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The Pitfalls of Weeping, Fibromyalgia, Grocery Shopping, More Weeping . . .  

Posted by Heidi in , ,



My house is a mess. This is mostly because we live here but it is also because we do wild and crazy things around this joint. For example, on occasion, we cook. (I am not exaggerating.) Sometimes I even get a wild hair where the sun don’t shine and I plan a meal that consists of more than one or two courses. When that happens, things pretty much go to heck in a hand basket and fast. The pots and pans are having a party on the counter, the silverware is scattered everywhere and the plates are fraternizing with the food! It’s down right scandalous.

But, before all of that can happen, I must first go to the grocery store for the purpose of acquiring groceries (I just threw that in there for those of you who are having trouble keeping up.) Now, grocery shopping and I are on speaking terms but we don’t do lunch, if you know what I mean, which really isn’t too hard when you think about it since one shouldn’t go to the grocery store on an empty stomach. I do enjoy the thought of well stocked cupboards but the pushing of the rapidly filling cart, the unloading of the cart onto the conveyor belt, the loading of the groceries into the cart again, unloading into the car, unloading into the house, putting it all away . . . it’s enough to make a grown woman weep. Which I do. Sometimes.

To take my mind off of weeping, I concentrate on loading my grocery cart the “correct” way. This is a system I devised after years and years of wringing my hands and, um, weeping. I place all of the non-perishables in the back of the cart. I place all the items that need to be refrigerated at the front of the cart. I toss, er, place the frozen items on the very top. The rotisserie chicken goes in the spot usually reserved for children. (Of course, when I had children in that spot, it made things a bit tricky. Now I just send them to school.)

What was that? Why rotisserie chicken? All I can say is that I watched my mother hack apart one too many chickens in my youth. Nothing, other than appropriate medication for the Big Guy, has caused me a more profound relief in my domestic life than rotisserie chicken.
What? Another question? Why do I load my cart in such an anal-retentive way? Because. Just because! The long answer is, however, if the frozen food goes on the cart last, that means it is on the conveyor belt first. If the frozen food is on the conveyer belt first, it ends up at the bottom of the cart on the way out to the car. If it is at the bottom of the cart, it is the last load to be placed in the car. Which means it is the first load to be removed from my hot sweltering car and put away. Next out of the car is the food that needs to be refrigerated. That being done, I have to stop and rest in order to have the energy to cook the food I just bought which means the non-perishables, which I have cleverly placed in the furthest reaches of the car, can just sit there while I take a nap.

I’m nothing if not efficient. Unless I’m weeping.
(Oh, and about the messy house--'nuff said.)

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