groceries galore

For those of you who live in Los Angeles, Trader Joe’s is a big fucking deal. So, you can imagine my excitement when I heard there was a Trader Joe’s conveniently located near my new place only 8 blocks down and 4 avenues over. Their claim to fame, NYC’s very first Trader Joe’s. Their motto, “The line’s tiny compared to the savings.” I couldn’t believe it. As silly as it sounds, I felt like a little piece of home was right around the corner. My third day in the city. I needed to fill up that empty, depressing looking fridge fast. So, I ventured to my favorite one stop shop. I walked in and much to my dismay, it was pure mayhem. A bomb had gone off and people were scrambling to get the goods. It was the end of the world. Armageddon. Every man for himself.

I quickly grabbed a cart and dove in, face first. The aisles were long and narrow. I made sure to quickly grab the items most important on the food chain. Bread, cereal, milk, and cheese. Equally important, tabouleh, carrots, egg beaters, garbanzo beans, stir fry veggies, morning star burgers, turkey, pita chips, and granola bars. I bought three of everything for fear of returning to this disastrous scene.

As I approached the line “all items” as opposed to “12 items or fewer,” I forgot the most important thing on my list. The sole reason I even go to Trader Joe’s. The three cheese pizza. I first became familiarized with this delicious goodness in college. My friend Lisa, who was a crazy bio major, would pull all nighters at our apartment studying for her ridiculous and might I add pointless organic chemistry class. Her only vice, a late night three cheese pizza treat from Trader Joe’s. It just stuck. As I turned my cart around, I heard a burly man who somewhat resembled Zach Galifianakis shout, “Uh oh. Illegal U-turn.” I was mortified. It’s like he knew it was my first time entering this Vietnam. He had a sixth sense. I scoffed and walked away. After picking up my delicious frozen pie, if you can call it that, I headed towards the line, which was damn near out the door. I waited and waited. 45 minutes and a half eaten bag of pita chips later, I arrived at the cashier.

The young guy who was ringing me up was very sweet until he asked, “Are you having a dinner party?" I looked down at my cart, which was filled to the brim, and for some reason, I don’t know why I felt the need to lie. I said, “yes.” It just came out. I was defending myself. I wasn’t having a dinner party. I didn’t even know enough people in the city to have a party. He continued to make small talk. “Are you making hummus with those garbanzo beans,” he asked. I was fighting an internal battle that lasted less than ten seconds but felt like a lifetime. Should I keep going on with this? “yes, I love making hummus,” I said. Another lie. The truth is, I love eating raw garbanzo beans. Yep. Straight up, out of the can. No need for tahini, olive oil, or garlic. He handed me my receipt and said, “Enjoy your party.” I smiled and laughed a little inside. I attempted to grab all four brown traditional Trader Joe's bags. Already exhausted from fighting to get my groceries, now, I was stuck walking 8 blocks up and 4 avenues over with four bags filled with enough food to feed a dinner party of 8. It was no longer, just around the corner. As I began walking, I contemplated whether or not I should stop and grab a cab. Make it easy on myself. I’d be home in less than five minutes, I thought. I had too much pride to hop into a taxi. I was gonna walk all the way home whether I liked it or not. Punishment. In that moment, I missed my car. I missed the convenience. I missed LA.