The day before Christmas Eve is grocery store day, just me and about three thousand of my very closest friends. I see a woman about my age come out of the store clutching a few bags in her hands.
"How is it in there?" I ask cautiously.
"Huh? Oh, in the store? Not too bad. Just remember to smile," she assures me.
I decide to try something new at the store: I'm going to start at the end with produce and work my way back to the beginning with dairy. I make this decision for three reasons. #1 - The produce section is usually the craziest and takes me the longest, so if I start there, the rest of the trip should be easier; #2 - The dairy products won't get all warm and hideous while I'm shopping and waiting in line; and #3 - Most people with full carts will gravitate toward registers open at the produce end of the long row of cashiers, whereas when I'm done, I can get right into line next to the express registers at the entrance end of the long row of cashiers.
What ... the ... hell ... are ... capers?
I'm serious, folks. I've no clue on earth what capers are. Oh, I know they're food items because I've had to answer the word to solve crossword puzzles. I instantly think she wants me to buy her capons, and I'm really not in the mood to ring the meat case bell and ask some young high school boy how to tell which chickens are actually roosters, and, oh by the way, how can I tell which ones have been castrated?
"Capers," she repeats then clarifies, "in the same aisle as olives."
I haven't been to the olives yet. They're ahead in aisle 3 and I'm only hitting aisle 7 because I'm still in reverse mode. I swing around to aisle 3, taking my cart with me because the last time I left it alone for even ten seconds, someone absconded with it. I cannot risk having my Christmas meal shopping go down the shitter when the store is this crowded, so my nearly-full carriage and I careen around being steered by one hand and an elbow while the other hand holds the phone to my ear, taking directions on how to recognize a caper when I see one. (To the uninformed: Capers are reasonably small. I'm just pointing this out.)
I spy with my little eye the olives and I move in for the kill. Capers cannot be far behind! Alas, there is a myriad of capers -- different sized jars, different brands, random prices, some brined, some not brined, some natural, some ... unnatural. I cannot even imagine what the other shoppers are thinking hearing only one end of my conversation.
"In a jar ... yes ... very small ... round balls ... different sizes ... jars! Different sizes of jars!" And on and on like this for about seven minutes.
When we finally decide on what it is I am supposed to buy, I head back to aisle 6. I don't need aisle 7 this week, and the rest of my shopping goes quickly. My evil plan works as I get immediately into a cashier's line that is next to the express lane. The registers down at the other end, the produce end, are packed and several carts deep.
Oh wait, though. My cashier is going on break and needs to cash out her drawer so another check-out girl can cash her drawer in. My groceries sit on the belt. And sit. And sit some more. Three times people get in line behind me, check their watches, roll their eyes, give a disgusted snort, and move along to another line. I should have a sign on my back that reads: "If you're behind me, you're in the wrong line!" But all of my things, well, most of them, are already on the conveyor belt. I'm completely and totally committed. Kind of like when I'm in a relationship and I make that leap of faith only to discover that I'm in the wrong line once again. Figures.
Ninety minutes after I step out my front door and head toward the grocery store, I am back at my house unloading the bags onto the kitchen table. I have forgotten to buy whipped cream (I forgot to put it on my list, actually) for the pumpkin pie that apparently I will not be baking, and I forgot to get more pancake mix for Christmas morning breakfast. Oh well, that's what the cookbooks are for. Somebody has a recipe for basic flapjacks, and, if not, there's always the Internet.
I realize I cannot find the two jars of capers I bought for my friend. Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. I look around the table, the counter, into the empty bags. There's one bag left, and it's full of bathroom-related items: toilet paper, toothpaste, Clorox wipes, tissues. I don't hold out a whole lot of hope. I reach in and start unloading when I touch glass. Yup, the capers are in with the non-perishables, just hanging out with the toiletries like they belong, those little round greenish-brown balls of whatever they are. Apparently the bag-girl doesn't know what they hell capers are, either.
I bring the capers to my friend, she makes her recipe gift and packs it up for the neighbors, and we listen to Christmas music. We open some bubbly and have a small toast. Later we hop out to do an errand and check out holiday lights. We park in a pay spot to go to a restaurant that is locking its doors as we arrive and have to walk in the rain to another place because gawd-forbid we move the car to a better location after paying an entire 75 cents to park in the municipal lot. We hear Andy Williams singing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" three times -- once on my friend's computer at the house and twice in the car on two different radio stations. We crack inappropriate Claudine Longet jokes. (Look it up -- yup, we apologize.)
It's another stellar adventure that only we can have. It is dubbed The Great Caper Caper and will go down as one of the holiday stories we tell in the nursing homes during our advanced-aged years, and it's all because I waited too long to go to the grocery store.
Happy Christmas Eve, everybody. May your shopping adventures be as great as, or even better than, mine!
