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Usually, I love to grocery shop.  I realize that for a man, this is somewhat abnormal by today’s standards, but I have never been one to conform to standards – just ask my wife.  So on many occasions, I find myself browsing the isles of the grocery store on the way home from work looking for whatever Katherine needs to finish off her dinner masterpiece (or simply looking for chocolate covered pretzels and Diet Mountain Dew).

After living in Houghton, MI for three years during college where the primary grocery store was meager, to say the least, I feel very spoiled now by the variety of produce, the abundance of tasty treats and the shear volume of anything and everything a person could want.  There is even an entire isle devoted to nothing other than pet food, an entire corner devoted to international beers and three isles devoted to ethnic foods.  What’s more, the staff is usually pleasant and most actually know where to find that elusive can of olives you’ve spent the previous 10 minutes looking for.

However, the check out clerks are somewhat of an anomaly.  It seems that as soon as one of them becomes knowledgeable about anything, they instantly get transferred to that department.  Which means that more often than not, the person ringing you out and bagging your groceries still has a name tag stating Trainee, or something to that affect.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I usually have excellent luck picking someone who looks halfway awake and somewhat coherent.  Today I picked a nice looking teenage girl who seemed to be mostly with it.  Arriving in line and placing my groceries on the conveyor belt, I get asked the key question:

“Would plastic bags be okay for you this evening?”

Now I do understand that paper bags probably cost the store a few pennies more.  However, putting plastic bags in the back of a pick-up truck usually ends up very poorly.  To start with, as soon as I take one corner at a speed greater than 5 miles per hour, I hear the telltale clunking noise of my groceries rolling from one side of the truck bed to the other.  In the process, they all roll out of the plastic bag and the bag inevitably blows out of the truck landing smack in the middle of an elderly person’s windshield causing them to careen off the road.  Not good by anyone’s account.

So to counter the million dollar question, I have concocted a very nice, albeit a bit rehearsed, response.

“Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could I please have paper?  I find plastic bags don’t work so well in the back of my pickup truck.”

Honest, simple and if said with a smile usually wins them over instantly.  Not so tonight.  With a sigh, the girl turns around, fetches a paper bag, and begins to scan items and place them in the bag.  About halfway through my cart of groceries, she’s still on bag number one and it’s starting to balloon out at the seams.

“I’m sorry.  That’s beginning to look a bit unwieldy.  Would it be possible to split that between two bags?”

Without missing a beat she responds, “I haven’t met the quota for the number of items to place in a paper bag yet.” and continues to try to wrangle the half gallon of milk into the already bursting bag.

Now believe me, I do understand quotas.  I understand that they are told to put lets say 15 items in each bag.  This is all fine.  But a little common sense tells us that 15 heavy items such as half-gallons of milk may not be the smartest way to go.  Or how about bulky items.  15 boxes of cereal clearly won’t fit either unless this particular bag served its previous life as a magician’s prop.

“I understand that”, I say sympathetically.  ”But clearly that rule has to be amended based on the size of the items, doesn’t it?”

She sighs again, a bit louder this time, and reaches for a second bag.  This continues until all of my groceries are crammed into three bags.  She heaves the bags back into the cart, looks at me and gives me my total.  As she hands me my receipt she informs me, “Next time, ask for double paper bags.  Then they won’t rip when you try to lift them.”

Curiously, I ask “But isn’t the quota twice as high for double bags?”

“Of course not.  We couldn’t fit that many things in one bag.”

I half expected her to end with “Duh!”, but she refrained.

Having had a long day at work, I wearily trudged through the grocery store this evening in search of something fun to cook for dinner.  Entering the local grocery store I grab a little hand basket and attempt to quickly scurry over to the meat department.  Here, my friends, is where the trouble starts.  You see, at 6:30 PM there are two types of shoppers in any given store — those in a hurry to get home, and those who are retired and have nothing better to do than to wander around the grocery store with a cup of coffee and gawk at everything.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m sure I’ll be retired some day.  Hopefully, I’ll be doing something better with my time than shopping for groceries!  Seriously.  Aren’t there more fun things to do?  I really think there must be a lot of lonely shuffleboard courts somewhere.

After weaving around a seemingly endless crowd of slow moving people, I approach the seafood counter with my mind set on purchasing a nice piece of salmon.  Drawing near to the counter, I realize that an elderly woman in front of me is arguing with the poor guy behind the counter.  Mind you, he’s the only guy behind the seafood counter so my prompt escape from grocery store hell depends on his service.  And here’s the kicker!  She’s arguing with the seafood guy about why he can’t “trim” the fat off the piece of fish!  Yes, that’s right.  The lady wanted the fat trimmed from a fucking piece of cod!  Becoming disgruntled that the seafood counter guy refused to comply with her wishes, she wheels her shopping cart away in anger, almost taking out two or three innocent bystanders in the process.

Approaching the counter, and being a bit of a smart ass, I ask the guy for “that piece of fish right there where I’m pointing.”  As he’s about to wrap it up, he asks if I’d like him to take the skin off it.  I tell him that’s okay, I’m good.  But, not being able to leave it at just that, ask “But could you trim the fat off it?”  He just glared at me.

Oh well.  Apparently he wasn’t ready to laugh about it just yet…