You should never, ever, go grocery shopping on Christmas Eve morning. Ever.
Sadly, I already knew this, but when I woke up this morning with a terrible hankering for a maple long john, I decided to risk it. That, and the Nordic Warrior Queen needed some green onions for the dip.
The grocery store parking lot was packed with enough cars to fill West Texas. It took me twenty minutes to find a parking spot, and as I got out of my car, was nearly run down by a spiky-haired woman driving an Isuzu pickup truck, its back piled high with last minute groceries, supplies, and Christmas gifts.
That fat homeless guy who dresses up like Santa Claus was there by the front door, ringing the Salvation Army bell and reeking of Malt Liquor. Last week I gave him a dollar and am pretty sure he stuck it in his pocket, so I’m never doing that again. He gave me a dirty look as I walked past.
With the cheerful sound of Frosty the Snowman blaring overhead, I pushed my way through the enormous crowd milling about the Produce section, grabbed the onions and headed for the bakery department.
But when I arrived, I found the pastry cabinet blocked by the most enormous ass I’ve ever seen, belonging to a wicked-witch of a woman with long gray hair and wearing a Cleveland Brown’s hoodie which was large enough to repair the Minneapolis Metrodome.
I stood patiently by as she shoved handful after handful of donut, fritter, streusel, and muffin into her waiting boxes. When she finally emerged from the case, there were glistening icicles of frosting dangling from her stringy hair where it had brushed over the donuts; twin pancakes of confectioner’s sugar powdered her massive breasts.
As she loaded up her cart with a stack of bulging donut boxes, she offered me a gap-toothed smile and wished me a Merry Christmas. The case was, of course, completely empty, but luckily there were a few two-day old French Crullers in the back, ready for the dumpster. At least they were marked half off.
I carried my dried out crullers to the front of the store. The checkout lines were manned by third-string clerks and the shopping carts were stacked fifteen and twenty deep; some of the shoppers had brought sleeping bags and were playing cards on the floor as they waited. I’d seen shorter lines waiting to buy Rolling Stones tickets.
Several hours later, I finally made it to the register. A young cashier whom I’d never seen before was manning the till. I’m guessing the store might have brought her in from Tennessee or Alabama on some sort of holiday migrant worker program, because she had a funny accent and wore a faded Elvis Presley t-shirt. “Paper or plastic,” she growled with a walleyed scowl.
I left the store by the emergency exit on the side of the building, so as to avoid the homeless Santa Claus, but he had anticipated my move and was waiting for me. I had to give him five bucks before he would let me pass.
I walked in the door ten minutes later, glad to be home, and went to the fridge: I needed something with which to wash down my donut. Crap.
I have to go – the store closes at 3:00, and we’re out of milk. Merry Christmas everyone. I hope I’m back in time to open presents.