My grocery store love affair - Part 1
It all began innocently enough, as these things usually do. I had been with Harris Teeter for well over a decade and, although we had been through rough spots, we had always been able to work through the issues. Several years ago, when HT started to look a little drab, they worked hard to make themselves more presentable, and spiffed up to become a store I was proud to be seen in. But then there were little things, unnoticeable at first, that accumulated over time into what would eventually cause the break up. You may recall that Tony has a pernicious addiction to Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper for which I am a hopeless enabler. Well, every few months, Harris Teeter has a buy-2-get-3-free sale on Dr. Pepper but you have to buy all five cartons at once. It's not like buy-one-get-one (BOGO) wherein you don't really have to buy two at the price of one. You can buy just one and get it for half price. (And if you didn't already know that, it's reason enough to Like Youngest Sister on Facebook and tell all your friends about it because I have just changed your life). The problem is that Harris Teeter never has five cartons of Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper in stock at any one time, so you have to go to the customer service counter and explain all this to ask if they have any more in the back, which they never do. Asking for five cartons of Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper is at least as embarrassing for me as shopping for tampons is for a man, so at the end of my request I always tack on, "They're for my husband." Then they give me a rain check for one or two or three cartons so that I may come back and stock up when they have them again. Yes, the old rain check scam. They give you this piece of paper with an official signature on it, knowing darn good and well it will wind up on the floor of your car or the bottom of your purse or in a desk drawer until it is unrecognizable and that it will never actually be redeemed at this or any other Harris Teeter. It's like money in the bank for them and you can tell they get perverse delight in creating this meaningless scrip.
THE FIRST TIME
I doubt anyone would fault me for the first dalliance. HT was not able to satisfy me, so it was only natural for me to look elsewhere for satisfaction. It was at Kroger that I found relief, albeit brief, from my household's Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper emergency. Eventually my visits became more frequent as I ventured beyond the soft drink aisle and moved to produce, the fish counter and even the dairy case. I found I was beginning to know my way around Kroger and I was liking it. Sure, I wasn't running into friends there because everyone knows Harris Teeter is much cooler than Kroger as far as the see-and-be-seen thing goes, but that was part of the allure for me. I began to notice that the people who work at Kroger are actually nice, and it began to feel like my own personal Cheers Bar. I found the self-checkout experience to be much less exasperating and infinitely more forgiving without the constant admonishment from the computerized voice commanding me to Please place the item in the bagging area. Do the people at Harris Teeter honestly think I don't know what to do with the item in my hand after scanning it? I don't mind a reminder at the beginning of the checkout experience, but I think after the third scan it is safe to assume that the end user knows what to do so just shut up and let me do my thing. As in so many relationships, the constant nagging and hounding about what I should be doing was beginning to wear me down. It will probably come as no surprise that it was in the Harris Teeter self-checkout area that the final blow to what had become a fragile relationship was eventually delivered.
HER
Background photo by Michael Gaida, Pixabay. https://pixabay.com/en/users/MichaelGaida-652234/
I can see her smug face today as clearly as if she were sitting in front of me now. Like a waiter in a Five-Star restaurant, she looked down her nose at me, willing me to make a mistake so that she could satisfy her need for control -- control over me and everyone else who has come to recognize that the best service is self-service. Perhaps it was because her meddlesome stare made me anxious that I fumbled the entry of the code for mangoes and had to press the back button to start over. What happened next would mark the beginning of the end: As I was performing my second attempt at entering the code for mangoes, the screen suddenly showed mangoes (4) as having been entered. I was flummoxed for a moment, unable to comprehend how mangoes had magically appeared there, when I heard her voice. "Put the mangoes in the bag." I looked up and recognized that the sow who was currently in control of the Self-Checkout Police Station, without moving her lazy ass from her stool-cum-throne or bothering to ask if I actually needed any assistance, had entered the code for mangoes, thereby insinuating herself into what I had previously assumed was my private checkout experience. I was infuriated. I am perfectly capable of carrying out my own self-checkout duties without the assistance of the Self-Checkout Police and, in the event that I do need assistance, I know how to ask for it. It felt as though she had judged me to be incompetent, and I wish with all my heart that I could have come up with something clever and cutting to say to her that would have put her in her place and instructed her that entering people's mangoes without their having requested assistance is simply not appropriate behavior. I could have said something like, "Listen bitch, I could write this software, so I think I can enter my own mangoes." Or, "You think you can enter my mangoes? I'll enter your mangoes," which is the sort of thing my mother said to us when we acted rudely when we were little and, believe you me, it worked. ("Believe you me" was something else Momma said and, as I get older, I find myself saying it too, even though I think it's kind of weird). As it was, I muttered, "thank you," finished checking out my order and walked out the door, vowing never to return (although of course I have, because sometimes Kroger doesn't have shredded carrots). I might add that she did not even have the courtesy to say "Have a nice day" as I left, in spite of the fact that everyone knows that bidding customers goodbye is one of the most important tasks of the Self-Checkout Police.
RECOVERY
It has been at least 6 months since that unpleasant altercation and yesterday I had such an orgasmic experience at Kroger (KR on the NYSE) that I am quite certain my relationship with Harris Teeter is officially over. Those of you who recall my apology to Kroger over the ending of the senior citizen discount program, which I might have inadvertantly caused, may think I am spending an inordinate amount of time and energy writing about Kroger and assume I must be receiving kickbacks of some sort. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I would be lying if I said I'm not hoping our relationship moves to that next level of commitment. I was in the produce section, cogitating over whether to purchase the cut celery sticks packed in water or a full head of celery, calculating which offered the better value in light of the fact that at least half of either package would spoil before I could use it all. Face it - a head of celery (Apium graveolens) is just too big. There are too many spears on a head of celery for one or two people to eat in the time it takes for it to go bad. I have often considered creating a celery co-op with friends, in which each investor in the head of celery would share equally in the division of spears. But there are good spears and bad spears, and who would get the ones in the middle that are underformed and not green enough? I fear such an arrangement could bring about a hasty end to good friendships, so I buy a full head and wind up throwing at least half of it away after it becomes limp and flaccid, rotting and forgotten in the bottom drawer.
FRESH STIFF SPEARS
The bottom line: I am besotted with Kroger because they sell celery by the spear. I know you don't believe it so I'll say it again. At Kroger they sell celery by the spear. I have known about the individual carrots for some time but was honestly shocked to see the individual spears of celery - still stiff, fresh and crisp as the day they were harvested - in a basket marked, "25 cents each." I picked each one up, first palpating for firmness and freshness, then I closed my eyes and ran my fingers along the ridges, feeling for imperfections. I can hardly remember a time when I felt more satisfied than when I had chosen the four nearly perfect stalks for which I would pay exactly $1, knowing that I would consume each one and that none would be sacrificed. Sometimes it is the little things that mean the most, but I couldn't even begin to imagine how much more satisfying this relationship would soon become. Stay tuned for Part 2...