I can’t afford another snowstorm. Every time one is announced, I run right out and spend myself into oblivion. I jam myself into snowboots and rush to the store, to be assured of a parking space before the crazies get there.
Then I take a wagon and, basically, play supermarket sweepstakes.
Sure, the idea is to simply get bread, and milk, and any staples we might run out of before I can get out of the house again.
But in practice, this translates into throwing everything I can reach into the wagon. You can never have too much spaghetti sauce, or oatmeal, or toilet-bowl cleaner; and English muffins never go bad (how could you tell?), so throw them in, too.
Oh, and kitty litter. We don’t have any cats, but it can substitute for sand on the sidewalk. Or so I’ve heard.
Before I’m halfway around the store, the wagon is full, so I must do a little re-arranging. When absolutely nothing more will stay lodged on the sloping sides of the mountain in my cart, it’s time to head for the cashier.
Forget coupons, this is an emergency! Just ring it up! Ring it up! Ring ALL of it up!
How on earth did I manage to spend $500? And how will I get it all to the car?
Because by some little-known law of physics, what fits into one cart before the bagging process, now takes at least two.
The rest of the day is spent carrying bag after bag into the house, like an oversized member of an ant-hill.
An ant, however, would know which bags contain things that will melt or spoil if I never find them.
“What’s that smell?” my husband asks. “Did you forget to put something in the refrigerator?”
“What kind of idiot would I be, if I didn’t check for that?” Just for the record, never start a sentence that way …unless you look forward to finding out what kind of idiot you are, namely the kind who leaves sliced turkey meat on the floor of the kitchen, in a bag that you swore up and down contained nothing but soup cans.
Even if you put everything perishable in the right place, there’s always the danger that the power will fail.
I used to argue with myself about the stupidity of buying expensive mood-enhancers, like Haagen Dazs, that become liabilities the second the lights go out. But I couldn’t decide which was the better argument, and in the meantime the clock was ticking… so now I just buy everything and keep a spoon by my side.
Finally, finally, I can sit down with a cup of coffee and realize – there is no milk. No milk? How could I forget the milk?
The next storm, I try again. I don’t have long to wait; another snow is predicted before we’ve finished shoveling out from the last one. And as sure as the salmon swim upstream every spring, and sharks swarm to blood in the water, I’m back at that grocery store.
At least this time, I can take it easy. Surely, if there is any kind of silver lining to my frenzy of a few days ago, it’s that now there’s hardly a thing in the store that I need. Just bread and milk. And it’s even easier than that. This time, they’re out of milk.
But I reckoned without my inner demon. I come out of a trance, 90 minutes and $600 later, trying to fit even more grocery bags into the car. This time I need the seats as well as the trunk. “What on earth is this?” my husband asks me, when he comes home that night and trips over the last few shopping bags on the floor. “Pasta.” “That’s all just pasta? Do we really need a seven year supply?” he asks.
I merely shrug. He’s got a point, but sending me back to the store, at this rate, is something we just can’t afford.
Our only hope is that the next storm sneaks in un-announced, and I’m completely snowed in before I can get to the car.
Not only would it save me from another kamikaze shopping trip, but I may actually be forced to use some of the paper towels and dish soap, and cook at least some of the pasta, and spaghetti sauce, and soup, and rice, and oatmeal, in the inventory.
But do you think you could pick me up some bread and milk?
