Give Me A Minute...

Often times, our family is on the way home, when I need a few items from the grocery store. I tell them to "give me a second," as I go in and proceed to pick up what one would hope are the items I intended.

Not everything goes to plan and what was meant to be a five minute "in and out" usually turns into a half-hour.

Once, I was standing at the produce department, when a sweet elderly lady asked if I had seen the news story about overly toxic pesticides being sprayed on lettuce.

Suddenly, we were talking about her grandkids, and she whipped out a wallet chock full of photos. I also learned that her husband is a slob, she's got a church social to go to next week but is annoyed that some lady named Adele is making the main course (apparently, she isn't a good cook), and her coffee maker broke that morning.

Oh, and that her grandkids, Jeff and Gina, are coming to visit next month, but her slob of a husband won't get off his lazy rear and get the air bed set up so that they don't have to sleep on the floor.

I've also been distracted by sales on items that aren't on my list. Even knowing that I'll be mocked mercilessly, I can't pass up a buy one get one free sale. Ever.

The thing I'd like to know, however, is why those sales present themselves when I have my family in the car waiting for me – and they're not a patient bunch.

To make matters worse, it's usually something heavy, like family sized cans of soup or 25-pound bags of dog food. It just couldn't be something light and small, like Twinkies, that can easily be hidden amongst the items I had intended to purchase.

I'm tall enough to reach the highest shelves, so I'm often asked to grab something for a much shorter person, which generally results in a brief exchange. I've been distracted by a new flower arrangement, ran into a friend and lost track of time, and fumbled for my reading glasses so I've got a shot at picking out the correct can of tomatoes (wink).

I've had trouble figuring out what aisle an item should be in and spent 15 minutes locating it. Seriously, why can't tartar sauce be in the same vicinity as fish instead of with the mayonnaise?

My time isn't just spent doing the actual gathering of groceries. Almost without fail, when I'm finally finished and am ready to check out, I manage to pick the wrong line. One day I had a particularly bad run of luck. Let me explain.

I was behind a woman who had most of her purchases made and seemed to be in the process of checking out. Thinking I hit the jackpot and would be out the door in no time, I unloaded my items on the counter. And then the lady whipped out a stack of coupons two inches high.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there were problems because according to the cash register, some of the items she was trying to redeem coupons for weren't actually what she bought. When the cashier pointed it out to her, she began to search through her over stuffed bags to locate them.

The exasperated cashier tried to explain that if the product was in her bags, it would have scanned and the coupons she was trying to redeem would be accepted.  This irritated the now red-faced woman, who began to yell, asking if she was being accused of lying. Which, of course, resulted in the manager having to come over to deal with things.

At this point, I thought that it would be a good idea to take my items off the counter, and head over to another line, where I stood behind a man who didn't seem to have much. Men in general are in a big, scary hurry to get out of any store, let alone a grocery store full of estrogen fueled women bearing coupons and/or children. There was a ray of hope that I'd be getting out of there within the next five minutes.

When the cashier rattled off the total to Mr. Man, he realized that he couldn't find his debit card and promptly began searching his wallet, dumping its contents as he sorted through various credit cards, pictures and all manner of receipts.

The cashier pointed out that he could use any of the, oh, I don't know, 30 or 40 credit cards splayed out to complete his purchase, but that would have been too easy. He had a "policy" of not using credit cards to pay for groceries, and the rooting began anew. I thought my head would explode.

I went over to the self-checkout, because at this point I was frantic. I knew my family would send in a search party for me if I didn't get out of there – and fast.

If you've never had the pleasure of self-check out, let me give you a heads up. Inevitably, the scanner won't read half of your items and a flashing light goes on, which may as well be a siren with a big arrow pointing at your head, thus alerting the whole store to your plight, while a surly computer barks at you to remove the item. The only way around this was a manager – who was still busy with the Queen of Coupons.  

I looked around to see if there was anyone who could help, only to see Boy and his sisters coming my way. They could best be described as looking like a pack of St. Bernards who'd spotted their quarry. They were on a mission—retrieve Mom now and at all costs.

They gathered the groceries that weren't scanning and began to return them to their rightful places in the store, while I paid for the few that actually scanned. When I got out to the car, Matt was shaking his head. I began to tell him what had happened, but he just started laughing. He said that I remind him of Gilda Radner's character, Roseanne Roseannadanna. It's always something.

All the way home, the kids took turns telling their dad what my face looked like as they "stormed the castle." They all got a big laugh, but I, the odd man out, was not amused; well, not for long.

I'll admit they do some pretty funny imitations of me and in our family, poking fun of each other is pretty standard fare. No one is off limits.

That night, we ate our hot dogs on regular bread instead of the buns that didn't scan. Which, for once, were on sale; buy one get one free.