I loathe grocery shopping

When I was dating, few phrases made me cringe as much as the dreaded We need to talk. Looking back, I didn't hear it all that often, but when I did, I knew that what would insue would likely be a string of events leading to my frustration, confusion and immasculation. Strangely enough, the marital parallel to this has nothing to do with break-ups or strained relationships, yet for me it evokes the same psychological upset. I'm talking about that other dreaded phrase: I need you to pick up a few things at the grocery.

I didn't always fear the grocery store. Before I was married, I looked at the supermarket as a necessary but harmless venue to visit when staples were getting scarce. It served as a seemingly healthier alternative to fastfood, healthier because to a young single guy living on his own healthy food means having to turn on the oven before dinner as opposed to shouting into the clown. During those stretches when I wasn't dating anyone (it seemed like eons,) visiting the grocery store forced me to go somewhere other than home and work where I spent the bulk of my time. I would interact with people at the grocery store. Once I purchased a rose from the floral department and ostensibly left it at the register by accident. When the young and nubile cashier called to me that I had forgotten the flower, I announced, "It's for you," and smiled. As clever as I thought this was, it really never led to anything other than a nervous thank-you, so the next week I left the Don Giovanni mask at home and went back to having her ring up my soft-core men's magazines. What can I say? Just as the grocery had served as a healthy alternative to fastfood, so did eight-and-a-half-by-eleven glossies serve as a healthy alternative to actual dating. But I digress.

In all fairness to my adoring spouse, my distaste for the supermarket really has nothing to do with her. The root of the problem lies in the list, I think, or rather the things on the list and their location in the store. Before marriage, a trip to the grocery store was brief. There was never a list, because for most visits I could count all the things I'd need on one hand of a three-toed sloth. A typical visit would yield . . . well, pretty much what I'm consuming right now while my wife's at work and I'm at home, i.e. red wine and peanut M&Ms. Having grown up in the age of Saturday morning cartoons and MTV, I feasted on junk food, so I can easily locate the candy aisle. Wine is easy to find too. You just head to the neon Budweiser sign and step up a few notches. The whole trip could be completed in a matter of ten minutes.

Now, when I venture into the pandemonium we call Kroger, I usually have a list in tow that outlines with varying degrees of specificity the items I'm expected to bring home. This list isn't composed of just wine, women and peanut M&M's either. It lists things like whole wheat bagels, Inglehoffer™ mustard and two different kinds of shredded cheese. Then there are the non-food items like toilet paper, chapstick ("3 tubes"), and our prescriptions. Now sure, there were times I'd buy toilet paper as a single guy, but chapstick never. And God help me if I needed a prescription! Did I mention this list is front and back?

I used to think parking at the grocery store was a hassle because for some reason I take issue at having to park more than five spaces away from the entrance. I think, at least on a subconsious level, I see the parking lot as a large social paradigm indicative of a hierarchical class structure, and the farther away from the store one parks, the lower down on the chain one is. I used to be one of those people who would circle the lot over and over looking for the right spot. Now that most groceries have stooped to littering their lots with diaper ads disguised as designated spaces for expectant mothers, I'm most often assured a parking spot right up by the handicap loading zone. Why more shoppers don't pooh-pooh the occasional ostracism and looks of disdain I experience and park in these spots I'll never know, but as it stands, most people don't. Fine with me. I'm not apologetic. The most I've ever gotten is a tongue lashing from a woman who -- get this -- WAS PARKED IN THE FIRE LANE! I promptly educated her to the fact that only one of us was breaking the law. Enough said.

Certain items I can quickly and easily locate at the grocery store: produce, cokes, men's magazines, etc. These however account for an extremely small portion of the list I'm clutching concernedly in my hand each time I go. I usually will go in search of these items first, aisle by aisle, taking comfort and feeling self-assured for an ever-so-brief period in knowing where certain things are. Potatoes, milk, cokes, frozen pizzas, orange juice, cashier, exit, trunk. I don't have any problem with those. It's the other things like Chili-O's spice mix, salsa, the three tubes of chapstick. Where these and most other things are in the grocery store is beyond me. I try and match the desired item up with the directional signs hanging in each aisle, but for some reason I don't comprehend. Why is salsa in a different area than ketchup? Isn't salsa just ketchup with a Mexican accent? And the Chili-O's, shouldn't they be next to the soup? They're not. My wife, being the kind-hearted soul that she is, does remind me of certain idiocies in grocer logic. Canellini beans for instance are no closer to baked beans than they are jelly beans. "In the Mexican food aisle," she writes on my list. Sure enough, she's right. The canellini beans are right next to the tortillas, the albondigas and the Our Lady of Guadelupe novenas.

