The Willow Glen Resident

Photograph courtesy of Cookie Curci Wright

The Way It Was: Once upon a time, grocery merchants prided themselves on personal service and knowing their customer's names.

Shop 'til you drop, literally

By Cookie Curci Wright

Grandpa was once the proprietor of an old-fashioned grocery store--you know the kind--one where a bell hanging over the door announced each arriving customer. Everything a shopper needed could be found on its shelves, from ground coffee and freshly cut mutton to perfumed soap and fading romance novels.

Shoppers at Grandpa's market got more than just their groceries there--they got to hear Papa's version of the latest funny story going around that week. Shoppers were treated with care and the utmost respect, and when new customers finished shopping at Grandpa's store, they left with the feeling they'd just made a friend. Shopping, in those days, was usually pleasant and leisurely.

Today, as I take myself to the supermarket for my weekly shopping expedition, I also take with me a good supply of patience, dexterity, stamina and skill. What used to be an enjoyable arena has now evolved into a combat zone, where shoppers must adopt a "bump or be bumped" attitude in order to survive.

As "supersize" markets get even more super with endless aisles of merchandise stacked high, it's become a challenge to make it through a shopping day without nearly colliding with other carts as they blindly zoom through intersections. Poked ribs, bumped heels, bruised toes and pinched fingers are standard battle scars generated by a wayward cart. Getting out to the store without a speeding cart driven into the back of my heels would be refreshing.

Six-year-olds on up are allowed to operate these huge baskets on wheels; it's no wonder some drivers haven't the skills to negotiate carts down an aisle without bumping a few fellow shoppers along the way. Maybe what we need at these supermarkets are posted arterial stops at all frozen-food intersections.

Of course, the blame for this reckless driving can't be placed solely on the shopper. Nine times out of 10, it's an uncooperative shopping cart. For me, the trouble usually begins out in the parking lot, when I try to disengage one of these iron baskets from a long line of cohesive carts seemingly welded together. This in itself is a challenge to my nervous system. I kick, I pull, I rattle, I jiggle, I beseech, I mumble incoherent profanities. Finally, in frustration, I give up and repeat the relentless process on another line of carts. By the time I'm finished, I've suffered a pinched finger and several damaged toes. But the battle is over, and I'm finally in control of a shopping cart ... or am I?

You can bet your proverbial "bippy" that the cart I've drawn will have a mind of its own. The wheel on the left will automatically want to turn right, or the wheel on the right will be locked into the left-turn position. Either way, I, my basket and three of its wheels head for the store, while the fourth wheel heads back to the parking lot.

Maybe, as our supermarkets grow more sophisticated and shopping carts get more difficult to operate, we'll see the day when stores will employ their own "on duty" service mechanic. Sort of an in-store "Jiffy Lube" for shopping carts. Carts will come fully equipped with rearview mirrors, brakes, turn signals and bumper guards, and anyone operating one will be required to possess a valid California driver's license. Store traffic cops will give out tickets to drivers who run stop signs or make illegal U-turns in the middle of an aisle. And, oh yes, these new-age carts will have horns we can lean on while waiting in those bumper-to-bumper checkout lines.

Another shopping pet peeve: All my life, I've been above average in height. Being taller than most of my gender has had its drawbacks, but in recent years, with store shelves getting higher and higher, I've discovered yet another detriment. At least once per shopping day, I'm asked to retrieve some canned good from the store's highest shelf. Now don't get me wrong, I'm more than happy to do someone a favor, especially little old ladies who barely stand higher than the third shelf. It's just that a lot of these shoppers just don't want to put forth the extra effort. Most of them approach me with the same tired line: "You're tall," they say, as if I weren't already aware of the fact. "You're a lot closer to that top shelf than I am. Will you reach up there and get me a can of beans?"

With a silent groan, I oblige, but sometimes I wonder just how these same shoppers would react if I walked up to one of them and said, "Excuse me, you're short, and a lot closer to that bottom shelf than I am. Would you stoop down and haul me up a can of green peas?"

Housewives like me don't need a Jane Fonda workout regimen to keep us in shape, not when we have "shopping day" to build our biceps. I lift, carry, lug and fill my heavy cart with groceries, then I unload them all onto a conveyer belt, where another shopper's items always seem to cascade onto my tab. After I bag and pay for my groceries, I haul them out to the trunk of my car, where again I unload them from my cart and finally drive them all home. Once home, I open the trunk and hang five plastic bags on each arm, grab a 10-pound sack of kitty-litter with a free hand, tuck a TV Guide between my teeth and--here's the tricky part--manage to find my house keys and open the front door. (Don't attempt this without years of practice.) Once I'm in the kitchen, I empty out all the bags and restock cupboards, shelves, freezer and refrigerator. I then collapse exhausted into a chair. About this time, my husband comes home from work and asks how my day has gone. I answer, "I went grocery shopping."

He says, "That's nice, dear."

Wanna bet?

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