Does Safeway want me to kill myself?

Like many other miserable, mad, recently-singled people, I don’t have much going on on Saturday nights. I don’t have the energy nor the desire to pretend to be happy in public, so I don’t go out. So what’s a mopey girl to do, if the bar scene doesn’t call her name? She goes grocery shopping, of course.

This is what I did last Saturday night. After Sex and the City made me sick and Wedding Crashers was the only alternative to watching the home team get beat by the deplorable Toronto Maple leafs, I had had enough. So, after sobbing around my apartment for far too long, I dragged my depressed ass out and to my friendly neighborhood Safeway. (Hey, it was after 10 p.m.; Whole Foods was closed.)

So there I was, wandering up and down the aisles, putting break-up essentials --- you know, chocolate, ice cream… the crap you think will make you feel better, but ends up making you feel even worse --- into my basket as I went along my not-so-merry way.

I hadn’t been hungry in days, so there was no reason for me to be shopping for food. But I’ve never been one for the more traditional forms of retail therapy (read: shoes) --- unless you count that time I thought I flunked my first year anthro mid-term --- so grocery shopping is as close to it as I come.

And on any other, normal, not heartbroken day, I love grocery shopping. Love, love, love it. I also love cooking and trying new recipes. When I don’t feel like absolute garbage, that is.

But there I was, not really needing anything, wandering aimlessly, trying to keep my mind off of the obvious. "Look, there’s a new kind of useless packaged crap,” I told myself. “Let me read the package. I’m sure it will be incredibly interesting…” the charade worked for about 3 seconds before I had to move on.

“What kind of ice cream do I want?” No response from within. “Um, hello!? You love ice cream!!” Still, nothing. “You love ice cream!” I reminded myself again.

Still, indifference.

“Cookies and cream or some other candy-infused, creamy concoction?”

I sighed. What does it matter?

I threw a quart of frozen crap into my basket and carried on. And it is at this point that I realized how, rather than cheering me up, my trip to the grocery store was making me more upset.

Then, another bomb hits me. As I continued to peruse the frozen foods, I realize I’m singing along to the sad music filtering through the store’s equally sad sound system.

Damn you, LeAnn Rimes. Damn you, Safeway.

“And tell me now: How do I live without you? I want to know.
How do I breathe without you? If you ever go,
How do I ever, ever survive?
How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?”

Again, I say it: Damn you, LeAnn Rimes. One more time: Damn you even more, Safeway!

Fresh foods for life my ass.

Is America’s grocery store trying to push me over the edge? They must, because they’re doing a pretty good job at it. Just one more, gentle nudge is all I need. Really.

It’s no secret that only the painfully single shop at 10 p.m. on Saturday nights. It’s obvious that every customer in the store is a shell of their former selves, lacking any desire to seek life out or just be happy. All of us are depressed enough as it is – does the spiteful store manager really have to rub it in?

Boo hoo country blues add insult to injury. It’s so unnecessary. Honestly, there are dozens of ways to torture myself, to wallow even further in my misery. I don’t need their help.

I can’t remember what song was played after Rimes’ sorrowful ballad, but it didn’t deviate far from its predecessor. Boo urns. At that point, I was bordering on suicidal. Lucky thing guns still aren’t yet considered “household goods,” in America --- otherwise I might’ve taken a short trip down aisle three, right then and there. (OK, that’s not entirely true. But you never know…)

Realizing the desperate scene, I proceeded to the check out and got the hell out of that place as fast as I could. And I vowed not to go back there in such a fragile state every again -- without the protection of my trusty, faithful, loving ipod, that is.

This all took place a few days ago. Now, marginally recovered, I have a message for grocers everywhere: If you want to sell more groceries, you first have to help me and my fellow heartbroken shoppers regain our appetites. When you’re depressed, food doesn’t taste like anything, so cheer us up and maybe we’ll actually want to eat something of substance for a change.

Sad food -- chocolate and ice cream -- are cheap. But happy, loving life food – fresh seafood, bright and colorful fruits and veggies, and the rest of the lot – isn’t so cheap. Yet if we feel good about ourselves, or about life in general, we’ll not only buy more, but we’ll indulge in quality products, like scallops and blueberries and goat cheese. So stop it with the el-depresso, lovesick loser tunes.

FYI: A suggested playlist --I’ve kept the country theme, just because punk or pop-rock would be too dramatic a change – and would be asking too much of you, now, wouldn’t it? -- might include the following:

Shania Twain – That Don’t Impress Me Much

Steve Holy – Brand New Girlfriend

The Dixie Chicks – Ready to Run

Gretchen Wislon – Here for the Party

Carrie Underwood – Before He Cheats

Leslie Gore – You Don’t Own Me

… and, of course, my current theme song – another musical “up yours, I don’t need this shit” courtesy of the Dixie Chicks; the title track from their most recent release -- The Long Road.

--- end rant ---