grocery shopping shapeshifter

I’m a grocery shopping shapeshifter. When I get a delivery order, I sit in the parking lot and work up a sense of who you are. Whom I must become. It’s not just about getting you your groceries, it’s about embracing the emotions and discernment of your meta-shopping experience. I want to feel as you feel, and dignify my Dashing vocation. My Dashing is artful, and full of soul. I’ve come to call it “Method Shopping.”

I pull down the vanity mirror.

“You are Shawna, you need a variety of juices, dog food, and an inordinate amount of bacon.”

No, that’s no good. You don’t feel it the way you should feel it. You don’t have the desire for the groceries, and so, the act and purpose of your shopping will be inadequate.

“I am Shawna, I need a variety of juices, dog food, and an inordinate amount of bacon.”

Closer, but you still know that you are not Shawna. You’re a fraud. I scan the parking lot from the driver’s seat. I glance away from the mirror, pause, and back again, reborn.

“My name is Shawna, I need some juice, food for the doggo, and an inordinate amount of bacon.”

Stop! You amateur! Go again.

I sigh, breathe deep, and return my gaze to the vanity mirror.

“I’m Shawna, I’m just going in for some juice and dog food. Oh, and an inordinate amount of bacon.”

Would 16 packs of bacon be inordinate if you were really Shawna? What if 16 packs of bacon is normal to Shawna, you fool! Nothing on this shopping list would be inordinate if you really embraced the essence of Shawna.

“I just need to stop by Albertson’s to pick up juice and food for the doggo. Bacon for the BLT’s as well. Gimme a bit I gotta turn around, it’s just right there. Yeah, I’ll see you. Tell the cousins the picnic is still on for Saturday. Yeah, I’ll take care of the sandwiches. Bring the potato salad.” Well done. The phantom on the other side of the mirror would’ve been completely sold. You are now a better prepared Shawna, maybe even better than the original Shawna. You can comfortably begin your excursion.

I flip the vanity mirror up, gather my belongings, and make my way towards the shopping carts. One of the wheels of the cart I’ve selected is lame, and it irritates me. It would certainly irritate Shawna. How would Shawna react?

“Fuck.”

Perfection.

I select a different cart.

I enter the Albertson’s and immediately look for an employee. I spot one sorting a freezer, and approach him to begin my method.

“Hey man, I’m looking for bacon? I got a picnic coming up, you see, and I need a lot of bacon, haha.”

“Yeah, it’s over in aisle 3.” He barely acknowledges me. I continue.

“I have a picnic on Saturday, I’m making BLTs. A lot of them. For a lot of people. Family, mostly. Haha.” He pauses sorting the freezer and gives me the strangest look. “We do this kinda thing. Picnics, that is. After gatherings like, uh, church.” He continues staring at me. “Okay then, well, I’m off to go get that bacon!” I turn an exact 90-degrees, and roll over to the deli meats section. I retrieve the bacon by the armful, and dump it into my cart. Now, on to the juices.

I’m staring at the shelves of juices, awestruck by the sheer cornucopia of sugary beverages. From concentrate. 100%. Single serving. Fruit drink. Electrolytes. Made from real fruit. Pulp. No-pulp.

A fellow juice patron is also perusing the aisle. She’s lifting jugs of juice from off the shelf to inspect. She’s replacing the bottle she’s holding when I make my approach. I begin.

“Samantha really prefers the boxes.” I stand directly to her left, picking up 2-litre apple juice jugs.

“Excuse me?” The lady is confused, but indulges me. She gives me her full attention.

“I said Samantha, my daughter, she really likes boxed apple juice. Says it tastes different. But the mark-up is…gosh, who can afford to eat these days?” I shake my head in disapproval.

The lady snorts. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“So I’ve kind of struck a deal with her, my daughter? At home we will carry the jugs of apple juice. Welch’s specifically, that’s what she prefers. If I were to be more specific, she prefers Boxed Welch’s Apple Juice. The kind with the straw attached?” I’m alternating between boxes of juice and jugs of juice, measuring the heft of each one. My shopping cart full of meat is unattended. “She can have the boxes when she’s out to school or attending activities or whatever, but at home she’ll have to endure pouring her own juice. The price-per-ounce on the boxes just doesn’t make it economically feasible for our household, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” The lady is finalizing her selection. I can tell she’s almost finished, so I try to wrap up the conversation. Shawna wouldn’t be the type to miss social cues.

“Ah, got it. Hey, you have a great day!” I toss the juices into my cart, and bid farewell. The lady barely notices. I exit the aisle and look towards the ceiling signage to orient myself.

I’m double checking my DoorDash app to make sure I have the right brand. The barcode won’t scan otherwise. I very rarely shop for pet supplies, so I’m having a hard time with this one. It’s Purina, but for a specific weight-class of dogs. Who knew?

“Sir, can I help you with anything?” A friendly girl with a uniform more cared for. A hand is on her hip, as if she expects me to need help. I figure I’ve been staring at the pet supplies for what seems like longer than normal. Damn, how long would Shawna have taken? My method is failing. “DoorDash?”

“Oh, no no no. I’m just picking up some food for my very medium sized shiba inu.” She’s looking at my phone, and the DoorDash app is open and clearly visible. I panic. “He’s a riot, you know? Shibes? They’re stubborn little fuckers. They can scream. Not like an awoo or a ruff, like a full on screech.”

“Right.” She takes the phone from my hand and looks over the list. She returns my phone and beckons me to follow her. She points at a large bag of kibble, and walks away.

The app confirms that I’ve finished the job, and I’m greeted with green checkmarks. I make my way towards the self-checkout, and labouriously scan all the items. I pay with the QR code thats provided to me through the app, and wheel my way out of the establishment.

I pull up to a house with an uncared for lawn in Carson. I check the photo of a recent delivery, and confirm that this is indeed Shawna’s house. It takes me several trips to get the groceries from my trunk to her doorstep. The whole ordeal has taken about an hour, and I feel like a changed man.

“It’s hard out here for a single mother, goddamn.”