Just One of the Guys(25)

There’s a middle-aged man in front of the chicken br**sts, holding up package after package, examining each one closely, a thinly veiled metaphor for his true purpose tonight. “I haven’t had a good meal since my wife left me,” he announces loudly. Four women zip over to advise. No one in Chicken Thighs seems to be my age, so I turn down Juices & Bargains. A curly-haired student type darts a look at me, then pushes his carriage quickly past. Don’t bother, I tell him silently. A grown man who drinks Kool-Aid? Please. I’m more of the Gatorade type myself.

To think I wore my new shoes for this. Down to Cookies & Crackers. I grab a few packages of Double Stuff Oreos. Can’t have enough of these around the house. Matt and I eat them like they’re Chicklets. The aisle is empty, as no other shopper is willing to publicly admit they eat cookies.

This isn’t working. I didn’t really imagine it would, of course. Sighing, I turn sharply at the end of the aisle and head up Cereals & Breakfast Treats. I’m out of Choco-Puffs, and Matt ate the last of the Pop-Tarts last night. There, in front of the specially advertised, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal, is dear old Mom, talking to two men. Cripes. Ten minutes in the store, and she’s got two potential dates.

“Chastity! Come over here. Right now.” There’s a familiar militant note in her voice. I obey and join her, towering over her suitors.

“This is Grant,” Mom says, indicating the five-foot-seven man. “And this one…Donald?”

“That’s right!” Donald (five-four) applauds. “Well done, Betty!”

“Hello,” I say. “I’m the daughter. Chastity.”

My mother turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. “Grant and Donald are interested in a threesome,” she announces loudly. “With me.”

“Good God!” I splutter. “Not with my mother, you freaks. Get away from her or I will kill both of you and dump your bodies in the river.” They remain frozen in terror, so I slam my size eleven foot into their cart and send it careening down the aisle. “Go!” I bark. Terrified, they scuttle down the aisle toward the vegetable oil.

“Thank you, darling,” Mom says briskly. “Disgusting! People today! I can’t believe that.”

“I can’t believe you made me come,” I say. “Aren’t you sorry you’re torturing Dad this way?”

She glances in my cart. “Oh, honey. For God’s sake. Oreos? You’ll never attract a man with Oreos. Put some chocolate chips in there.”

“Why? To pretend I’ll bake cookies?”

“Now you’re catching on. How about some yeast and flour? Men love a woman who can bake.”

“I’m not that woman,” I inform her. Undaunted, she grabs my bag of Oreos and plops them on the Quaker Oats display.

“Give those back,” I say, rescuing my poor cookies. “You might be able to live on two thousand calories a day, but I sure as hell can’t.”

“Hello, Betty,” comes a voice behind us.

“Hello, Al!” Mom turns to a balding man about her age and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Al, you remember Chastity, don’t you? Chastity, Mr. Peters was an usher with Daddy in church, remember?”

“How you’ve grown!” Al (five-seven) says, gazing at my chest.

“It’s singles night,” Mom announces.

“I know,” he says, staring first at my left breast, then at my right. “Are you single, Chastity?”

I glance nervously at Mom. “Um…yes?”

No doubt about it. He gives me a slow once-over. “Very nice.”

Thirty seconds later, Al is shoved through the door into the rain by my irate, five foot two, size four, fifty-eight-year-old mom.

“Is there a problem, ladies?” An attractive, portly man in his fifties pushes his cart over to us. “I’m Louis Tuttle, by the way, widower, age sixty-two, one year shy of retirement from IBM, strong stock portfolio.”

Mom’s expression becomes speculative. I smile. “No problem, Louis. I’m Chastity, by the way, and this is my mother, Betty O’Neill.”

They shake hands. “So,” I say. “I think I’ll visit Ben & Jerry before I head out, Mom.”

Mom gives me a little flutter of her fingers, already chatting up Louis Tuttle.

It’s kind of cute. Men still love my mother. Maybe it will light a fire under Dad, seeing her go on a date or two. As for me, this is a waste of time, aside from the fact that I’m getting my grocery shopping done. I glance at my watch. Nine-fifteen. I wonder how the Yankees are doing. Wish I was home watching them with the boys, eating Oreos.

Well. Can’t have everything, but can have some Oreos. I tear open a package and idly eat a few, scanning the aisles, occasionally adding something. Rice and beans. Kraft Dinner. Family size Spaghettios, some vodka sauce for when I feel like something fancier. Popcorn. Sun Chips.

“Nutrition Queen rides again, I see.”

I whirl around. “Trevor!” My knees wobble with the horror of being busted. I’m positive I didn’t tell anyone I was going Singles Grocery Shopping. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m out of coffee.” Sure enough, he’s holding a can of coffee in one hand, some half-and-half in the other. His face is doing that smiling thing again. “So, Chastity, are you in the market for something other than…let’s see here, deep fried pork rinds? What’s the trans fat count on these little death traps?”