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Monday, Nov. 30, 2015
Shopping in a silver bulletPosted Tuesday, July 12, 2011, at 10:53 AM
My daughter and I went shopping at Paragould Walmart Supercenter on Tuesday.
She needed to buy toilet paper and a few other items on her grocery list.
I really didn't need anything but figured I'd pick up an item or two.
I offered to drive my Buick since it has more trunk space.
No problem, she said. She'd drive her two-seater Mazda Miata MX5 hardtop convertible.
I was skeptical but said okay.
I have to admit the little car is cute, adorable really, but not much bigger than a breadbox. It has limited space, no back seat, not a lot of leg room either. It consists of two bucket seats and a gear shift. That's all.
There's just enough room in the floorboard for my feet and a large purse. And there isn't much trunk space either.
After you climb in, it's like sitting in a mop bucket but she loves it.
Anyway, we whiz down Highway 2l4 in her quicksilver bullet. It parks on a dime.
Inside the store we have a game plan. I will get a prescription filled at the pharmacy and she'll pick one up she called in earlier.
We head toward the pharmacy but stop at a row of tee shirts. She buys a tee shirt and buys one for me, too. That isn't on her list. At the last minute, she puts a pair of black capris in the basket. She just loves those, she says.
Then she begins her search for items on her list.
I push the cart.
She buys four bottles of Dial hand soap, just the kind she needs. I'm coughing so she puts a bottle of Robitussin DM in the basket.
Then we head for the toilet paper. She buys a mega 12-roll bundle of toilet paper and I buy three boxes of Puffs tissues. On the next aisle she picks up a box of dog food.
In the grocery department she gets a bottle of Ranch dressing, a can of tuna fish, two baking potatoes and four tomatoes, several loaves of bread and some English muffins. I have her throw in a package of muffins for me and I buy a can of tuna and two baking potatoes.
Next stop, the dairy products.
She buys eggs, milk, cream cheese, sour cream and boxes of yogurt.
I throw in a 4-pack carton of yogurt for me, too.
"Get two," she says. So I do.
So far, so good, but the cart is getting harder to push.
She whizzes here and there finding items to add to the cart. She buys three boxes of Paul Newman's organic coffee. I buy one.
At the meat department she buys family-pack pork steaks, hamburger patties, and all kinds of packaged meat.
"Let's go over and look at the toaster ovens," she says.
We look at several ovens on display, comparing the different functions, the metal trays.
"I like this one," she says and lifts a Black & Decker box into the cart.
Now the box the oven comes in is large. The box measures 20" by 20" by 12."
It leaves little room for anything else in the cart.
Then she decides to buy a food processor. She explains how she wants to be able to blend cauliflower and other vegetables for making a rice recipe.
She selects, then puts a big processor box in the bottom rack of the cart.
I'm thinking, "Uh, oh."
I voice my concern.
"It'll be okay, Mom," daughter says. "You can hold the oven in your lap."
The cart is now heavy to push.
My daughter notices.
"Let me push it, Mom," she says." It's too heavy for you."
She eyes a deep fryer on a shelf. She considers buying it too but decides to wait until another time.
I breathe a sigh.
I tell her I'm going to run to the pharmacy and get my prescriptions.
When I return we go to the checkout counter with our burgeoned cart.
I shake my head as I watch her check out beaucoup items piled high in the cart.
"We'll never get that in the car," I say.
"Sure, we will," she answers.
We get to the silver bullet.
She puts the processor box in the floorboard, passenger side.
Then she tells me to get in.
"I don't have any place for my feet," I protest after I put my purse in the floor.
She laughs. "Get in," she repeats.
She pushes the large toaster oven box in my lap.
My view is totally blocked. I can't see out the window.
"Just a minute," she says, as she puts the mega bundle of toilet paper on top of the oven box which is now penetrating a breast. Then she puts a loaf of bread on top of the processor box.
I tell her I can't close the door because my foot is in the way.
She slams the door anyway.
I yell that it's hot. Turn on the air conditioner.
I can't reach my seat belt.
I can hear her giggling at the rear of the car while she loads sacks of groceries into the trunk.
There must have been a hundred of them. Well, almost.
At last we're on our way.
The car starts beeping.
"What's that?" I ask.
"You don't have your seat belt on."
"Well, I can't reach the seatbelt," I yell. "You are endangering my life."
She tells me to stop whining.
When we arrive home, she asks me to get out and move my car so that she can park closer to the kitchen door.
I explain patiently that I cannot get out of the car until she unloads me.
Remind me that next time my daughter needs to go shopping for a few items, that we take the truck.
A breadbox won't do.
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