On Grocery Shopping...(written in 2000)
This story is not for the weak. I must warn you now that what I am going to write is even more than my own stomach can normally handle. It is with caution that you read this story...
It all began one morning, as I prepared to head out for the grocery store. My husband, who was working out of the house, awaiting his new office building to be completed, had suggested I keep our toddler, Madison home.
This story is not for the weak. I must warn you now that what I am going to write is even more than my own stomach can normally handle. It is with caution that you read this story...
It all began one morning, as I prepared to head out for the grocery store. My husband, who was working out of the house, awaiting his new office building to be completed, had suggested I keep our toddler, Madison home.
She was still sleeping and would wake up to a morning of Elmo and Cheerios. And, she was not built for grocery shopping, not up for the long journey down each aisle, often whimpering at the temperature in the frozen foods. Shopping with one kid was a breeze.
Max was a quiet, easygoing and happy baby. At eight months, he would lie in his carrier and just smile with those “big blue eyes”. Easy with a capital E! Or, as his sister would say,” easy cheesy lemon squeezy" I was never weary of taking him places because of his laid-back personality. So, off I went, just: Max, my oversized, nylon diaper tote from the Gap and a grocery list. I was ready to wage wars with other carts, pick produce like a pro and stand in the long deli line for a pound of sliced smoked turkey and provolone.
I was strolling though the aisles, filling my cart with foods and necessities. I had already picked up a box of baby wipes and was nearing the end of my shopping. Almost time to check out...until I bent over into the cart to lay down the dozen eggs and got a whiff of something foul.
Notice, I didn't say fowl, like chicken, because I didn't have poultry in my cart. Instead, I had something much, much worse. And, it was leaking from my son's diaper and straight into my Gap (diaper) bag. Luckily, my own purse was placed strategically under this "misfortune of diarrhea" and dripping, stinking, yellow mess! It was the consistency of Grey Poupon (country dijon) mustard or any Dijon mustard, but not the French's mustard variety.
Max showed no signs of discomfort and continued smiling, despite smelling "like a landfill at high noon in Arizona". He must have "burnt out" his own olfactory senses, but mine were unfortunately in overdrive. I assumed the rest of the store was becoming aware of this rancidity of my sweet son. I prayed the fire alarm would not go off.
I quickly maneuvered the groceries away from the "trail of drips" and grabbed the new box of wipes to use on the cart, my son's legs and of course, my bag! I was so embarrassed, in a frozen state of confusion. Do I leave the cart and run for my car? Do I call the biohazard rescue team? 911? What should I do now? Well, as you all know, once you've spent an hour in a grocery store, you must finish the job.
I headed for the checkout lane, apologized for opening the box of wipes, before paying. I knew the pungent smell was following me like a bad habit. I hesitated on the way to checkout, to pick up a can of "Glade Springtime Flowers". Too bad, I only hesitated! I noticed about a half dozen women running the other way to the longer checkout lanes, they were obviously overcome by the odor.
I ignored the stares and coughs of people around me, including the elderly woman who began a gagging reflex behind me. I looked straight at her as if to say, "Hey, did you pass gas or what"? I began to pass blame like a hot potato. I quickly glanced at the checker (also overcome by the stench), giving her the eye roll and said, "Wow, someone really cut the cheese" all the while covering up my son's yellow legs. She agreed, as she pulled on a gas mask from under the counter.
I was eager to pay and leave before the "wet mop' was called to clean up aisle nine. I hoped Albertson's would burn the cart, in the parking lot. I considered torching the cart myself, but did not want to become an arsonist, as well. So, I wiped it down with the rest of the wipes and headed home.
*If you happen to have been at the supermarket on a hot, July morning, circa 1999...I hope you did not use this cart. I am sure it was deemed hazardous material and sent away by some men in white jumpsuits.
I was strolling though the aisles, filling my cart with foods and necessities. I had already picked up a box of baby wipes and was nearing the end of my shopping. Almost time to check out...until I bent over into the cart to lay down the dozen eggs and got a whiff of something foul.
Notice, I didn't say fowl, like chicken, because I didn't have poultry in my cart. Instead, I had something much, much worse. And, it was leaking from my son's diaper and straight into my Gap (diaper) bag. Luckily, my own purse was placed strategically under this "misfortune of diarrhea" and dripping, stinking, yellow mess! It was the consistency of Grey Poupon (country dijon) mustard or any Dijon mustard, but not the French's mustard variety.
Max showed no signs of discomfort and continued smiling, despite smelling "like a landfill at high noon in Arizona". He must have "burnt out" his own olfactory senses, but mine were unfortunately in overdrive. I assumed the rest of the store was becoming aware of this rancidity of my sweet son. I prayed the fire alarm would not go off.
I quickly maneuvered the groceries away from the "trail of drips" and grabbed the new box of wipes to use on the cart, my son's legs and of course, my bag! I was so embarrassed, in a frozen state of confusion. Do I leave the cart and run for my car? Do I call the biohazard rescue team? 911? What should I do now? Well, as you all know, once you've spent an hour in a grocery store, you must finish the job.
I headed for the checkout lane, apologized for opening the box of wipes, before paying. I knew the pungent smell was following me like a bad habit. I hesitated on the way to checkout, to pick up a can of "Glade Springtime Flowers". Too bad, I only hesitated! I noticed about a half dozen women running the other way to the longer checkout lanes, they were obviously overcome by the odor.
I ignored the stares and coughs of people around me, including the elderly woman who began a gagging reflex behind me. I looked straight at her as if to say, "Hey, did you pass gas or what"? I began to pass blame like a hot potato. I quickly glanced at the checker (also overcome by the stench), giving her the eye roll and said, "Wow, someone really cut the cheese" all the while covering up my son's yellow legs. She agreed, as she pulled on a gas mask from under the counter.
I was eager to pay and leave before the "wet mop' was called to clean up aisle nine. I hoped Albertson's would burn the cart, in the parking lot. I considered torching the cart myself, but did not want to become an arsonist, as well. So, I wiped it down with the rest of the wipes and headed home.
*If you happen to have been at the supermarket on a hot, July morning, circa 1999...I hope you did not use this cart. I am sure it was deemed hazardous material and sent away by some men in white jumpsuits.
>>>This story was a favorite of mine, I will be posting some of my older stories to remind myself how quickly the kiddos grow. Max is now riding a YZ 85, not a shopping cart this summer!
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