Grocery Shopping for Psychopaths

One of the most vile necessary evils in my life, even beyond contact lenses, menstruation and and car insurance, has got to be trips to the grocery store. Luckily because of where I live in rural Pennsylvania, I do most of my food shopping at Farmer's Markets, produce stands, a small butcher shop on the rare instances when I require meat -- and most importantly a quaint little Mennonite-run natural/organic store where you can purchase whole wheat couscous in bulk for a dollar per pound and natural peanut butter made on premises which is so fresh the oil hasn't even begun to separate yet.

But even so, the occasional pilgrimage to the local chain store is an unavoidable consequence of needing items like dog food, toiletries, Morningstar products and gallons of Turkey Hill Diet Green Tea. If such a thing as purgatory actually exists (and I sure as heck hope not, because I'm likely headed there) I'd imagine it to be not much different than the Weis Grocery Store on a Sunday morning.

Intrinsically, I've got an Bill McNeal-esque split personality which ranges between charming and misanthropic depending on the situation -- And it's always the latter which surfaces during my trips to the store. I'll be in a good mood as I get out of my car, but by the time I'm dragging my feet with the cart behind the trashy, oblivious middle-aged couple holding hands while blocking the entranceway is when Mrs. Niceguy leaves the fucking building. How I loathe these people! The ones who leave their carts obstructing the aisles and let their devil children run free. Ones who have loud, screaming conversations two feet away when I'm attempting to make a quick call home to ask Mr. Salty what kind of Kashi Bars he wants. Those who cut me off with their carts, thinking they can get away with an "Oops! Excuse me!" and polite smile are probably not anticipating the steely, hateful glance I dart back in their direction.

The checkout line is the icing on the cake. To be so close! To stand there, longingly gazing out at the getaway vehicle awaiting in the parking lot! Ohhh, but not so fast! The jerkass lady next in line is going to haggle over a 30-cent coupon, while my frozen yogurt slowly melts away -- along with my sanity. And just when you think it's safe? The same asshole wants to pay with a personal check. And the cashier is "new" and she doesn't know how to "do that" so additional help is required. Serenity now, serenity now!

By the time it's my turn, the fuckwad behind me is up my ass, because he somehow thinks the line will move more quickly if he invades my personal space. I am so livid I begin to hallucinate that I can make his fat head explode with my mind. And then finally, with a roll of register tape coupons, my little journey into Personal Hell is over for now -- and it's back home to Mr. Salty who incredulously wonders why I'm in such a shitty mood all of a sudden.