For me, a trip to the supermarket is up there with a trip to the dentist. It always takes longer than planned and ends with an eye-watering bill.
I should probably clarify that I have no one to blame but myself. When it comes to my teeth, I tend to be more reactive than proactive. As issues arise, I start the 10 brushings a day and gargling everything short of bleach. But if the ancient remedies from ‘Dr. Oddsbods’ Almanac: Vol. 37’ don’t temper the relentless throbbing near a wisdom tooth, I book an appointment in The Chair. The dentist will work their magic on the immediate concern, but then survey my mouth – finger-first, in ever-widening circles – sighing and tut-tutting as they go. That analysis, plus necessary fillings to address areas of concern, means a longer visit and – of course – a warranted higher bill for the extra work.
When it comes to the supermarket, I don’t make an advance list of what I actually need and I’m a marketer’s dream customer. I am completely taken in by lovely displays and anything with the words ‘artisanal’ or ‘organic’ on the label. What starts as a pop-in for a few items almost always ends up being a two-hour odyssey. I slowly make my way up and down every aisle but the baby-centric one, eyes glazed over, finally pushing my heaving cart of artisanal, organic, small-batch, all-natural, limited edition, refreshing, soothing, energising, choicest goods to the cash register.
We’re actually lucky to have great supermarkets on the island, with an impressive range of offerings. My best friend Lynne schedules her whole Saturday around visiting at least two of them, if not three. She likes the bread in location number one, but number two has consistently better grapes and a certain type of cheese she likes. A particular brand of cat food is less expensive at location number three, yet she prefers the deli options at location number one.
We used to go out on Friday nights, and she’d start bleating about needing to get home early because she had “a big day tomorrow”.
Climbing the Bluff? Horseriding? Learning to scuba dive?
Got to get to Foster’s before noon, then Kirk’s has a special on mini-cucumbers; Hurley’s FINALLY got that oven-roasted turkey breast in, and Cost-U-Less might have lime-flavoured Perrier in bulk … After that, it all turned into Charlie Brown’s teacher white noise for me. I boggled at her excitement over spending half her weekend browsing groceries, while I wondered if I could get everything I needed from the local Esso.
Anyway, about a week ago, I really had to go to the market. I was down to a tin of sardines and popsicles that had melted and refrozen several times, so they were now just sticks in fruity, misshapen boulders. On the Saturday, I walked into where Lynne was sitting and made an announcement. “I think,” I said, in a measured tone, dragging out the surprise, “I’ll come to the supermarket with you today.” Her eyes lit up – we were BOTH going to Disneyland!
After that, I thought we’d just get into the car and go, but no – I didn’t realise there was a whole ritual to be completed before we could leave. First, grab every reusable bag in the house. Second, get The List – a full accounting of what needed to be purchased, written down in a small journal.
I didn’t notice the third until we were getting into the car.
“Why are you wearing five elastic bands on your arm?” I asked, surveying a mix of ugly faded red and brown bracelets dangling around Lynne’s wrist.
“There are too many of them. We have too many of them. There are just too many,” she said, looking at me like I hadn’t got the memo. All I knew was that we had to keep the ones we had hidden from the cats, because for whatever reason, moggies go absolutely crazy for elastic bands. Something about the smell. They bite them, snap them, wang them around the room for a while and then try to eat them unless they are taken away.
What Lynne was basically saying is that every time she got a boxed meal from the supermarkets, the cashier would put an elastic band around the container to secure it, so it didn’t dump its contents into the shopping bag. The result was kitchen drawers full of the things – we were at capacity – so she was doing her part to make sure we didn’t add to the pile.
It had now been about 30 minutes since I said I was prepared to venture out of the house, and my enthusiasm for the excursion was fast waning. Sensing my cold feet, Lynne hastily started the engine and we were off. 10 minutes later, we had arrived at her Nirvana.
The next challenge in this process was going to be the inevitable parking lot mambo – the merry dance to try and get the best space. We scanned the lot for anyone about to leave, while keeping eyes on other cars playing the same game. I’ve said it before – drivers are never so gracious as when they’ll give others time to pull out of their spots … but only because they want to scoot in there straight after. There’s also the added element of excitement if the previous shopper has left their cart at an angle, slightly encroaching on the parking block.
We found a space, collected our hoard of reusable bags, and headed in to do battle.
What followed was over an hour of textbook supermarket shopping for me. Lynne, in her infinite wisdom, stuck to her plan. Her head might have been turned by the odd new line of jams or peanut butter, but otherwise, she was resolute. I, on the other hand, lost my mind and chose items with no rhyme or reason. It had been a while since I’d taken this journey with my bestie, so I’d forgotten the fun part of having every selection I made questioned.
“Do you really need that?”
“What are you getting those for?”
“You know you already have 10 of them at home that you haven’t touched since last year, right?”
Ever the mature adult, not only did I not answer any of her very logical queries, but I deliberately hung onto to items that even I was second-guessing, out of sheer stubbornness.
When we finally made our way to the cashier, it was hard to believe that Lynne was supposed to be the main shopper and I, the remora. You could barely see her three tomatoes, salad dressing, hand soap and Le Croixs under my pile of eye masks, crisps, yoga mats, chocolate bars, discounted hamburger buns and organic jellies.
Somewhere, in the back of my mouth, a tooth began to ache.
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