Every now and again, unless I want to starve or wash my hair with the soap I stole from the Holiday Inn, I have to go the grocery store. Not one of my favorite things to do. In fact, if I had a list of the things I hate to do, grocery shopping would be about three of the top five, right behind cleaning up the remains of a dead frog that my dog threw up on the carpet and getting operated on by a surgeon whose medical diploma, when translated from Latin, reads: “This Document Certifies That The Guy Over There Once Dissected A Frog Without Getting Nauseous.”

From my experiences in grocery stores, I’ve noticed that there are generally two kinds of shoppers. Type A is the person, usually female, that walks up and down every aisle, making sure that she has everything she needs at the lowest possible price. This type of shopper has planned this trip in advance, and has prepared by clipping $3 million worth of coupons.
Type A is usually anal retentive, proven by the fact that they will clip a coupon for cat food even though they do not technically own a cat. Also, with their inspect-everything-in-the-store method of shopping, they frequently end up buying things they’ll never use, such as napkin rings and creamed spinach.

Then there is Type B. Type B is the person, typically male, that wanders aimlessly through the store because he forgot what he came in for. He knows it isn’t food, because he just had a Big Mac. (He eats fast food because all the food he has at home is in cans he can’t open because he doesn’t have a can opener, which is exactly what he came here to buy. But let’s not tell him.)

This type of shopper did not plan or prepare in advance. The last coupon he clipped was for Sea Monkeys off the back of a Batman comic book when he was twelve. With Type B’s wander-until-you-get-bored method of shopping, they usually leave the store without basic necessities, such as toilet paper, Cheez Whiz, and their car keys.

Needless to say, I fall into the Type B category. But I am a unique Type B personality in that the only time I go to the grocery store is when what I need cannot be obtained at the 7-Eleven. I despise crowds and lines, so I’ll gladly pay eight dollars for a tub of margarine if it means avoiding them. I quite honestly do not have anything against grocery stores as free-standing structures, but there are things involved with the grocery store industry that make me want to throw myself in the path of an oncoming shopping cart.

The first thing that comes to mind is the idea of price checks. How is it that they can get potatoes all the way from Idaho to my local grocery store, but the actual price of those same potatoes can’t make it from the shelf to the cash register? So, what do they do? They announce the item over that little intercom they have.

Personally, I don’t mind, “Price check on Hostess Twinkies.” But it’s never something like that. It’s usually more along the lines of, “PRICE CHECK ON PREPARATION H AND COMPOUND W!” Now everyone in the store knows that, A) there is something wrong with my butt, and B) if Preparation H doesn’t cure it, I’m going after it with wart cream. Thank you, Mr. Cashier. If you need me, I’ll be under that shopping cart.

Then, of course, there’s the tabloid magazines at the checkout. Is our society so ignorant that we need to know that David Copperfield’s love-child was born without feet, and how to lose forty-five pounds in one hour using only an ordinary kitchen knife and a vacuum cleaner? I thought that we were intellectually further along than this, based solely on the fact that none of us are watching “Joey.” (Matt LeBlanc is funny and all, but that show really sucks.)

Apparently, I was wrong, and I’ll tell you why: A lot of people buy these supermarket rags. Buying an issue of “The Star” for current, fact-based information is like going to George W. Bush for language and grammar advice.

Things like this simply kill me. This is why I need to get married; so someone else can do my grocery shopping for me. I’ll compensate, I promise. I’ll cook (if I can find a can opener), clean, take out the trash (once or twice a month), and take care of the kids.

So, ladies, if you’re interested, bearing in mind that I’m not holding my breath, here’s what you have to do: Bring me some groceries. The one who gives me the best stuff (Hint: Cheez Whiz is good; ixnay on the creamed spinach) gets a trip to the altar. By the way, while you’re at the grocery store, see if you can find my car keys…

Tags: supermarkets, grocery stores, grocery shopping, tabloids