Meijer and the nouveau swear word

*sip, sip* ahhh.

I set my cup of hot chocolate down on the petit Parisian-like table, and basque in the perfect 72F degree climate. 

I smile politely at the local épicier, busily arranging the Idaho potato bags, and take in the view; another vain attempt, as I searched the distance for the iconic dome of the Grand Palais-- oh! is that it there...? alas, no. just the top of a hanging cardboard Christmas "decoration." more's the pity...

it's Christmas Eve. I sit in the Starbucks corner (aesthetically defined by the meeting of differing flooring--dark faux-wood meets glossed faux-marble), and surprisingly, all is calm, all is bright.

when the strange quietness--no, emptiness-- of Christmas-Eve-Meijer kicked in, I took this pic. I realized that my 2 previous Christmas Eve visits to the superstore--8:27am, and 12:02pm--mirrored this 3:42pm experience exactly (ended Christmas Eve with a record 4 trips to Meijer(!) #PR🥇). 

pardon my French, but... what the single-syllable-swear-word is going on? this is Christmas Eve, this place should be hopping with Meijer holiday-season frenetic crazies!

maybe everyone is on vacation? or to beat the expected crowds, the crazies shopped in the wee hours of the morn? is it possible that all the crazies got their collective acts together, thus no last-minute panic shop...?  

I sip my chocolate again, reviewing the day's earlier visits. frustrated, I shake my head. nope; not a single blog-worthy observation, anecdote, nor full-blown psychotic event comes to mind. 

my hopeful eye catches a shopper wandering closer to me. 

"finally!" I mutter. my mind super-focuses on her facial expression, her mostly-full cart--anything to justify a Christmas Eve 2018 post--I noted the bag of pistachios she grabbed, I cringed at her seafoam green (not Christmas🎄green?) t-shirt, then cocked my head, befuddled, when she lifted a barcode scanner, and scanned the pistachios... huh?

💡! the empty store, and hence, a lack of blog material, suddenly made sense. 

no, the crazies weren't on vacation.
no, they didn't get up and shop early. 
and no, they didn't have their act together! 

I had a brief sense of relief that my years of holiday fiasco Meijer blogging hadn't been turned upside down--the Christmas crazies still existed(!). #phew

but, within a nanosecond, a crushing/crashing reality obliterated that relief, and a new reality flashed before my almost-Christmas-🎄-green eyes. I low-whispered the name of my new nemesis, aaaand (serendipitously), my new swear word-- 

"shipt!"

Meijer's Christmas Eve ghost town, and perhaps the downfall of The Meijer Chronicles, happened because everyone bought their wants/needs online!

everyone was outside, parked in their cozy cars, away from my prying eyes, and eavesdropping ears, just hanging out until their shipt shopper brought them their goods. 

I leapt to my feet, frantic. I walked through produce hoping my fears were wrong, I pass through meat, another shipt shopper scans a package of bacon-- my new swear word forced itself through my clenched teeth.

"shipt!"

fast-walking now, I scan aisles--another shipt shopper grabs a can of olives-- three aisles away, 2 more shipt shoppers; paper towels, and paper plates!

"shipt, shipt, shipt!"

feeling dizzy, and heart-sick over the demise of my 13 years of Meijer posts, I grab items on my now third grocery-run list: cream cheese, rolls, and I impulse-buy a carton of eggnog--you know, something to drown my sorrow while I u-scan. #guzzle #nostraw

my turn at the u-scan. I'm so distraught, that I forgot that sucking down a cup of eggnog before scanning means the weight is off. the happy Christmas 🎄 green light, switches to stop-sign red (not Christmas ornament red). 

my eyes roll to the back of my head. I turn to find the SoP (Steward of the Podium). she's working on another u-scan next to me. SoP sees my red light, throws her hands up in the air, walks backwards away from both of our flashing red lights, and says,

"I am not dealin' with this no more," as she walked away. 

pretty sure the red light made my eggnoggy smile look psychotic, as I exhaled my relief and mumbled,

"holy shipt, I'm back in business."

