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First, let me tell you the incidents of recent origin that I did not cause a public scene about.

Yesterday, I was in the grocery store, or, I should say, my second grocery store.

I am a bit of a grocery store prude. There is a quaint little store in Center Point, Iowa that will forever be known as the “bad store.” It purports to be an “all-purpose” store, but you couldn’t find an avocado there if life itself depended upon it.

I am anxiously awaiting our move to New Mexico, just for the opportunity to scope out the full service groceries that I expect to find.

I digress.

Yesterday I as the “all-purpose” store, called HyVee. I had completed about 2/3 of the traipse around, and was searching for an item I’m not used to looking for: imitation crabmeat. I looked in the butcher’s showcase where the fish was located. None there. I then looked in the seafood freezer case. None there either, but I did find my “wild shrimp”. I walked around other chest freezers in front of the butcher area where they have some fresh fish. I had already looked in the general purpose walk-in freezers in the aisles where “fish” was promised.

I cannot find this stuff. I am wondering, perhaps they don’t carry it. Well, this leads to my asking, a bit self-consciously where the fake crab is. But damn it, the real stuff is cost prohibitive and I want to make my own crab Rangoon.

So I ask. “Do you have any imitation crab meat?”

“Sure we do, it’s around the corner. I take you too it.”

Now I am wondering, if it’s just a few feet, does he think I’m that stupid? Or do only stupid people ask for fake crab? As I’m pondering this, I find that we are traveling way, way around the corner. In fact, we are damn near to the other end of the store.

He pointed to the crabby material. There it was nestled with the bacon, sausage, and other processed meats.

“Kind of a strange place for it,” he admits.

KIND OF? IT’S A FREAKIN’ STUPID PLACE.

I don’t say a word, smile, thank the man, and proceed.

Then I was searching for rice. Just plain old long grain rice. I found Jasmine and short grained, I found ten pound bags of rice, and extra long grain. There was Indian rice and Spanish rice, these in two different aisles.

Finally, again, in desperation, I asked, “where is the plain old every day rice?”

“Why right down this aisle, ma’am, right next to the crackers.”

CRACKERS? WHAT’S IT DOING THERE? THERE IS NO RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN RICE AND CRACKERS!

But again, I say nothing, just thank the nice man, and go grab my bag of rice and sling it into the cart.

I practice being “good” at the grocery store. I can be quite snarky, when I’m frazzled, beat, and putting the last of 723 items onto the conveyor belt.

“What’s this?”

It’s panko crumbs,” I sigh. (There is a whole other story about where they hid this little item, but now I know where it is.)

“What do you use them for?”

Now I am tempted to ask, “why the hell do you need to know that in order to scan it, BIOTCH?” But I don’t.

“It’s like bread crumbs.”

“Why the name Panko?”

“Because they are Japanese.”

“Lordy, the things they make these days. What is wrong with good old American bread crumbs?”

There is a reason the Contrarian doesn’t let me go armed into grocery stores.

This morning, I was finishing up a long morning. I made a new variation on tuna-noodle casserole. I made some blue-cheese dressing. I cleaned and repackaged celery and green onions. I divided up buns and loaves of bread for freezing so they don’t go blue on me before I use them up.

I did dishes, and a load of laundry. I did morning prayer, a rosary, and was just sitting down to a cup of coffee, when this brilliant woman on MSNBC started jawing about this passenger plane where a section of roof came off. The pressure in the cabin had escaped.

She has this “expert” on. “How long before people pass out?” “Oh, this long, <———–>” he says. “And what about the pilot?”

Now, I’m thinking, the pilot is in a locked cockpit. Isn’t he immune from the depressurization? But no matter, the expert explains that the pilot has some 30-60 seconds of rational thinking to save everyone before he too passes out.

“But they have oxygen masks right?”

“Yes, they do,” he nods.

And I swear this was her next question:

“And are they relatively close by so the pilot can get to it in time?”

I scream!

“NO YOU IDIOTIC WOMAN, THEY ARE NOT CLOSE BY. NOT LIKE THE ONES THAT DROP DOWN AUTOMATICALLY IN FRONT OF THE PASSENGERS WHO DON’T NEED TO MAKE ANY LIFE OR DEATH DECISIONS.

NO THE PILOT MUST RUN DOWN THE AISLE TO THE BACK OF THE PLANE, OPEN THE HATCH IN THE FLOOR AND CRAWL INTO THE BELLY OF THE CARGO AREA TO THE LOCKER MARKED PILOT’S OXYGEN MASKS!

Of all the stupid, inane, insane, idiotic, redundant, ridiculous questions. You flunked journalism didn’t you? Twice!

The Contrarian muttered, “I’ll be going out to get the eggs now, if it’s all right.”

As he drove off with dogs in tow, well I just shook my head. It’s true, I am the only sane person on planet earth. Yes, I’m sane. Yes I am.

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