>Also, What’s with the Expectant Mothers Parking Spots? Moms with Small Kids Need Those Spots Waaay More.

>Something about grocery shopping makes me very, very grumpy.

It’s just not a chore that I enjoy, probably because with six people in this house, I find myself there nearly every damn day.

So when I arrive at the grocery with a list a mile long and 20 minutes before the babysitter has to be relieved, there’s only one thing that can turn what’s certain to be a bad experience into pure, unmitigated torture.

Read all about it in this week’s newspaper edition of Suburban Turmoil. The full text of the column is below!

When Grocery Shopping Gets Old

It’s not even noon, yet the supermarket parking lot is full. Frowning, I pull into a spot at the end of the lot and walk briskly toward the entrance. I step through the double doors, quickly scan the crowd of shoppers, and feel a cold chill go up my spine.

Unwittingly, I’ve entered the ninth circle of suburban hell, otherwise known as Senior Discount Day.

No matter how I time my grocery runs, I can’t seem to avoid Senior Discount Day. In fact, I suspect the manager at Kroger has some sort of hidden surveillance camera inside my refrigerator, allowing him to spontaneously announce a Senior Discount Day each time he notices I’ve run out of milk.

It’s not that I begrudge my blue-haired neighbors their discount. Hell, old age doesn’t have many perks; not counting shuffleboard, ten percent off groceries is about as good as it’s going to get. Besides, on a normal day at the supermarket, the seniors who show up are quite nice. They smile at my children and I in turn retrieve hard-to-reach items for those of them riding on motorized scooters.

When Senior Discount Day rolls around, though, our shaky truce dissolves. Banding together, they flood the aisles; their white heads bobbing like the foamy crests of waves in a windswept sea. I try to stand firm against their tide, but before I know it, my cart and I are caught up in the current. As I’m swept past the meats, I futilely attempt to grab a marked down pork tenderloin, only to be butted from behind by a cart pushed by a dried apple of a man wearing a beret and an evil grin.

“Ouch!” I shout, rubbing my hip. He laughs spitefully and snatches up my meat.

“Hey!” I protest. “I saw that first.”

Immediately, his face changes, assuming an expression of bewilderment and sorrow. “I’m sorry, dear,” he said. He tries to hand me the tenderloin. My face burns with shame.

“Oh, no,” I mutter. “That’s OK. You can have it.” Immediately, his face settles back into a sneer. He cackles delightedly and shakes his head at my naiveté before tottering back to his cart.

Bruised and forlorn, I manage to collect a few more items before ending up sandwiched between three other carts in aisle four, while a small group of mall-walkers argues heatedly over which brand of peanut butter is cheapest, and whether coupons on Senior Discount Day are doubled or tripled.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, trying to semi-politely push their carts out of my way. They ignore me. I raise my voice.

“HEL-LO. EXC– USE ME.” One of the women looks at me and frowns before making a grand show of adjusting her non-existent hearing aid.

At this point, I decide it’s safest to limit my shopping to AARP member-free areas of the store. First, I try the expensive organic foods section but aging shoppers are attacking its free sample trays like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Next, I check the beer aisle. A half-dozen Sansabelt wearers, fighting over what’s left of a sale on Pabst, are mobbing it.

That leaves the baby food aisle, which turns out to be a peaceful and empty haven in this senior storm. It appears my family will be having pureed carrots and teething biscuits for dinner tonight. They won’t like it, but once they hear about my ordeal, I’m sure they’ll understand. Actually, they won’t, but I’ll worry about that later.

My cart filled, I hurry to the front of the store, where I find long lines at every checkout. I move to the back of one, glancing impatiently at my watch. Within minutes, my favorite bagboy appears and catches my eye, pointing to register ten. Grinning, I quickly wheel my cart toward his register, and that’s when I spot a woman with a cane looped over her arm, headed in the same direction. I can see by her face that she’s witnessed our entire exchange and is determined to get to the register before I do.

Making eye contact, we glare at each other for a split second before simultaneously running for it. I make it to register ten in record time, but my competition is closer, and noses her cart into the aisle a split second before I get there.

“Come on, Myrtle,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “This nice boy opened up his register just for us.” A grandma in a velour tracksuit shuffles up behind her, snickering at me before getting in line. The bagboy shrugs as if he’s seen this happen many times before, and resolutely starts scanning box after box of Depends.

I stand behind them, grinding my teeth and vowing revenge. In forty or so years, these shoppers’ cherubic and adored grandchildren will be supermarket-shopping adults and I’ll be the Keds-wearing, dentured one cutting them off in line.

And I’ll be damned if I’m not the meanest and most competitive little old lady anyone around here has ever seen.