As we piled the groceries onto the conveyor I could see in the cashier’s eyes that he wished we’d gone to another line. Seven gallons of milk, ten loaves of bread, six boxes of waffles and two jugs of peanut butter the size of a small Volkswagen…and that was just the beginning.
“Is this tax-exempt?” he asked as I continued to add to the teetering heap.
“Huh?” I asked, confused.
“Are these groceries tax-exempt?” he repeated.
Then it struck me. He thought we were an organization, like a church or a school or some other large capacity building not required to pay sales tax.
“No, no,” I told him. ”We just like to reproduce.”
It’s the one burden of having a large family that gets old, the grocery shopping. I’ve tried to avoid it, to forgo the inevitable and stay out of town for weeks at a time. But eventually the children begin to rebel, a war is declared and the battle lines are drawn across the kitchen floor. The remaining frozen waffle is sliced into seven small pieces. The last teaspoon of syrup drizzles from the bottle and the butter dish is licked clean. It must be time to shop.
I never make a list. I wouldn’t follow it anyway. I go in with some vague idea of what’s on the top layer in the freezer and make a mental note of how many flakes and loops lye in the bottom of the six mostly empty boxes of cereal at the back of the pantry. Beyond that, I just buy what looks good.
I don’t look at prices anymore, either. It’s pointless. For twenty years I shopped on the right side of the menu and all it ever got me was a lot of food that nobody every liked. So I gave it up. I’m going to spend five hundred dollars whether I buy the name brand or the generic one next to it for three cents less. The difference is, the name brand actually tastes good and it comes with ‘Box Tops for Education’ the kids can turn in at school for an ice cream party at the end of the year. How can you put a price on that?
So I grab one of those monster carts, (anybody remember back when carts were half that size and three kids rode underneath, and nobody even cared when one sliced a finger off on the wheel?) and just start piling it in. Half an hour later I’ve got enough food to feed a small country, none of which will go with anything else to actually create a meal, and I haven’t even been to the fruit section. Of course, the fruit is the one thing I DO price compare, being in Alaska where good fruit is more rare than a hot day. I normally end up with four banana’s and a bruised apple because I just can’t bring myself to pay those prices…yet I’ll fork out eight bucks for a value meal at McDonalds on my way home.
Then there’s the piling it all into the back of the van amongst tire chains and fast food bags; hauling it all into the house; watching canned peas roll down the driveway when the bag breaks…and it will; and scrubbing the shelves of the fridge where the chocolate syrup dispenser drips, before trying to squeeze six gallons of milk into an empty space the size of a yogurt.
Yes, grocery shopping is something I’ve always tried to avoid and yet, it’s the one thing I can’t. Not long ago I discovered you could buy groceries on Amazon.com and spent well over an hour adding to my virtual cart…only to discover that nothing of any value or size can be shipped to Alaska. Apparently it’s more trouble than it’s worth to write the letters AK on the package rather than the letters OR or CA. So I guess for now, until the lower 48 realizes Alaska is indeed a part of the U.S., I’ll just have to continue my weekly pilgrimage to Fred Meyer and try a little harder to enjoy the outing.
Perhaps next week I’ll have some fun with the same male checker when I stock up on Tampax. I’ll bring all seven kids and say things like, “Wasn’t the baby in the cart when we got here?”
