I hate grocery shopping. I rank this chore somewhere between picking slimy wilted lettuce off the bottom of the crisper drawer and cleaning toilets boys have peed on. No matter how prepared I try to be with my sorted-by-aisle, alphabetized, pre-printed grocery list, just getting there pisses me off almost as much as much as a fight with my mother. You could put me in an orange vest and turn me loose in the freezing tundra with nothing more than a shotgun and my will to live, and although I may starve to death before killing any of Walt Disney's gentle woodland creatures, I'll at least go calmly. But stick me in an aisle full of soccer moms and screaming toddlers jockeying for the last loaf of Wonder Bread and you may as well poke me in the eye with a sharp stick. Imagine if you will, someone too picky, too cranky, too anal-retentive and far too easily provoked into an angry fit of impromptu bumper carts for this to be anything other than an exercise in utter frustration. Are you imagining that? Good. Now add PMS.
I guess it was inevitable that payday would one day coincide with Aunt Flo's short-fused precursor, but if I'd had any food in the house at all – not counting a can of sauerkraut and some frozen leftovers – I probably would have put it off at least another day. It would have been the least I could do, if only to spare the natives. But sadly enough, one cannot live on sauerkraut and vegetable lo-mein alone.
I at least have the decency to feel sorry for those who crossed my path in the local H.E.B. this afternoon. When confronted with clogged aisles and the 'excuse-your-overloaded-cart' looks from customers, I actually caught myself mumbling under my breath, "Oh, I'm sorry -- was it my turn to give a shit about your shopping experience?" and, "See this face? This is what my face looks like when I don't give a rat's ass." Oh, yes, I was a barrel of giggles and sunshine, all wrapped up in candy-coated teddy bears. And if you think that's bad, you should have seen me when I realized I'd forgotten my categorized-by-aisle alphabetized shopping list on the kitchen counter. Good thing there's little else taking up space in my short-term memory bank.
So I've pretty much bitched my way through this entire day, from 7 AM PT, all the way through the part where I cut off all the circulation in 8 of 10 fingers because I'm too lazy to make more than two trips up the stairs with an inexplicable $145-worth of groceries.
Once I got everything put away, however, and had finished logging my hasty dinner of the aforementioned leftovers into my Weight Watchers points tracker, I decided to spend my last two points of the day on exactly seven ounces of overpriced Rainier cherries I'd bought on impulse. And this, right here, is where the whole day suddenly turned around. When I opened that bag of cherries, I was greeted by the sight of two pounds of bloody-red, juicy, unblemished sunshine so fat and heavy with sweetness, I think I heard angels sing. It was almost obscene how picture-perfect they were, without a single reject. I smiled – nay, giggled when I plucked out a still-joined-by-the-stem pair so perfect and shiny they look like clip art.
I know I don't deserve this bowl of deep, dark cherry perfection after the way I've rampaged through this day. I should feel guilty, or at least mildly penitent about the number of swear words I've used, the combinations in which I've used them and the more-or-less innocent people I've used them at. I could probably even manage to repair my damaged karma if I at least offered to bring some to the office tomorrow to share.
But I don't feel guilty. And I probably won't share. And maybe it's just the PMS talking, but I'm really okay with that.
