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A Simple Grocery Store Explosion

"Ok, I looked up "disaster" in the dictionary, but what do you mean you're never going back to the store again?"

“Ok, I looked up “disaster” in the dictionary, but what do you mean you’re never going back to the store again?”

Fun fact #250

If you try taking pen marks off your dining room table, using only a Magic Eraser and wishful thinking, it’ll take the finish off and leave you with a table that only makes you cry in certain types of light.

But enough bragging about my shellacking skills. Let’s talk about what’s in the cabinets.

Because we don’t have a pantry.

Huh?

I’m not really sure. I think the builders of this lovely abode were too concerned with putting it on a crappy foundation to worry about things like shelves that hold ten pounds of canned goods and possibly a large bag of flour.

Circa 1969….

“Should we put a pantry in, Bob?”

“Nah. Whoever takes over this house in 2008 will probably be so distracted when the ceiling of the garage falls on their cars, they won’t even notice they don’t have a special cubby hole for bread.”

But, back to what’s in the cabinets. So far, I’ve tallied one family sized canned ravioli and one reduced fat can of Pringles I didn’t buy. I’m 99.9% sure I’m sober when I go to the grocery store, so the extra items are the work of two three-year-olds with a fondness for throwing random food in the shopping cart.

How did I not notice I was putting something as ridiculous as reduced fat Pringles on the conveyor belt?

Would you notice someone picking your pocket, if someone else was pouring soap all over your shoes?

Sundance has been some what of a…um…trial lately. As far as little people go, she’s normal, but as far as normal people go, she sits somewhere in the category of…

“Is that soap in your mouth? Wait, is that soap all over the breakfast bars? Uh, I’m gonna take a wild leap and say Campbell’s didn’t start dunking their clam chowder in lavender froth. Or maybe they did. I’m not very savvy, when it comes to the ocean.”

She wiped her tongue on her unsuspecting panda jacket. “It’s soap.”

Slowly, I turned to the cashier. “You have any paper towels?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Because you’re about to smell like a Saturday afternoon frolic through a lavender field. It’s my fault, really. I usually go with the “Clean Bleach” scent, but today I thought, “No, Paige. Break out of the box. There’s no time like doing the dishes to get a little crazy and figure out how to spell adventure in your own, particular way. I guess, to me, adventure smells like a spring wedding.”

While the store curiously watched her and I wipe down every object before it was thrown in a bag, there was a loud crash behind me.

Soapy yogurt in hand, I swung around to observe the city’s largest pond made solely of spinach dip.

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.” The resident overly attractive store manager was already knee deep in dip, glass, and the last of my dignity.

“Thanks. My family and I forgot how to be human beings in public today.”

He shook his head and smiled. “No big deal.”

“It’s very kind of you to overlook the fact we’re trying to destroy your store. But, you know what they say, the Kellermans aren’t happy until they’ve threatened someone’s livelihood. Can I offer you a yogurt that will keep you regular and smelling like lavender for hours?”

I turned back to the cashier. “Go ahead and isolate the cereal bars and the cheese. I think they got the worst of it.”

Waving at the crowd gathering, I smiled and swiped my credit card with the other hand. Another spinach dip was promptly presented and tucked into the cart while I addressed the fears of the people. “Nobody panic. The soap is isolated to our cart. Please go back to your regular shopping experience, and, unlike my family, please enjoy enjoy the dinner you’ll make tonight that won’t taste like a clean bathroom.”

The good news is nothing tastes too soapy. The bad news is the sun’s coming up and hitting the table just right. I’m off to go Google how to re-finish furniture while eating spinach dip.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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