Shopping for a vacation turns ugly

My children are plotting to ruin my favorite vacation spot. I had been expecting it for a while, but now I have real evidence they want to sabotage my little affair.

The grocery store-- a tropical paradise, artic adventure and safari rolled into one exciting afternoon.

Just think about it. Flowers, chocolate, spa comforts, gourmet food, a carving station, fresh seafood you can trust and tropical fruit.
Heck if you’re into it, they’ve even got prescription drugs.

I can make a trip to the grocery store for a gallon of milk last an hour and half. I'll just walk around, enjoy the florescent lighting, read labels or check out the produce. It's just so quiet and it's air conditioned-- and if you go there enough and they know who you are, they'll open up a check stand for you so you don't have to wait in line.
At least, in my fantasy world of grocery store wonders that’s what they do.

I’m special at the grocery store. Don’t want to get left with a sour cantaloupe. Ask the produce guy . Wondering if six hours is enough to thaw out your 20-pound turkey? ask the butcher. He’ll find you a fresh one and listen to how you ‘d been meaning to buy your turkey for six weeks, but you’ve been busy and the kids have been crazy and--- He’ll even give you pointers on how to make it extra tender and juicy.
Screwed up on Valentine’s Day-- well the florist can create the perfect get me out of the dog pound bouquet-- fast.
Liquor libations-- need I say more? Oh yes, you’d better take your ID because they card everyone.-- or maybe they just card me because I still look 19. Business owner take note: Flattery will get you a return customer.

But I’m sad to say the kids are sabotaging my rendezvous.
It was an hour after gymnastics on a Thursday night when we pulled into a the only Chico store that can make me stray from the one around the corner.
We pulled in next to a shirt-less man with tattoos and truck trouble. I felt sorry for him-- nothing is worse than car trouble in a grocery store parking lot.

“That man doesn’t have a shirt on” Abby whispered.
“It’s OK, Abby,” I said.
“But he’s got tattoos all over him,” she said a little louder.
“It’s OK, Abby. Get out of the car,” I said.
“But his pants are pulled way down and -- I can see his underwear,” she said a little too loudly.
“Abby, it’s OK. He’s just hot,” I said.
“But- but- but,” she stammered as I dumped her in the cart.

Once inside, Abby and Nikki, my 2-year-old, took turns wanting in and out of the cart while Maggie, my 7-year-old asked me if we could buy peaches-- then Hershey bars-- then popcorn-- you get the picture.

The trouble started when Abby informed me that she must pick out the produce and bag it.
“But you don’t know how to pick out corn,” I said as she tried to put some bug-infested, half-eaten ears of corn in my basket.
“No let me do it,” she said. “I wanna get the corn.”
I was too tired.
Notice to those coming to my Memorial Day barbeque: don’t eat the corn.

Next came the tomatoes. Now they all wanted to pick it out.
“Let me mom-- you let Abby get the corn,” Maggie said as she dropped one on the floor, picked it up and put the bruised specimen in her baggie.
“No. No. No!!! I do it,” Abby yelled. This time a tomato with a brown hole in its side went into the baggie.
“But it’s my turn!” Maggie shouted. Something must be done. People were staring.

“I need two heads of garlic,” I said. “You can each get one and give them to Nikki to put in the baggie.”

As I turned to pick out more attractive tomatoes, I heard a horrible scream and a man’s voice.
“I’ve got her,” he shouted.
Somehow in the excitement-- I mean this was like two seconds--, Maggie managed to pull the cart over with Nikki inside the basket.
Thank God, this man was standing right beside her and grabbed my little Nikkerbocker.
Everyone was OK., but I’ll never look at the grocery store in the same way.
Shopping with children is like going on a cruise line shore excursion. It sounds harmless enough, but it can leave you grinning like an idiot on their “souvenir video”-- or with a nasty virus that leaves you in the "confession box"(bathroom) for month.

(published 5-27-06 in the Paradise Post)