Meijer and the shot needle

the freshman boy is off looking for dijon mustard while I search the Meijer produce sanctuary for Brussels sprouts, my phone bamboo chimes--(💙 that bamboo "clunk") a text from husband at work, 

"it's a perfect day for a shot needle!" 

this is a reminder that he just got a flu shot, and I need to take action. per every year, I roll my eyes, wondering when I'll be able to get an appointment, at 2 different doctor's offices, and then, how long of a wait I'll have in a pediatrician's waiting room, and then at my doc's office. 

side note: I think I may have to get a different doctor. the waiting room clientele is very elderly, and very crowded with medical supplies; walkers, canes, electric scooters, gout boots, oxygen tanks--dragged around by chain smokers (can you say, 🚬 + O2 =💥?).  
I'm not trying to be disrespectful--it's just unsettling for all parties involved when a "younger" patient walks in glaringly minus the above paraphernalia. 

a sudden jealousy-hush settles over the room when I take a seat and cross my legs. yeah, who knew that being able to cross your legs was a big deal? (next time you're in a room with the over 75 crowd--count how many people have their legs crossed). 

but I digress...

next item on my list requires a jaunt over to pharmacy--latex-free gloves my favorite kitchen gadget when working with raw meat--I stumble across this sign...

I can't believe what I'm reading.

a supermodel pharmacist is going to shot needle me and my son, in the store, no appointment necessary, for free (what? no office visit charge?! no co-pay?!) and she'll Simply Give $5 to fight the hungers locally?!!! SHE'S AMAZING! #fightnight #wonderwomanwho?

10 minutes later(!), mom and son walk away with sore arms, but heads held high, reveling in our win-win scenario--$10 to the Local Hunger Fight Club, and one more flu-free year. 

all thanks, to Meijer--truly the superstore.

Meijer and the random act of blindness

my local Meijer superstore has 2 main entrances, plus a nondescript, direct entrance for the beloved Starbucks. they tucked the Starbucks oasis into Meijer’s edible yin-yang corner where fresh produce meets the deep-fried eatery.

I like to think of this entrance as my private VIP door for the days when I just can’t muster the energy to ignore New Greeter Lady’s blank expression and mumbled welcome to the superstore. *exhausted sigh*

Starbucks glass doors woosh open, I’m barely a few strides in when an elderly gentlemen--wearing the obligatory military veteran baseball cap--stands from his table, touches my arm to stop me, and whisper-shouts,

"watch my food, I gotta go take a crap!"

and walks away.

Hipster sitting at nearby table, nearly chokes on his dairy-free whatever. I stare at Hipster, he stares at me, then we both stare at the elderly man shuffling away. 

I glance down at his table; a slice of pepperoni pizza, cut into pieces, a side of macaroni and cheese, and a bigger than his head "cup" of carbonated beverage.

so... I do what any non-millennial would do; I wait. 

seconds turn to minutes, but I do my job. a bizarre pride— a sense of duty, washes over me. I don't look at my phone, I just stand there, on guard. I have no idea why I was chosen by the Elder One, but I will not let him down.

I notice that Hipster can't stop smiling, and I notice that he s  l  o  w  l  y sips his obligatory six-ingredient cuppa Starbucks. then, from behind his retro thick-rimmed glasses, his beady-little eyes flit to my right. 

his smile widens. 

the grating sound of the table's chair being pulled back alerts me. as if I'm the Buckingham Palace's Royal Guard, disciplined against distraction, I use my peripheral vision to see a woman sit down at the Elder One's table. 

Hipster shakes with pent-up laughter.

"may I help you with something...?" Mystery Woman asks.

I shift into at ease mode to turn my head and glance at the woman, who by happen-chance, is also wearing a white t-shirt, and has longish hair...

from behind me, I hear the whisper-yell of the Elder One, "I'm back!"

he shuffles over to me, notes Mystery Woman sitting at his table, and then squints at me, standing guard, per orders. 

through sputter-cough laughter, he wheezes,

"I'm sorry, I'm partially blind--I thought you were my daughter!"

oh yeah, Benedict Hipster Arnold is half out of his chair with side-splitting, silent-as-a-mime guffaws.

