Grocery Shopping

It was a Friday night in La Grande, Oregon, and I was grocery shopping. Grocery shopping you say? Ai, grocery shopping. Shopping for groceries. On a Friday night.

Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.

However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?

Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”

Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.

Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”

Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.

But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.

But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!

Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.

“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”

I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.

The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”

I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”

He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”

His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”

It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”

The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.

Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.

I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.

She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.

“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”

Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”

I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.

I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.

It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”

I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”

Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”

She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.

I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.

She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”

By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”

I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.

I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:

Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?

Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.

Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.

Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.

Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?

Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.

Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.

Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?

Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.

Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.

No Running in the Halls.

Upon the start of Winter term 2009, I am confident in saying that college is awesome, for one reason, and one reason only.

30+ year old classmates.

It's cool to know that someone can be a decade older than you, and still be in the same class you are.

In my public speaking class, there are several older students, most of which can remember when gasoline was under a dollar per gallon, and the earth was still flat. (Which it may be. Research is still pending.)

Today, one of my over-30-years-old classmates gave a speech on her life thus far, and the whole thing was pretty good, and pretty normal, until the end, when she concluded her speech by saying "So yeah, my name is Lisa. I like bullshitting with random people, and I hope by the end of this year, I can finally get divorced."

After the whole class collectively shit themselves, we were all able to re-group, and I let out a little chuckle, but nobody else thought it was that funny. I thought it was hilarious.

Something that is completely un-related is a girl in my speech class named Anya Tedbra.

I don't know her, but she gave a speech about her name, talking about how it is so disgusting and perverted. Everyone in the class thought her name was hillarious, and I did not understand.

So, I turned around and asked the people behind me why exactly her name is so hilarious.

"Her name is Anya! Like...ON YA! Get it?"

"And then it's Tedbra...like B-R-A. Like...BRA!!! Get it?"

"Oh, i get it."

I did get it. But the problem was I was having a hard time 'getting' why it is so perverted. Maybe because my initials are STD, I was having a hard time finding this girls 'unfortunate' naming situation humorous.

Try being named "dick warts" your entire life...then come back to me.

Then in my writing 222 class, a lady with a baby was sitting in the back row, and I'm going to assume she was either the mother, or a really bad baby sitter.

The teacher would frequently ask, "any more thoughts on this topic?"

And the room was silent. Until the little baby said "bah." "nana." "Bahaaaaha."

Everyone smiled or let out a little laugh, admiring the baby's cute-ness, but I wasn't buying it. Not for a second.

I immediately turned around, and criticized the baby for improper grammar, and I told it to take the Binkie out of it's mouth when it's speaking to me.

The baby then replied "Bah."

Rude.

I then told the mom/terrible baby sitter that she should find another class to take her and her baby to, because I am tired of having standard classroom awkward silences RUINED by random burps, farts, and baby talk.

"If anyone is going to ruin the silence with flatulence, and random baby noises...It's going to be ME!"

"Sean, see me after class."

"Bah."

The last 2 weeks of my life have been, more or less, spent in a charter bus and/or a dorm room. So this got me to thinking, that a dorm room on wheels might very well be the best possible living condition for ANYONE.

The blueprint is still in the works, and I'm having a hard time getting it pattented, because it is a terrible idea, but I think it could really sell to...say, mentally challenged 19 year old college students.

The other day, my roommate (who will remain anonymous, because he is a gigantic, flamingly open homo-sexual) and I were running through the halls, most likely making animal noises, and undoubtedly giggling like small children.

Everything was going great, until I hear in the distance, a commanding, slightly bitchy, mostly whiny, and one hundred percent annoying voice say "No running in the halls."

I stopped dead in my tracks, feeling like i was in 2nd grade again, and found it very hard to believe that I really just got told to not run in the halls. By an RA!

I went back to the room, and she made me and my anonymously homosexual roomate walk back to our room in single file, with hall passes and a dunce cap on. She then bent me over and spanked me with a ruler. Which was actually entirely my idea. In a completely non-sexual sense. Cuz that would be weird.

In conclusion, buy your dorm-on-wheels today, available at Wal-Mart, and other major corporations that offer little to no benefits to their employees everywhere.

Oh, and if at all possible, in the next year, turn 30, enroll in a public speaking class, and get divorced.