Single Man Grocery Shopping

September 2005

Late this afternoon I headed to the supermarket to pick up a few items. I carried them in one of those red plastic baskets with the metal handles, but don’t worry, it didn’t make me look feminine. See, I use the macho overhand grip, grasping the handles in a testosterone-fueled Grip of Steel, totally different from the fey underhanded grip used by some.

Anyway, I decided to use one of the automatic self-checkout registers, an innovation that allows the customer to perform the store’s work for free, enabling one non-English speaking minimum-wage employee to do the work of four by assisting at all four registers. As I manfully placed my basket on the slide-out metal shelf, I became aware of a female presence behind me.

She was a knockout--considerably younger than me, but without a carriage and the inevitable children that ride in them. She was a blonde, still tan from summer, quite fetching in a pink blouse and white Capri pants. A possibility. A longshot, but a possibility.

I froze. What was in my basket? There are certain grocery store purchases that enhance one’s status as a man-of-the-world, and others that brand one as an AARP poseur. Things that you want in your basket on such an occasion include wine, cooked shrimp, baguettes (very phallic), cheese (not Velveeta), condoms (still virile), and Men’s Health Magazine.

Items you do not want in your basket include Preparation H, Just for Men hair color, Aqua Velva, 3-packs of Fruit-of-the-Loom tighty-whities, and Desenex.

My basket was acceptable. There were at least no offending items. Now I merely had to scan my purchases while striking up a conversation about how some people can’t even figure out how use these new check-out machines.

That was when disaster stuck. As I reached for the scanner screen, the blonde leaned slightly forward to adjust something in her basket, and my well-honed peripheral vision caught a glimpse of--cleavage! I was unprepared, and in my confusion I mistakenly pushed Espanol on the selection screen. Ay, caramba! Now I was faced with a true dilemma: I could either embrace imbecility by summoning the teenage store clerk, or I could save face by checking out my order as a suave, sophisticated, Spanish-speaking man.

Of course, I chose the latter. As I began to scan my items, and the computerized voice began announcing the prices in Spanish, I caught the eye of the blonde. “Boo-wen-ass tardies,” I said, flashing a flirtatious Iberian grin.

“Hola,” she replied. “Is that right?” She was so sweet in her American innocence, intrigued by this oddly pale, blue-eyed Latin lover. A Basque, perhaps?

“Moo-ee bwano,” I complimented her. “Es verdad, no?”

The conversation was flowing as smoothly as the items were moving onto the belt. The computer kept uttering the Spanish prices, and I kept uttering the Spanish phrases. I began to hope for an outcome beyond sparing myself humiliation.

Then, just as the ordeal was nearly over, there was a complication. My last item was a container from the salad bar, so it had no bar code. I began frantically punching buttons under the produce listings, but “salad bar” did not appear as one of the choices. I began to perspire…any delay and…but it was too late.

The sadistic high school girl watching the automatic check-outs was on me like a honey badger.

“Are you having trouble, Sir?” She might as well have asked me if I wanted a senior citizen discount. I sensed an immediate disaffection in the blonde.

“Ensalada no es scannada!” I stammered. “ Yo no kee-ero el keyo to puncho! Es moo-ee diff-e-seal! Yo no com-pren-do el machin-o."

“I’ll be happy to scan it for you, Sir,” chirped my tormentor. “But I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Neither does he,” smirked the blonde. How had I not sensed her lack of compassion?

“No mas,” I thought to myself as I slunk out of the store. “No mas.”