Grocery shopping is at the top of my list of “Things Never to Do During Thanksgiving Week.” Of course, I seldom obey my own rules, so I was at the store on the afternoon before Thanksgiving squeezing my laden cart through the aisles full of intense people all in a mad frenzy to spend hundreds of dollars so they could work several hours to prepare food some guests wouldn’t like in order to give thanks.
I was half done with my long list when my body betrayed me as it usually does during stressful times. I had to go to the bathroom. I maneuvered my cart close to the restroom and parked it near the door, hoping no one would take the cans of water chestnuts because they were too difficult to find. In a hurry to finish my business and return to shopping, I accidentally dropped my precious list into the toilet.
Under normal circumstances, I would have flushed away my problems, but I needed that list. I still could read the words but didn’t want to reach in and pull out a soggy piece of paper, so I did the next best thing: I took a photograph on my cell phone. Yes, I did.
I continued shopping while focusing on the photo of the essential items. I found everything except a spice identified with a complicated name. I needed the spice for a new recipe. A busy store employee dashed by, and I grabbed his arm and showed him the photo on my phone.
“Do you know where I can find this?” I asked.
The employee stared at my phone and then at me and back at the phone.
“Do you need to find the restroom?” he asked, backing away.
I looked at my phone and there it was: a photo of a toilet bowl. Apparently, he assumed the floating list was used toilet paper. I stammered apologies and quickly pushed my cart to the next aisle, almost wiping out a senior citizen riding a travel scooter. I decided I didn’t want the spice with the fancy name.
While waiting in the checkout line, I frantically tried to delete the photo from my cell phone. Somehow in my flustered desperation, I accidentally posted it to my public Instagram Account. I regularly post photos to Instagram, so it was a natural habit.
“Oh, no!” I wailed. “I just showed my toilet on the Internet!”
As I was pounding the delete button on the now-public photo, a kind customer service representative came over and pushed my cart to a special checkout line. She spoke in a soothing voice usually reserved for manic shoppers in need of medication. I finally deleted the photo, paid for the groceries, and found my car. As I drove away, I waved farewell to the grocery store. I can never return.