I charmingly take it all in stride, while I side-eye Hipster. 

my parting comment to Elder One, "enjoy your lunch," drips with sincerity, as I slow-walk toward Hipster. 

he is buckled over now; muffle-laughs escape the crook of his arm. I lean ever-so-slightly to whisper the one word that I know will cut him to his non-GMO, organic, non-rBST core...

"karma."

Meijer and the overactive imagination(?)

even if it is on sale, there is 1 thing you should never buy a dozen of: 

bleach. 

especially in the 121 oz size(!).

Quiet-Keeps-To-Himself Man u-scanned his 6th container of bleach when I realized what was going on next to me. 

involuntarily, my eyes widened as my brain whispered, "what is he going to do with all that bleach?" the Blacklist's S1 E4: The Stewmaker (title says it all, eww!) leaps to my freaked-out mind.

QKTHM senses my angst, he attempts an innocent smile (not fooling anyone, weirdo) and speeds up his scanning.

my Meijer-Crazy Spidey-Sense is thrown into high gear. I can't be the only one that thinks this is strange, right? 

attempting not to spook QKTHM that I'm on to him, I covertly side-glance to the dark security bubble cameras hanging from the ceiling. 

ever so slyly, I tilt my head towards QKTHM and roll my eyes his way. obviously, the internationally accepted gesture for: "Are you seeing this guy?!" 

I feigned focus on scanning my charcoal and hamburger patties while I waited for Meijer's Security Team to storm out from the Employees Only door. 

and waited, and waited... zilch. 

I glance back at QKTHM, bottle #12 successfully scanned. he glances at me, a shaky smile as he scans the last item-- a box of garbage bags. 

correction... a box of HUSKY 42-GALLON CONTRACTOR HEAVY DUTY GARBAGE BAGS! (sorry for the all-caps, bold, and italic, but it feels appropriate to that moment)

my brain searches through all the mystery novels, movies and TV shows--desperate for the logistics and legality on how to citizen's arrest a possible lunatic, when I hear--

"whoa! that's a lot of bleach!"

the on-duty Steward of the U-Scan Podium walks over to QKTHM, who quick glances at me, then says to Steward, "Yeah, I've been cleaning out neglected swimming pools all summer; got a real bad one today."

within a nanosecond, I'm pretending like I never noticed nuthin'. eyes now glued to my own u-scan, I pay, load the cart, and get the heck outta there. 

ashamed, with my head down, I'm determined not to notice/observe another thing for the rest of my life--cursing my overactive imagination--I fast-walk across the parking lot to my car. 

I shut my trunk and see Law-Abiding-Pool-Guy (formerly QKTHM), loading all that innocent bleach, and friend of the pool industry Husky bags into the backseat of his car. 

Our eyes briefly meet as I pull away, I'm about to offer a conciliatory smile, when this thought hits me... 

why doesn't he use his trunk?

followed up with... 

he's not tan.

I'm processing this when QKTHM (formerly LAPG) waves, drives away in an old nondescript US make/model car that I can't place. 

pretty sure I heard my overactive imagination scream, "NOOOOOOOO!"

Meijer and the faulty perfect solution

for several years now, I've been handbag free. *pats self on back* #wheresmy12stephandbaganonymousbutton?

don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a poster-waving, #pursessuck hash-tagging, anti-handbag lobbyist. the 2 handbags that I own (Ralph Lauren & Kate Spade, RIP😢) only come out on Sundays, or when I am pocketless and need something to hold my phone, lipstick and key fob.

I've seen too many ASP videos of miscreants attacking women for their purses. robbers and opportunistic sons of witches-with-a-B, that seem to be inexplicably drawn to the purse--like moth to flame, like steel to magnet, like... The Biebs to Selena!

so, long ago, I decided to no longer be the flame, magnet, or Selena. (giving up my Selena side has been tough. #pleasesendthoughtsandprayers)

yesterday, 2018. Meijer parking lot

I grab my earbuds, key fob already in jeans pocket, and then I grab my phone, get out of car and lock door. that's when it hit me. my phone is everything I need for my grocery Meijer experience.

