I hate grocery shopping.

That monotonous weekly excursion is more annoying than suffering from “numb buns” during a cross country trip. Trudging through the winter wonderland, you waddle like a penguin to avoid the embarrassment of slipping. Without realizing it, you grab the shopping cart with the bum wheel.

It must be my karma. I am attracted to the rejects. Just ask my husband, who was once voted ‘Best Friend to a Can of Beanie Weenies.’
You can call them shopping carts or wagons. Their mission is clear… to drive us crazy in order to provide humor for their “cart klatches.”

Unless you are the Incredible Hulk, the darn things are impossible to maneuver. Nothing is worse then dealing with “cart-o-crud” (the disgusting substances that stick to cart wheels, making them impossible to steer).

My ongoing attraction for rejects happens this way; some unsuspecting schmuck like me walks into the store and picks up four items that are heavy or cold. I look around. Where’s a cart when I need one?

I turn the corner and what do I see? A CART! How handy! I never stop to think why this cart was abandoned in such a convenient location. As I transform into the Hulk, I push the cart, only to find it has a wheel rusted in place and cart-o-crud hindering its movement.

I had been “cartpunked” (one who has fallen prey to the deserted shopping cart).

Recently, I found myself in an aerobic workout as I pushed my cart down the isle. It had one frozen wheel and its counterpart rattled like Rosie O’Donnell’s mouth. I vainly tried to thrust my cart down the isle, but it was a no-win situation. As I threw it in reverse, a back up warning beep sounded.

Thank goodness carts aren’t equipped with video back-up systems or I’d be on “America’s Most Idiotic Moments.”

Frustrated, I performed “purpitation” (taking items off the grocery shelf, changing your mind and putting them back in another section). Realizing I wasn’t making any progress, I randomly threw items in the cart.

I was a crazed woman on a mission.

The finish line was in sight, an open checkout line with the green light on. I screeched up to the conveyer belt like the finish line at NASCAR and “popped a wheelie” in celebration.

The checkout light had switched to red.

Thoughts of “carticular” manslaughter streaked through my mind.

Once again I threw it into reverse contemplating a hit and run if anyone got in my way. I looked at the next lane and saw an “angel of mercy” that clearly sensed my impending “shopping break down.” I threw the sucker in drive and propelled it into her lane.

I began tossing items on the conveyer belt attempting to pace the clerk as she scanned my items. I took my pulse and thought I was having a heart attack.

The food items piled up faster than I could self-bag them. I was stuck in the “I Love Lucy” candy factory episode.

Without thinking, I set some cash down on the conveyer belt and suffered “finnage” (watching your money swallowed up as your groceries ride the conveyer belt).

I should have used Plastic.

“Manager to checkout 3. Some Putz left cash on the conveyor belt again”…how mortifying!

My “angel of mercy” morphed into the “devil of sarcasm.”

After suffering the humiliation of having the manager disassemble the checkout to retrieve my cash, I threw a bag over my head to escape incognito.

Pushing my cart, now laden with heavy groceries, was like trying to push an iceberg towards the car. That lovely winter wonderland I trudged through on the way in was now more like “hell frozen over.”

It took every ounce of energy to maneuver over the snow moguls and fast food bags. Flab was quickly turning to muscle and I was burning more calories than a Billy Blanks, Tae Bo junkie.

Thoughts of inhaling the groceries plagued my thoughts.

I loaded everything in my car as it started to hail. I turned the ignition and decided the entire family was going on a diet.