Cream cheese. Where is the stupid cream cheese?
There’s white milk. Chocolate milk. Almond milk. Half and half. Whipping cream.
It should be right around here ...
But I was, as they say, in the right church, wrong pew.
In this case, the church was the dairy section, the pew was “milks and creams.”
I needed to be in the “butter and cheese” pew. Not to be confused with the “sour cream” clicked-down subheading, which, if it were part of the church, somehow rated an entire roped-off section with the dips.
“This is so maddening. I’ve been at this for 20 minutes and only have nine things in my cart!”
I rattled out a mighty cough, the sort that makes you feel you can deposit your organs into a napkin.
“You just aren’t accustomed to using a computer like that,” said my husband in a way that made me want to belt him.
I’ve long threatened to order groceries online. But it was only after being beaten down with both pneumonia and my loved ones that I made the attempt.
I have been told I have to “take it easy.” When I don’t, people yell at me, which is not very nice.
“What are you saying? I use a computer every day!” I rounded back.
“Nah, not like this you don’t. This generation, all this stuff is just instinctive.”
I sat back on the couch and grouched, now determined to prove him wrong. And I would prove him wrong, just as soon as I figured out where the programmers hid the egg noodles.
No egg noodles, just stupid kiwis. Twenty years I don’t remember buying a single kiwi. But here I was, seduced by the magic of stage lighting and the pressure to stop messing around and click on something already and I clicked on a triple pack of kiwis.
Despite my illness, my family continues to want to eat, demanding at least one square a day, naturally supplemented by cereal and whatever they can find in the crisper drawer as is our custom.
And before you say it, yes, I could send hubby and the whole lot of them to the store to shop for themselves. I agree this is a grand idea, and the moment I want to eat a stick of pepperoni for dinner and have a closet packed with single-ply I will do just that.
But I thought I would try online first. Besides the poor man had his hands full trying to save me from myself. Taking it easy, after all, isn’t easy.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
It was my husband shouting behind me in the front lawn. I had taken a pause from my online groceries.
He startled me so badly I dropped the weed whacker and nearly peed myself, which isn’t much of an accomplishment these days.
“I was just, just… I was just…” I said, and then began to cough.
Paint brush still in hand, he picked up the weed whacker and walked off. I hadn’t gotten more than 30 seconds into my sneak before he caught me.
Repentant, I went back inside to the couch.
My daughter figured out the weed whacker.
And after hubby was done painting, he drove to the store to buy the essentials — cured meat, cream cheese and single ply.
And not a single kiwi.
Martha Petteys writes a weekly column for The Post-Star. Write to her firstname.lastname@example.org or visit her on Facebook.
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