21 January 2006


Wegm@ns on a Saturday morning takes a certain amount of good karma and entering into a zen-like trance before even pulling into the parking lot. Normally, being the general curmudgeon that I am, I try to avoid needing this happy person persona by shopping on a Tuesday morning when all the other schmucks are sitting in their cubicles. However, sometimes bad things happen to grouchy people and I’m stuck shopping for bagels with the masses.

This morning I braced myself with a little bit of meditation on the short drive: “I’m calm and not on a deadline. I will not beat imbeciles with the nearest cucumber. I will not beat imbeciles with the nearest cucumber. No beating with cucumbers.”

I was on guard. I gracefully maneuvered away from the crazy grannies who can’t drive a cart. (And made a mental note to be very, very cautious upon entering the parking lot.) I pitied the doofuses with junior in tow. (Just because you’re getting big ol’ bonus points from wifey at home for doing the grocery shopping with the brat, you really aren’t winning over this chic by blocking up the aisles when you try to figure out how the deli works. Just get the hot dogs and get out of the way.) I even tolerated the woman at the meat counter with her calculator trying to determine if the pork roast or the pork chops were a better deal. (It’s a 3 cent difference per pound, lady. They already do the math for you and I’m pretty sure the Wegmans employees know how to do math better than you do. Just get one and eat up.)

But today, after way too many polite smiles over clenched teeth and even a few “excuse me’s,” I nearly hit the nice girl limit with the pretentious prig in his burnt velvet scarf and cart full of organic spinach. Yes, sir, I realize that you are a superior being with your morally upstanding food and your highly burnished shoes. You deserve more space than the rest of us mere mortals schlepping around with Weight W@tchers muffins and a six-pack of Smirn*ff’s malt liquor beverages. And certainly I should clear the way and lay down a red carpet as you prance down the aisles. *gag* I’m sure it was my fault that you were bothered when you ran your cart full of up tight tofu into me, the plebian who had the audacity to be standing still, huddled on the side of the aisle with my average Jane cup ‘o soup trying to avert my eyes from your greatness. It really took all I had not to strangle the prig with that velvet scarf when he looked at me and exclaimed in, yes, you guessed it, a fake British accent, “Eeeexxxcuse me. You really must watch where you are going. Humph.” prance, prance, prance…

At least the bedraggled kid who was sacking groceries to pay for his prom ticket and junker car made me feel better when he asked if I was okay and observed that “He really rammed you, didn’t he? I’d watch out for the Saab in the parking lot if he drives like he shops.”

All I can say is give me the damn cucumber.

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