I hate shopping. I don't care what I'm shopping for, I hate it. Probably the one exception would be shopping for a luxury car, but after paying for three college educations, I sincerely doubt that will ever happen.
Grocery shopping ranks at the very bottom of all the possible shopping expeditions. It takes such a huge chunk out of the day, like this:
1) Figure out what to serve for dinner for the next several days. Don't forget breakfast, lunch and snacks. Double everything if younger son is home.
2) Make shopping list.
3) Drive to store.
4) Realize I left list at home.
5) Drive home and get list.
6) Drive back to store.
7) Do actual shopping. During this time a) glare at the idiots who insist on parking their carts smack-dab in the middle of the aisle, so you can't get around them, and b) text daughter to ask exactly what kind of facial scrub/shampoo/lotion/make-up remover/toothpaste/mouthwash she needs.
8) Wait in check-out line.
9) Show the clerk my ID to prove I'm old enough to purchase beer and wine. (It used to be kind of funny. Now, I just find it annoying. I'm 52 and generally look it, for cripes's sake.)
10) Load groceries in the car.
11) Drive home.
12) Drag groceries into the kitchen.
13) Chase down cat who escaped to freedom while garage door was open.
14) Put everything away.
15) Text husband to ask where he wants to go for dinner.
I would love to unload (ha) this chore on my husband, but unfortunately, his shopping criteria leaves a lot to be desired. I'm very picky, he's not, so it's just easier if I do the shopping to avoid putting up with the wilted vegetables, off brands, and other weird crap he brings home.
Several years ago, we moved my parents to the Dallas area so we could keep a closer eye on them. Since neither could no longer see well enough to drive, it fell to me to take them to the grocery store. You should understand that my parents were completely devoted to one another for 61 years and seldom argued, but grocery shopping brought out the worst in each of them. There was so much bickering over what to buy, what variety to buy, or what size to buy, that it would get embarrassing, and I would have to walk off just so people wouldn't think I was related to the elderly couple snarling at each other over the ground beef.
Probably because she was raised during the Depression, my mother is extremely frugal and hates to throw anything out, especially food. If she can't purchase something that she can quickly consume, she'll just do without it. While I admire her stance --- up to a point --- in my mind, a widow at the age of 86 has earned the right to buy whatever she damn well wants. Consequently, some of our grocery excursions have been tense because I don't like her martyr attitude, and she doesn't care for my scorched earth policy. But there are instances when her craving for something will win out and when that happens, she insists that I take home half. Then it becomes my responsibility to toss out what she can't bring herself to do, a sort of kitchen version of don't ask, don't tell.
My younger son comes home next week for a very brief visit before heading back to A&M. After a summer spent eating MREs (Meals Ready to Eat), the Army's greatly updated (and very interesting) adaptation of Civil War hardtack, he is going to be ravenous for some home cooking.
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