The New Grocery Store Acquisition

Well, the big sign in the window finally made it official: My local grocery store is closing.

I had my suspicions. There was a vague feeling of uneasiness hanging over it like a rain cloud for quite some time. Those not so attuned to their surroundings may not have picked up on it, but for somebody like me – one with a sixth sense for these sorts of things – it was pretty obvious.

Also, the fact that the shelves have been half-stocked for several weeks now was a bit of a clue.

Anyway, this is bad thing, because I'll have to find a new place to get my groceries. Now, this may seem like a fairly simple task, especially with the help of Google Maps, but for somebody who loves their routines as much as I do, this is nothing short of an earthshaking development that will undoubtedly generate disruptive waves of uncertainty in the normally tranquil pond of my life.

It even goes beyond just finding a new place to shop. Once I manage to do so – assuming it’s even possible – I’ll then have to learn the rhythms of the new store, such as when the best times are to go if I want to avoid people clogging up the aisles, and which cashiers to avoid because they’d rather chat with the customers as opposed to actually ringing them up. Ugh. Just the thought of it makes me want to crawl into bed and whimper.

Fueled by sheer panic, I’ve spent some time trying to come up with alternatives to finding a new store, but I’ve yet to hit on anything particularly encouraging. The two I have so far are starving, or trying to hit the occasional turkey that runs out in front of my car on the way to work.

Regardless, one thing is certain: I’ll hold on to my old grocery store until the very last possible moment, desperately searching the empty shelves for anything that could give me sustenance. (“Ha-ha! Lettuce! Or maybe mold! Either way, it’s on sale!”) My goal is to be the last person to buy something from there. I’ll be like a vulture that doesn’t know when to give up, scavenging bones that have already been bleached white by the sun days before. I’ll probably have to be escorted from the premises by local law enforcement officials. (“Sir, the store is closed. Forever. You can’t keep sneaking in.”) I’ll most likely go on a last-ditch shopping binge there, filling my fridge with processed lunch meat that has enough preservatives to last for several years, which, now that I think about it, is incredibly gross, yet still so much better than shopping somewhere else.

But eventually, despite my best efforts – unless I choose the starving option – I’ll have to find a new place to shop. I have several choices. I could go to the nearby Super Target, which is what probably put my grocery store out of business in the first place. Its big selling point is its proximity to me, not to mention it would give me the flexibility to buy a new pair of socks, a yoga mat, and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch all in one trip, should the mood strike me. The main disadvantage is that it’s Target, so there are always several billion people shopping there at any given time, half of them jamming up the checkout lines, many of them picking their noses.

Most likely, I’ll wind up locating a traditional grocery store and giving it the “ol’ college try.” I’ll wander through the unfamiliar aisles, feeling out of place and nervous. I’ll avoid eye-contact with everybody that I pass, hoping they won’t notice that I’m new here, and unfamiliar with their strange culture and odd promotions. It won’t be easy, but, by falling back on the self-reliance that made America great – otherwise known as putting on your “big boy pants” – I’ll make due. Somehow. I have no other choice. It just has to be done.

Unless… Hey, has anybody tried ordering their groceries online and having them delivered to their front door?

Penguin Hat Jealousy

I’m not a person who’s particularly tuned in to contemporary trends. One reason is because I’m lazy and don’t like spending the time to notice things. Another is because if everybody is doing something, it automatically makes me want to do something else, simply to be cantankerous and ornery. (I’m practicing to be an old man with a droopy moustache and overalls who sits on his porch in a rocking chair and continually rants and raves about things of an inconsequential nature.)

However, even I can’t help but notice the current trend of winter hats for children. (How could I not? It’s been winter in Minnesota for about nine months now!! But I won’t allow myself to get into that again!! Hopefully!!)

Everywhere you look, you’ll see kids wearing winter hats that look like animals. There are frogs and penguins and Ninja Turtles and Perry the Platypuses* and dogs and so many others, all out in force. (If there isn’t a sasquatch one, that’s a million dollar idea for somebody to run with. Follow it up with an abominable snowman, and you’re retired, just like that!)

I have to admit, these hats make me sort of jealous. Not jealous in a practical sense, since I’d never actually wear anything like that now. My current fashion protocol is essentially modeled after Shredded Wheat. Its objective is blandness and not standing out in a crowd. My goal is to be able to blend in seamlessly with the background in a warehouse full of cardboard boxes, should that need ever arise. It’s a good style for me; simple and efficient, and it doesn’t turn me into a walking billboard for some gigantic athletic company.

