The Certified and the Certifiable at the Supermarket  

Seeing that you did not go on Tuesday at 11 a.m. so as to enjoy a quiet supermarket post Beginning-of-the-Week Shoppers and pre End-of-the-Week Shoppers (Neighbor across the Block, that’s you — I’ve seen you unloading your car. But you also have your son’s bar mitzvah menu planned and I remember his upsheren bash a few  months ago. Don’t deny it, I know the type.), your first hurdle is The Great Parking Space Hunt.

On your fifth round of the parking lot, you see an innocent young man heading out of the store with two bags in hand (two bags? Must be a bachelor, invite for Shabbos?) and shadow him slowly in your car, taking great care not to be seen by other participants in The Hunt. The FBI would do well to recruit you. Aha! He gets into his car, no messing around with carts and the trunk, and backs out. Prime real estate! No matter that your family-friendly van is double the size of his mini Mini. You maneuver deftly into the parking spot. After some nifty calisthenics that involve you scooching over to the passenger side and holding your breath till you turn purple, you manage to squeeze out.

(You’re also ready to go home by now.)

Now for the Empty Shopping Cart Search.

You catch sight of a telltale open trunk above the sea of cars and hoof it. More shadowing as the frazzled woman with two screeching kids empties her cart, at one point putting the baby in the trunk and the meat in the car seat by mistake. Discreetly, you wait impatiently until she gets her act together and closes the trunk with a slam. Nary a nanosecond elapses and your hands clamp firmly around the cart handle. You level a death glare at the woman panting behind you after emerging from behind the car to the right (don’t even think about it, lady. Move faster next time), and sail into the air-conditioned supermarket at last. Hopefully the sheitel strands sticking to your sweaty forehead will come free in the refrigerator aisle.