1. music--to blare out any Meijer crazy rants, conversations, tantrums
2. shopping list--it's all there in my notes app
3. $$--apple pay (💙)

I strong walk into Meijer, confident that my phone and earbuds have turned out to be the perfect solution for any craziness Meijer can sling at me. airlock whooshes open and I'm smiling at the reality of my brilliance.

my Mako filled earbuds drown out the hit-and-miss Muzak. being purse-free means I can park my cart to search produce, instead of clenching a bulky cart that holds a massive, wide-open purse in the toddler seat. (btw, really? you leave your purse wide open? even 1/2 a step to select the perfect yellow squash is all a sinister-type needs to clean you out.) aaaand, I don't have to hear the two Meijer associates shelving and trash-talking their significant others.

but then, the unthinkable happens in the meat department; my perfect solution wavers. the tremor to my perfection solution hits in the form of a woman, her large cart, and her insistence on holding onto the cart with one hand--arm's distance--while slowly perusing. this stance: body, cart hold at arm's distance, and large cart means she is taking up 3/4 of the refrigerated poultry section.

and guess what?! I need chicken(!), the exact chicken that she is blocking with her 7 foot wingspan! seconds tick by... and no movement or acknowledgment that I'm next to her, clearly craning my neck staring at the very package of chicken breasts that is oh-so-close and yet  s o  f a r.

she doesn't care. her exhale means she's going to have a nice long think about this week's dinner menu for Hubby and Junior before she gives up her refrigerator pole position(s).

I'm at a loss as to what more I can do to get her, and her rig, out of park and into drive. maybe if I had a giant purse, I could nudge her into backing away? purse-envy washes over me, as I look at my tiny 7+ (plus, *overt eyeroll* yeah, right).

never one to succumb to defeat easily, I regroup, do I reach across her? do I, *gulp* speak an "excuse me...," risking a crazy interaction? do I tickle her arm pit? seriously, what are my options? all I have is an iPhone for crying out loud!

and suddenly, a faulty perfect solution presented itself. faulty in that I would have to stamp down my inhibitions, but otherwise, with the tools I had on hand--perfect.

the chorus, from one of my favorite playlists, Cross My Mind, Pt. 2, by A R I Z O N A fills my head...

"And I know I haven't been perfect, but give it some time

'Cause not a single day goes by where you don't cross my mind

And we spend our lives looking for things we can't find, oh

Oh, but not a single day goes by where you don't cross my mind."

I turn up the music volume, at first my voice is a low-whisper mumble, but it got her attention. so I get bolder, using my clear, steady "indoor voice" to sing as I pretend to peruse the rows of plastic wrap chicken flesh. my peripheral vision notes an uneasy glance at me, but no actual movement. I up the ante, and pat my thigh to the beat.

she grabbed her cart close and moved on to pork. thank the heavens above(!) that I didn't have to sing the refrain.

I'm hoping, that in some alternate universe, she's writing a blog about a blankety-blank Meijer crazy titled, "Meijer and the crazy off-key solo act."

Meijer and the date night

back in the day, B.M. (before marriage), I had a favorite first date-- the airport. this was when you could casually walk to any gate and wait for your someone as they got off the plane. *sigh* #1990muchsimplertimes 

we drove for an hour from Provo to Salt Lake City airport; parked, walked the terminals, watched family/loved ones greet each other, then sat at a dimly-lit, empty gate and watched planes make night-landings. tbh, it was a perfect first date. 

so, I married him. 

my man's auto industry career from January to March is a whirlwind of "Winter Test." this means that he is often gone for weeks at a time, visiting proving grounds and vehicle test facilities in the US and Scandinavia. if we're lucky, we get him for a weekend.

usually, I get all errands/chores done before he gets home, so we can really enjoy the time together. a few weeks ago, that just didn't work out. so my planned late evening solo trip to Meijer became, date night. 

if you've read all 88 previous posts, you know that the whooshing of the glass doors triggers something in me. it's as if a strange Gregorian chant begins in my head, "🎶ge-eee-t ou-uuuu-t as sooooon as poooo-sssss-ible. aaaahhh-meeeeen.🎶"

I had a list, and the route mapped out in my head. when the doors whooshed open, it suddenly occurred to me that if we separated, we could be done faster and possibly have time to go on a real date.