Still, I kind of wish I had a penguin hat back when I was a kid. I’m not saying that it would have made my childhood better or more enjoyable, but still, what kid wouldn’t want a hat that looks like a penguin? You’d have to have a heart of stone not to!

Oh well. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

But still, all hope isn’t lost! Maybe there’s some similar type of hat out there that I could get behind, one that wouldn't completely go against my current fashion protocol. Hmm, I wonder…

*“Where’s Perry?” 

Ugh

It’s been a while since I’ve last figuratively took pen in hand to leave another of my small imprints on the internet. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been busy furthering myself as an individual and really “making hay,” but the real reason is because I’ve been spending all of my time curled up in the fetal position and whimpering.

This is because it’s still winter, and that makes me sad.

I’ve kind of always thought that the weather of any given place will sort of balance out over the year. For example, the summers are absolutely beautiful in the U.P. where I grew up, but the winters there invariably bring roughly forty-seven feet of snow, which starts in early October and ends in mid-May. On the southeastern coast, you can live on the ocean and bask in the sun constantly, which is probably very nice, but you also have to keep in mind that every few years a hurricane is going to come along and transfer all of your worldly possessions to one or more of the plain states.

Here in Minnesota, the winter ends in late March or the beginning of April, and thus its residents get an early jump on warm spring weather and trying to keep the children from playing in mud holes. In return for this respite from the chill and snow, the summer’s are like living in the armpit of a sumo wrestler, except with more airborne insects that will suck you dry in minutes if you're not careful. That’s the deal that’s been struck with Mother Nature.

However, Mother Nature has apparently gone rogue and decided that winter is going to last here until the end of time. (Either that, or she’s a terrible practical joker.) As I type these words, the landscape is blanketed in a fresh layer of snow, courtesy of a nice little storm that appears to be sent by Mother Nature as her way of thumbing her nose at us. “The heck with our little agreement!” she seems to be saying. “May you never see the sun or green grass again! Ha-ha!”

As you can probably guess, Mother Nature and I are no longer on good terms. The chasm that’s grown between us is not yet unbridgeable, but it’s getting there fast, and she’d better clean up her act pretty quick unless she wants to lose me as a friend forever. I’m talking warm weather and melting snow, STAT! No more fooling around!

Well, I believe I’ve made my case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more whimpering that I need to take care of. Feel free to join in, if you're so moved.

The Pajama Success Barometer

People define success in many ways. For example, a starting pitcher in baseball might consider going six strong innings while giving up only two runs as successful, while a clumsy fisherman's definition might include not falling out of his boat and getting eaten by a sea monster. Also, a turtle would most definitely consider getting across a four-lane highway a monumental success. (Unless, of course, he realized that he forgot his wallet back where he’d started and had to retrace his steps.)

As for me, I’m a simple man, and that means I have a simple definition of success, which is as follows: If I’m wearing pajamas and it’s past 11:00 AM, then the day has been successful.

You might ask, why is that? Well, for one thing it means it's either a weekend or a holiday, or else I’d be stuck at work. (Unless, of course, my place of employment decided to have a pajama day, in which case my definition of success would grow very fuzzy.) It also means that I didn’t have anything pressing to take care of that morning, such as escaping a burglar, getting my tires rotated, or yelling at the people in the grocery store who annoy me. And, to top it off, pajamas are just darn comfortable! It’s like taking a little piece of your bed along with you to start your day, which can be very soothing, especially when you're too old for teddy bears.

Admit it, there’s just something special about sipping coffee in your pajamas while the world rushes crazily past that makes for a successful day…

Now, I do want to make a little clarification here, mainly because this entry isn’t long enough yet and I have to pad it out a bit. There are cases when a successful day can occur even if I’m not in my pajamas at 11:00 in the morning. For example, it can happen when I’m on vacation and I awake at 6:00 AM to hike up a looming mountain, just so I can grunt in appreciation at the summit and get back down in time for lunch. (I’m also a simple man when it comes to vacations.) But these exceptions don’t disprove my original assertion. Looking back through the mists of time, I can’t recall a single time where I was still in my pajamas at 11:00 AM that didn't end up being a good day. And so, at least for me, that makes for a pretty darn accurate success barometer.

Now, about that pajama day at work idea… maybe I’m onto something!