weeping over the grease traps

My grocery store is trying to drive me insane.

A common sentiment, I know - but seriously, I think they are out to get me (not paranoid at all). But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Today fried chicken was on our minds and in the air so we decided to indulge.

BTW, currently - in fact as I type this - I am paying for giving in to the siren call of the glorious fried chicken, by having the most horrid stomach pains and general ick (slightly less perky than a malaise with more grit).

Anyhow, fried chicken cravings led me to the grocery store around dinner time. A store that has decided to fuck with my head by renovating for the supposed purpose of making my shopping experience more convenient.

OMG grocery people, I just figured out where the jumbo pocky was (aisle 11) and now you decide to shake the whole store up? Five years of memorizing your layout, five years of being able to shop on autopilot or guide SB through the store to find exotic products like frozen apple juice concentrate and my beloved meatballs. Out the window, five years wasted. Thanks a bunch.

So yes, I arrived and once again (for the third time this week) freaked out at the renovation that promises to make my life better, and immediately went to the fried chicken department and asked for a bucket of chicken.

After listening to my question the fried chicken girl burst into tears. Real tears. She started to cry and tell me that the stress of the renovation was totally getting to her and she didn't have any fried chicken and could I come back in 20 minutes. I can't believe I pushed the fried chicken girl over the edge with my bad reno vibes. Woah.

After telling her it's going to be okay (might have been a lie, how can I know - it might get worse) - I said I'd return in twenty minutes, knowing full well that was how long it was going to take for me to find the milk. Damn you grocery store reno team.

The store was a mess - not like crap all over the place but weird shelving buddies. Like bug killer is next to tuna, and salsa is with feminine protection (wee ninja women warriors in various absorbencies). I was trying to establish a pattern: alphabetical? size? bar code bingo?

While standing in the second last aisle mourning the chip display that once was but no longer is, I noticed a woman off to my right. She was muttering to herself but otherwise appeared quite normal. Until I noticed her grocery list. In her right hand she clutched a piece of paper (normal), up her left arm was an assortment of post it notes (odd), and all over her hands a la Memento, were words like "milk" and "bread" (well those were the only two I could read but the theme of all I could see was food related). Definitely different.

After absorbing that and cursing myself for not bringing the camera, I returned to the weeping fried chicken girl, got my current tummy ache in a basket, and scurried out the door. The escalator was too crowded so I jumped onto the elevator out of sheer laziness along with about four other folks. And in that one floor trip, my spidey sense went off as the man behind me, who just oozed creep, said to the back of my head "you smell really good". Just for the record, no shower today and I was holding a basket of fried chicken.

So with that, I have come to the conclusion that my grocery store is trying to drive me insane. But not crazy enough to post topless pictures of myself (that post made me laugh so hard I almost put down my basket of chicken - oh that Black Hockey Jesus).