of ringing up all my groceries.

“No, hidden inside the dark bowels of my coat, I have more arms than an army of octopuses and would have no problem carrying a million things home,” I thought. I didn’t say that, of course, because I am a polite and civilized sort of person. In stead I simply smiled and said “yes, please.”

So the woman yanked out a plastic bag from underneath the registery, where it lived with its family and friends inside a little cardboard box, dumped it on top of my small mountain of groceries and then she quickly got up and disappeared through the plastic doors in the back of the store, labelled “staff only!!!”

That’s right: three exclamation marks.

I’m not entirely sure what sort of math went on inside her head to make her think that said mountain was going to fit inside a single plastic bag. It is, after all, exactly as big on the inside as it appears to be from the outside. It’s a typical, run-of-the-mill plastic bag – not the bloody starship Enterprise.

The thing is, they always give you one -1- plastic bag, regardless of how much crap you’re hauling with you. If you want more, you have to specifically ask and carefully outline how many you think you’ll need. I momentarily forgot this, and ended up standing there with 80 bucks worth of groceries, a tiny plastic bag and the distinct feeling of just having screwed myself over.   

I bet they all just sit in their little staff-only area, stuffing their faces with chips and watching the little surveillance screens to see how the customers try to work out this little equation. Well, I wasn’t going to be their lunch entertainment. I stole a plastic bag, I did. Hell, I stole TWO.

Thus my life of crime has started. You gonna do something about it, mate? I have a pooch with flatulence and I’m not afraid to use it.

 

Stinky munchkins of doom

Every so often, I put on my new boots and totter off to the grocery store to purchase all those things that keep me from starving to death. I say totter, not because I in any way resemble an infant in the way I walk, but because it is hard to move like a graceful adult on roads which consist mainly of ice.

When I woke up on this morning, stomach growling and Bergerac (my mind) telling me that there was nothing particularly tempting in the fridge, I knew it was tottering-time once more, so off I went.

I like walking to the store – not that I, in my drivers-licence-free state, have any choice – because then I get to philosophise over what sort of foodstuff I would like to buy. It’s strange how much of the time is spent thinking about cookies. Things such as carrots and beats never come up. Go figure.

Very pleased with having made it to the mall without getting my luvely footwear wet, I pulled one of those little blue plastic baskets out of its stack with a graceful swish. Rather, it would have been graceful if I hadn’t almost knocked over a display of Christmassy nuts.

I quickly pulled out my shopping list from my coat pocket, pretending that the Christmas-display- murder-by-plastic-basket had never taken place. I always write a list. If I don’t, I always forget something and end up buying soap in stead. The process of how that happens is a mystery probably best not dwelt upon. Let’s just say that if you’re ever out of soap, I’m your gal.

Right on top of my list, scribbled with a bright red pen, was the word “Milk”, and so I started the exciting journey towards the dairy isle. After having picked out a fine looking carton specimen, I reached out my hand to grab it. At that very moment someone shouted something which sounded like “Gerfuch vivong!” The next thing I knew, two tiny women hopped past me, placed themselves in between myself and my chosen carton of milk, and then proceeded to ravage the poor dairy isle. Yoghurt, milk and butter was literally thrown from their comfortable homes and into the tiny women’s cart. Any objections on my account were effectively muffled by the thick fog of cheap perfume which hung around them, leaving poor Bergerac unable to function properly.

Then they disappeared as soon as they had appeared. Somewhat disoriented, I placed the milk carton into my basket and moved towards the second item on my list: bread.

Once again, I carefully considered my options before I selected a plump looking bread, reached out my little arm towards it, and…. “Yoshyou schepflunk!”

Then there were little, blonde heads in front of me for a second time, accompanied by groceries flying through the air and the overwhelming haze of Eau De Brothel.

I eventually escaped the store with all my groceries and my life intact, but I’m not entirely sure whether or not the clown that I saw on my way home was real, or some hallucination brought on by perfume poisoning.



Photo by Ryker Beck for www.Flickr.com