The XXX Annual Thanksgiving Grocery Trip

Every year it's the same: someone trips and falls on their face, unloads a load of apples, oranges, or some other produce all over the floor, or slams into a display...you know, the usual embarrassing grocery store stuff.

Last year, while passing the fish market section, I began gagging...massive, borderline hurling-type gagging. I'm not a fan of the smell of fish. In order to stop said gagging, I hurried down the cereal aisle where, I'm sorry to say, I terrified an elderly couple, who were simply trying to say hello. I gagged--badly--in their faces. After a brief explanation, they laughed and went on their way.  I continued gagging into baked goods.

Today was no exception. Dressed in my very favorite one-size-too-big jeans, I was ready for this year's Thanksgiving adventure.

Absent gagging, I had to deal with a very cranky dad in canned goods. Eventually, he did shed the cranky pants somewhere around the cookies...where I left him to indulge in a treat, while I went to find sage, almond extract, and jello.

Jello moment: Squeezing between two men and their talkative wives, I grabbed two boxes of jello...while knocking about a half dozen more off the shelf, into a display, and onto the floor. It was one of those moments where everyone stops what they are doing to point, stare, and laugh. I had to laugh too. The irony? It was cherry jello. Sigh. Cherry. The jokes are endless.

XXX moment: Turkey gravy will forever be my nemesis. The particular brand my mom uses was sold out. I swiftly called Mom and began listing all sorts of alternatives. This listing took me from the top shelf all the way to the bottom, where I had to stoop down. I felt a strange breeze along my lower back, but brushed it off. After nearly five minutes of crouching tiger, I realized I had non-hidden-butt-crack-dragon. That's right. My one-size-too-big jeans slipped down, exposing the top of my bum cheeks and a little crack.

Mortified, I jumped, yanked up my jeans, and found two men smiling to my left...to my right, one smiling man...and yet another grinning man stood perched by a display of soft drinks, talking on the phone, watching me as I turned to leave. The look on his face was something between "Should I tip her" and "I need a Viagra."

Great. Am now a stripper. Why didn't I just start grinding against the gravy display while I'm at it?

What's worse? My dad, in between hysterics, informs me that the guy on the phone--the one who I swear contemplated tipping me--is a store manager...and knows my dad.

So, in summation: The virgin in me sends a not-so-subtle signal by knocking off multiple boxes of cherry jello, while the slut in me apparently decided it was time to air a little out.

Another classic shopping excursion in the books.

Time to cook...I can only imagine what this will be like...actually, I can't, I really can't.