kroger

The other day I went to Old Navy just to see what they had. The answer turned out to be nothing much. BUT I found these sunglasses. They were marked as $9.50. So I was all, "Cool. I'm-a get me some cheap sunglasses." Then I went to the register. She scanned the shades, I swiped my card, then she said, "That'll be 51 cents." My excitement was great, though tempered by my feelings of silliness at having used a debit card for a 51-cent transaction. Then a girl at school complimented my new sunglasses, and I felt all awesome and stuff.

But I told you that story to tell you this story. Today I went to Kroger because I was out of hummus and chocolate, which is an unacceptable situation. The Kroger in my new town is fancy. It's clean, the people are friendly, and the freezer section has lights that only come on as you walk by (which makes you feel like you have all kinds of power). It took a while to get used to the different arrangement, but now, after a few unfortunate instances of wandering around looking for salsa, I'm a huge fan. Last time I went, I walked around with my little arm basket with sunflowers and Italian bread feeling very European and grown up. Contrast that with today.

I wasn't there for long. I grabbed the hummus (roasted garlic instead of classic, because they were out, but we'll talk about that later) and got to the self-checkout line. Somewhere in the middle of scanning and bagging a mere five things, my new, 51-cent sunglasses fell out of my shirt pocket and onto the floor. Annoyed at this mild inconvenience, I looked down to find my sunglasses had skidded across the clean floors under the register, halfway to the next aisle. I thought about what to do for a minute, then decided to play it cool. I finished scanning, paid, put my little basket away, then had a very fast, very intense little debate in my head.

Sure, the sunglasses were only 51-cents. But that had been a surprising triumph! And it had come at the cost of a slightly embarrassing debit card charge. I didn't want to lose them and let that whole experience go to waste. But did I want to get all the way down on the floor to retrieve them? Did I want to risk being judged in my fancy new Kroger? What if they banned me from the store? Where would I get hummus?! The Wal-Mart is entirely too far away, and its relative uncleanliness and stealthy, ninja-like staff would be too much of a let-down after that to which I had so quickly became accustomed. So I just got down, hoping there weren't any cute Army guys around like there were the last time (when I had fortunately walked around all graceful-like with those sunflowers), desperately tried to get my sunglasses as quickly as I could, using my wallet to swat them toward me, got up, and flew out of there like it was about to blow. I didn't make eye contact with anyone, so maybe they won't recognize me when I try to come back.

My disappointment at having to purchase the Roasted Garlic hummus rather than Classic (because switching brands had burned me once before) was great, but I decided to be open-minded and try it when I got home. Basically, it was normal hummus with this pile of oddly-orange roasted garlickiness in the middle. My friend Amanda had told me that she had to get some of this before, and she ate around the stuff, but I wanted to be bold. I tried a little, and it was okay. I mixed it around a little bit, dipped in my pita wedge, and had a happy little snack. I figured, as long as I don't have to kiss anyone within an hour or so, I'd be fine. But the garlic lingered. Oh, how it lingered. Then I went to the kitchen for some Diet Dr. Pepper (or DDP, as I like to call it) to remedy this situation. Then I noticed a little green banner on my pita that said, "Tasty Onion." No stinkin wonder. That's the double whammy of people-repelling food odors. Fortunately the garlic part of my hummus is now gone, but I still can't go out in public for a while.

I wonder if eating chocolate would help. Since I have such an agile and curious mind, I think I must find out. In the name of discovery, people.