He's At It Again
Cripes, he's incorrigible! Every now and again he gets ants in his pants and feels like getting out without us hanging over him. So, out he goes. Ostensibly to get something I'm unable to procure for him during my usual weekly shopping outings at the downscale supermarket I shop at. Which has cut-rate prices, a smaller selection of items to be sure, and I've got to pack everything at the check-out in my very own rigid plastic cartons, but the price certainly is right.
Since I buy mostly staples and very little to absolutely no processed-type foodstuffs, this is the right place for me. I buy a lot of fruits and vegetables since a good deal of our daily diet consists of those, but all the other items we require for a good balanced diet are available there as well, from grains, pastas and pulses to fish and poultry, so we do all right.
He goes out when he wants to get fresh coffee beans, which aren't available at my supermarket. Or to sneak some pasty white bread into the house. Or, anything he sees that he thinks is a "good deal" and that means "cheap", as though cheap is important, which it most definitely is not. Like the time he bought a huge bag of rice because it was on sale, and therefore cheap. No damn good to us because it wasn't the kind of rice he likes, which is sticky oriental rice.
I shouldn't leave the impression that he reserves his right to visit only grocery supermarkets. He's keen to venture anywhere, and he does. On this occasion he brought back a raft of articles from a variety of venues. He proudly carries his loot in to where I'm sitting comfortably reading the newspapers and ta-da! begins to withdraw items for my approval.
He's a true impulse shopper. It satisfies some deep consumer craving within. So, out come boxed sets of CDs; favourite classical symphonies and Mozart, lots of Mozart. I certainly approve and he beams. Out comes a large white down-fluffy mother bear. How do I know it's a mother bear? Why, there are two little bears appended to it, that's how. That's a gift for our granddaughter. She'll be pleased no end.
Aha! Even the dogs' needs aren't forgotten, for out come two large bags of peanut-flavoured chewies. Such largesse. Must be the season, that's the reason. It's coming into visual contact with the usual seasonal hysteria, the colour, the sounds, the mad rushing about. That'll do it. It's like a communicable disease.
What, more? For me, smoked salmon cream cheese. And bacon, a pound of bacon - on sale. I'd already bought a pound the week previously and we haven't finished it. But, it was on sale! Our favourite Saturday-morning treat. Ogod, how much can two people eat. Wait for it, there's more.
At this time of year, particularly at this time of year his aspirational taste buds cling to memory of childhood and the oohandah opening of boxed chocolates. He's come away with a huge box of chocolates, msut be at least two pounds. We haven't yet finished the last box you bought! I whimper. We will, he assures me, and then, then we'll start on these. Yes indeed.
Oh no, what's that? A box of maraschino cherry chocolates, you love them. He's convinced I love maraschino cherry chocolates, there is nothing I can say or do to convince him otherwise. Now that our grandchild is no longer with us daily to help me to consume them they're all mine. Damn. He peers closely at the box and his face falls. Ten? he says incredulously, ten?
Only ten of them in that big box? he repeats. I heft the box, it's heavy. Must be filled with lead instead of syrup, I observe.
Postscript: When, the following Saturday, he opens the two-pound box of chocolates, he tries one, sets it down half-munched, tries another, then another. All of them miserable, none of them suited to his taste. He shoves the box over closer to me, encouraging me to do the munching for him. I do eat two of them and they're actually quite nice, in my opinion. And then I think: if I eat all this crap I'll look like a house. And I begin to berate the poor man telling him if he doesn't like the taste, they go directly into the garbage. He looks at me, hurt feelings so evident; he paid good money for these things, what a waste, why won't I eat them? Me? I don't want the bloody things. The garbage welcomes them. 'Till next time.
Since I buy mostly staples and very little to absolutely no processed-type foodstuffs, this is the right place for me. I buy a lot of fruits and vegetables since a good deal of our daily diet consists of those, but all the other items we require for a good balanced diet are available there as well, from grains, pastas and pulses to fish and poultry, so we do all right.
He goes out when he wants to get fresh coffee beans, which aren't available at my supermarket. Or to sneak some pasty white bread into the house. Or, anything he sees that he thinks is a "good deal" and that means "cheap", as though cheap is important, which it most definitely is not. Like the time he bought a huge bag of rice because it was on sale, and therefore cheap. No damn good to us because it wasn't the kind of rice he likes, which is sticky oriental rice.
I shouldn't leave the impression that he reserves his right to visit only grocery supermarkets. He's keen to venture anywhere, and he does. On this occasion he brought back a raft of articles from a variety of venues. He proudly carries his loot in to where I'm sitting comfortably reading the newspapers and ta-da! begins to withdraw items for my approval.
He's a true impulse shopper. It satisfies some deep consumer craving within. So, out come boxed sets of CDs; favourite classical symphonies and Mozart, lots of Mozart. I certainly approve and he beams. Out comes a large white down-fluffy mother bear. How do I know it's a mother bear? Why, there are two little bears appended to it, that's how. That's a gift for our granddaughter. She'll be pleased no end.
Aha! Even the dogs' needs aren't forgotten, for out come two large bags of peanut-flavoured chewies. Such largesse. Must be the season, that's the reason. It's coming into visual contact with the usual seasonal hysteria, the colour, the sounds, the mad rushing about. That'll do it. It's like a communicable disease.
What, more? For me, smoked salmon cream cheese. And bacon, a pound of bacon - on sale. I'd already bought a pound the week previously and we haven't finished it. But, it was on sale! Our favourite Saturday-morning treat. Ogod, how much can two people eat. Wait for it, there's more.
At this time of year, particularly at this time of year his aspirational taste buds cling to memory of childhood and the oohandah opening of boxed chocolates. He's come away with a huge box of chocolates, msut be at least two pounds. We haven't yet finished the last box you bought! I whimper. We will, he assures me, and then, then we'll start on these. Yes indeed.
Oh no, what's that? A box of maraschino cherry chocolates, you love them. He's convinced I love maraschino cherry chocolates, there is nothing I can say or do to convince him otherwise. Now that our grandchild is no longer with us daily to help me to consume them they're all mine. Damn. He peers closely at the box and his face falls. Ten? he says incredulously, ten?
Only ten of them in that big box? he repeats. I heft the box, it's heavy. Must be filled with lead instead of syrup, I observe.
Postscript: When, the following Saturday, he opens the two-pound box of chocolates, he tries one, sets it down half-munched, tries another, then another. All of them miserable, none of them suited to his taste. He shoves the box over closer to me, encouraging me to do the munching for him. I do eat two of them and they're actually quite nice, in my opinion. And then I think: if I eat all this crap I'll look like a house. And I begin to berate the poor man telling him if he doesn't like the taste, they go directly into the garbage. He looks at me, hurt feelings so evident; he paid good money for these things, what a waste, why won't I eat them? Me? I don't want the bloody things. The garbage welcomes them. 'Till next time.
posted by Pieface @ 6:09 PM
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