"you grab produce, and meat. I'll grab dairy, eggs, bread, and we'll meet back at--"

my guy slipped his hand into mine, leaned into my jawline, nuzzled my neck and whispered, "let's stay together."

I have had some pretty wacky experiences at Meijer, but never(!) have I gone weak in the knees in front of Greeter Lady. 

suddenly, Meijer became this crazy-fun-interesting-hilarious store/museum to explore. we slowly walked hand in hand, lazily placing items in the cart, reading nutrition labels cheek-to-cheek. we talked about our week apart as we chose chips, and debated over frozen or fresh shrimps. 

if I absently slipped into rush mode and got more than an arms length away, my lover's hand gently pulled me back to him. we meandered down aisle 12, it felt like we were strolling down a Roman strada (spaghetti sauce and pasta section) that transformed into a Mexican calle (salsa, refried beans, tortilla section).

later, we stood in front of the refrigerated wall of international sodas, protein smoothies, herbal teas, and unusual fruit combination beverages, taking a ridiculous amount of time comparing, rejecting and finally choosing 2 never-before-tasted beverages for the road.

I'm positive I've never strung the following words together in any of The Meijer Chronicles:  that night, the superstore was... fabulous.

Meijer and the lost in translation

by now you know that I have "just one of those faces." the kind that looks like every other woman, and (apparently) I have a powerful aura--or some other type of mystical power--that imbues the message, "can't read or speak English? I'm your girl."

sure, I dabble in a couple of languages, but I've never really been comfortable with that power. in most languages there is a direct translation and, more often than not, there is a colloquial or regional translation, that usually escapes me. 

but if I'm being honest, my insecurity is mostly because of a girl named... 

Isabella. (in my head, I say her name with abhorrence. from here on out, I hope you do too.)

1988: 
I was in college living with several international roommates, one was a girl from Spain, Isabella. 

also at this time, I had been nurturing a one-sided love for about three years, he didn't know I existed, except as his buddy. *sigh* the buddy disease, aka "the friend zone."

he left college, to live in Spain, we started writing to each other (as in paper, envelopes, stamps), each of his letters ended with, "te quiero..." 

you have no idea the thrill, the zing, the heart-thudding, every time I read that simple closing salutation, "te quiero," literally translated to: "I love you." I was over the moon, until...

Isabella. she asked to read one of his letters, to see why I was so happy(!). I handed the letter off, I pointed and said (possibly squealed), "he signs it with, 'te quiero!'" 

laughter from Isabella. "In Spain, 'te quiero' is used between family members; like a brother to a sister. He doesn't love love you. He sister loves you." 

in those few seconds, I had been cured of the buddy disease; only to be reborn as a sister. 

more laughter. a lot more. but, I was grateful for her laughter, it conveniently drowned out the sound of my 💔ing.

2018: 
Meijer, the deodorant/anti-perspirant aisle. 

peripherally, I note that I'm alone in the aisle with an elderly man, who shakes his head in frustration. he reaches for deodorant, stares at it, then puts it back. 

he sees me, his eyes light up (thanks, aura!), and approaches with a stick of Dove men's deodorant. 

"fe mal? fe mal?"

I'm not positive, but what I think I'm hearing is Spanish. I freeze; suddenly on the spot to translate--correctly this time. 

I quickly run through the words-- fe literally translated means faith, mal means bad, or wrong. is he asking if the product is good? honest? or maybe if the price is reasonable? or is he asking if he should trust that it will work? 

AGGGGGHHHHH. trying to appear calm, I walk back to see what the price is, I point to it--

he shakes his head, "fe mal?" 

I got nothing.

he rakes his hand through his hair, "FE. MAL." 

I mumble, "lo siento, mi español..."

he shakes his head, "FE-MAL," then repeatedly points to me... and my boobs. "FEMAL, INGLÉS!"

💡!

Fe-mal. Female. he wanted to know if the deodorant was for women.

Isabella's laughter fills my head, as I gesture (in inglés) for him to follow me to the women's deodorant section.