grocery store trenches

I don't know why I do it.

Lying in bed this morning, hungry, I mourn the absence of weekend breakfast food, minus a half-bowl of bran cereal and one egg. I finish the cereal to hold me over and make the decision to go to Meijer.

It's Saturday morning. It's Prime Time. It's like going to the tire shop immediately after the year's first snowstorm (which I've also accomplished two years running after annual bald tire near-death experiences).

Remember, I could go grocery shopping nearly any morning of the week—I could leisurely stroll around, leave my cart in the middle of the aisle, throw cans at the floor to get the 50 percent off discount—but I choose Saturday morning. I opt for suburban torture.

As I drive 15 minutes out of my way, weaving in-and-out of busy traffic, I revisit my game plan: Coffee. Bread. Meat. Pizza. Cheese. Eggs. Chips. Exit. All in 45 minutes.

I arrive in the jam-packed SUV lot, whisper a pep talk to myself, walk in, locate my Starbucks gift card and land a breakfast blend for the grocery derby.

(It's been nearly two hours, and I'm only half-way through this "mild" cup—Starbucks is like the crack of coffee. Personally, I boycott Starbucks in instances other than free gift cards and caffeine emergencies on principal for not allowing guests free Internet after I've just paid $2 for a cup of coffee. Yet somehow they still win.)

As I move through the store, picking up two loaves of bread for the price of one (on this IQ test I began yesterday, http://intelligence-test.net/part1/, the answer to #24 is 13 Loaves in a Baker's Dozen), I realize one reason I came here this morning.

It's like New York City streets out there. It's intense.

You and I morph into angry cab drivers, screaming at each other to get out of the way, but glossing over our fleshy gut feelings with polite "Excuse me," "Pardon me," or "I'm sorry," when in reality, we're trying to score that last 2-for-1 deal on the chicken breasts before you. Admit it: Rain checks suck, and like Ricky Bobby says, "If you ain't first, you're last."

We blaze through normal-sized aisles with oversized carts, gazing at the colorful food all around, either scouring for survival or indulging in excess, enjoying the diversity of the people, though un-proportionately saturated with soccer mom's and little children.

Which brings me to my main thesis: Motherhood.

I always leave amazed after observing mother's bringing their children grocery shopping. Some bring three or four rascals, managing them all, holding the infant, grabbing gallons of milk while attempting to get her boy to stop screaming and her little girl to stop crying without making a scene.

They accomplish all of this while hundreds of others invade the grocery store, further complicating matters. I ran into a mother I used to work with, her son is three, who informed me that Thomas the Train had paint on him after watching this morning's DVD. "It's what's important when you're three," she said.

Respect the mother's, I say, there is no more difficult job on Earth. This is not to say that there aren't father's who do this as well, there certainly are, but a mother will usually accomplish all of this with a great deal of compassion and grace.

Of course, my original food goals are thwarted by big box discounts and loss-leader products, as I approach grocery shopping like the stock market (buy low), applying lessons from my youth, remembering how my Dad would purchase six bottles of ketchup to save 54 cents.

All this to my Mother's chagrin, though he would always claim delayed victory at the dinner table over meatloaf when the ketchup ran dry, when my Mother would grab another from the well-stocked cabinet, the grin of victory pasted on my Dad's face.

On the same note, I'm slightly gun-shy to admit how many frozen pizza's I acquired this morning, though I count it as an investment in friend's and Monday Night Football traditions.

ESPN, if you follow this blog, please fire Tony Kornheiser, he's worse than listening to Dennis Miller (cracking drawn-out jokes while stranded on a remote island in the Bermuda Triangle with a baby monitor pod cast that plays through every single radio station in the continental United States and Puerto Rico). I think Joe Theismann is going to monkey stomp Kornheiser in the booth of these days, which will make for great TV memories.

Finally, after I check out, I nod with pride after reading "YOUR SAVINGS TODAY!!!!," (33 percent on the dollar), thinking for a moment that I've subversively defeated "The Man," then quickly recalling that "The Man" owns Meijer and I'm exiting a superstore with a Starbucks cup in hand.

After weaving through increased traffic on my return journey, I arrive at home and haul all goods in on one trip (certified "Man Law" since the invention of the plastic bag for groceries), put them away, open my laptop, and begin writing about why I put myself through a Saturday morning at Meijer.