I have no problem asking a grocery store employee for help, but I've found that different people provide different levels of assistance. I usually seek out someone I've asked before and who's provided me with successful directions in the past. Have you ever noticed that grocery stores more than most other establishments extend the definition of diversity to people with mental disabilities? These people aren't Mensa geniuses, but I've often found they're the most willing to help, and if they can get me to the item I'm looking for, who cares what size bus they rode to school? On my most recent trip, my usual guy (flat face, upward slanting eyes, you get the picture) wasn't there so instead I asked a manager whose mug and bad haircutI recognized from that blown-up photo that greets you near the entrance. My demand was simple enough, I thought. I simply asked him where I might find paper towels. "Paper towels, " the dumpy manager said with a puzzled squint, "should be on the aisle just past the pickles, I think." Great! Thanks, Dickweed. If I don't know where the paper towels are, what makes you think I have the slightest clue where the pickles are? I swear, I think some of those people purposely set out to make me feel stupider than I already do.

Once I've located the correct aisle, I still need to locate the item itself. Furthermore, I then have to decide on a more pressing issue, that is whether I want to purchase the name brand or the more economical store brand. As a rule, I opt for the Kroger brand whenever possible. I don't care that my cookies aren't Keebler or my milk's not Mayfield. After twenty years of drinking only Diet Coke, I decided to switch to Kroger's diet cola. A twelve-pack of the name brand stuff sometimes goes for as much as $4.00, whereas a twelve-pack of the bootleg variety in the not-so-jazzy can costs a mere $2.12. And when it's on sale the price shoots down to $1.95. Having replaced my nicotine addiction with caffeine eight years ago, I go through anywhere between four and six cokes a day. Even at my lowest intake, I save almost $5.00 a week on beverage expenditure. That's $5.00 I can spend on toilet paper, which by the way I don't entrust to Kroger. Why should dancing bears have nicer bathroom tissue than I do?

Once my cart is loaded to the gills after nine or ten trips down the aisles and I've finally found everything on the list, I make my way to the registers. Without fail I usually wind up in the line behind a fellow shopper needing three price checks from the cashier in training who can't locate a barcode on a bag of dog food and doesn't know the produce code for grapes (it's 4022.) Sometimes I do this on purpose because young and dumb cashiers are more likely to accept coupons for items I didn't purchase. A young feckless cashier will happily zap all your coupons in a slapdash fashion without even noting that you're trying to pass off a Desitin coupon when you really bought the Kroger brand diaper cream at half the price. A more seasoned cashier will not only check to make sure you're buying the right brand but also to make sure you're not purchasing the 8-ounce can when your coupon says you have to buy the 12-ounce. Granny's line might move faster, but you pay for that convenience in lack of savings.

As soon as the last bag gets loaded into the trunk, I make a beeline for the house. I can't leave the grocery fast enough. I would even rather drive home on an empty tank than stop and get gas, I'm in such a hurry to get home. If at all possible I try and get the groceries put away before my wife returns. Cheese in the meat drawer; meat in the crisper drawer (I don't know why we organize our fridge this way but we do, and after 6 years of marriage I don't dare change the system now.) Toilet paper goes in the bathroom. Frosted animal crackers (the Nabisco rep had to find them for me) go in the pantry, and pizzas go in the freezer. In just a few minutes all things are put away. Moments later Elaine gets home, checks to make certain things are where they're supposed to be (they are . . . relatively). She rearranges a few things in the pantry, wanders into the bathroom and comes back into the kitchen. Then with a sad look on her face she asks, "You didn't get my chapstick?"

Shit.