A typical shopping trip for the eternally needed loaf of bread and gallon of milk leads over an expanse of ten aisles these days. If you’re in a hurry, Kathy Smith counts such a trip as an aerobic workout. During my last “workout,” I encountered numerous attacks as well.

Yes, folks, the days of the friendly neighborhood mom and pop store are over. They were replaced in an ambush of giant supermarket chains guaranteeing slashed prices and escalating coupon wars. This provisional violence in towns all across America has left many a shopper alienated and their self esteem missing-in-action.

My assault began with the battering of the automatic door, which slammed in my face in just enough time for me to catch the BROKEN DOOR sign hanging on it. This did save my three kids from catching the door themselves. They giggled in gratitude at my heroic act. Rubbing my nose – it was only a superficial wound – I tried to unhitch my cart from the twenty other carts its wheels were locked onto.

Finally free, we headed down the center aisle and were cut off by a cart crammed with four small children and another mother with a war-torn look. We exchanged secret code with two quick sighs.

My objective was the bread aisle, but as we got closer, I saw the shelves above the “sale” sign were bare. I asked Jon, who was unloading several crates of the $2.69 whole grain and honey variety, where the sale bread was. “Gone. You can’t loaf around when that bread’s on sale,” he said with a chuckle. Obviously that didn’t get much of a rise out of me. I grabbed the expensive loaf and threw it into my cart.

Kids in tow, we wheeled from aisle two to eight to get milk and head to the checkout. Of course, passing all the other “good buys” was impossible, and before I knew it, the cart was nearly full. What strategy putting all those aisles so far apart with a minefield of bargains on all sides! And no fair sitting the calzones out like sweet refugees begging for someone to bring them home. I’m not heartless.

Finally we reached checkpoint Charlie, and I set my sights on the shortest line. The kids wagered against my bet as we pulled up behind a smartly dressed woman with only a few items. My groceries were piled nicely on the conveyer belt when I got the news from the front. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. You didn’t have your check pre-approved and I’ll have to call the manager.” Our stuff was already out and there were two people behind us now – to was too late to change lanes. We were prisoners.

The manager got there and after the delay, Kathy scanned our groceries as two teenaged bagboys discussed their favorite cheerleader’s pom-poms. They must have gotten some potent immunizations at boot camp because the dirty looks I shot them were totally ineffective. I should have paid more attention to my bags because they packed them heavy enough to give Arnold Schwartzenhagger a hernia.

Kathy examined my coupons for expiration dates as my kids inspected the conveniently located eye-level snacks. “Sorry,” she said, “these expired yesterday.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said. Shot down again.

When she said my bill was $69.74 I looked around to see if the people behind me looked like the violent type. Kathy voided off the roast beef I waited ten minutes for the butcher to cut for me. It was this week’s “inflation fighter.”

By now I was on the defensive. I wanted to get home at warp speed to unload our cache of groceries and surrender into the arms of my easy chair.

But I didn’t receive the final blow until I got home and unpacked our supplies. The calzones were dead, buried alive under three cans of soup. War is hell.