Doesn't Every Post Deserve a Title

Scene: I'm driving the "Mom Van" to my local grocery store. I debate whether I should detour and get carry-out chicken wings instead. I know I shouldn't because my pantry and freezer and quite literally spilling over with food. But still...

Cilantro. Tomatoes. Chips.
Cilantro. Tomatoes. Chips.
That's all we're gonna buy because that's all we need for guacamole.
Ooooh! B-Dubs! Today is wing Tuesday...
No! No, J-Bird! Cilantro. Tomatoes. Chips.

Damn this traffic!
"Hey, Asshole!" *honks horn for 10 solid seconds before realizing she looks like a murderous stepmother*

*gas light comes on* Cheese and Rice! I'm definitely getting chicken now.

Scene: In the grocery store produce section.

Cilantro. Avocado? No, I have those. I should get another one though. Mmm, jalapenos. I'll get one of those too; make it spicy.

Where are the tomatoes? I should have totally scoped this place out before I was hungry.

What was that last thing?

Me: Huh?
Grocery Store Produce Guy: Are you finding everything OK?
Me: Oh, yup. Except tomatoes. Do you only have these super expensive because you cut them from the plant but left the vine intact and then squished them into an ill-fitting plastic container tomatoes? Or can I get some regular ones?
GSPG: The other ones are over here.
Me: Cool beans.

As you can see, my grocery trip was pretty mundane. It's the standard food acquisition attempt. I continued to walk around aimlessly, feigning interest in the store's displays while looking for the perfect tortilla chip with which to consume my planned dinner.

No way! Tostitos on sale!?! Bust a move! *begins to dance foolishly in the snack aisle*

I walk toward the registers to see him. My Ex. The African.

**Confidently, I walk past him with my basket swinging off my arm. He doesn't notice me so I begin to scan my loyalty card secretly hoping that the loud hussy will say my full name in a tone that he can hear at his register. She lets me down. I need help finding the produce code on an item. Fortunately, the cashier assistant is in close proximity.

Me (voice tinkling like a tiny bell): Excuse me, miss? My tomatoes don't have a produce number and I don't see them on this screen. Are you able to help me?
Miss: Sure. This button here and voila! You're all set.
Me: Why thank you so kindly.
The African: J-Bird!?! Is that you?
Me: The African? *smiles gently and extends hand for cordial shake* I barely noticed you. How have you been?
The African: Oh my god! You look great! Are you losing weight?
Me: You noticed? Thank you for noticing. ***Nolan says that he can't tell a difference what with seeing me everyday and all.
The African: Nolan? You're married.
Me: No, you know I don't believe in it. But we did just have our first baby, Storey. They're around here somewhere.
The African: Uh huh. *gives me skeptical look*
*Up walks my super sexy baby machine. Tall like Brady Quinn, face like Freddie Prinze Jr, hair like John Krasinski, and super dedicated with our baby strapped to his chest. Think that one time that Carrie saw Aiden being all happily married with his baby strapped to his chest, only I'm Aiden and being super snarkily bitchy about it.*
Me: Yup.
*Nolan grabs our groceries and I grab his hand as our super adorable baby who obviously just got picked up for a Gerber commercial coos gently.*

Fin.
Or maybe...

OH. MY. GAWD. Did he see me? Stand still, J-Bird, stand still. No, he doesn't see me. OK. OK. He's on the phone. We can do this. Just back up slowly and silently.

*runs two aisles over*

Oh! Perrier! With lemon! Well, we're gonna get two of those. Yay, us!

*tip toes sneakily to the Self Checkout behind The African*

We can do this. We can get out of here and he'll never have to know we were this close. Dammit! Come on you bastard jalapeno, scan!

Dammit! Oh! She'll help me.

Me: Excuse me.

*woman continues to walk away*

Me: Excuse me.

She's gonna make me chase her?

Me: Excuse me, miss!

Oh, I know this bitch can here me!

Me: Hey! Excuse! Me!
Her: Oh! I didn't even see you! lolololololol
Mmmhmmm. You gonna make me get all...

The African: J-Bird! Hey!

Me: Ack!

Her: You made her just about jump out her skin. lololololol (she is quite the cackle-y bitch, isn't she?)

The African: How are you?

Me: Um, well, I'm good. I've started eating again. heh.

What the hell is wrong with you? He can look at your fat ass and tell that you've been eating! You're in a grocery store! Get it together, Bird! Get your head in the game!

The African: What have you been up to?

Me (ferociously bagging groceries): OK. Bye. ****

He looked so sad. It's quite obvious that I'm avoiding him like the plague. What's worst is that I wanted to say was, "How am I? I'm trying to figure out why you get to stand here looking all GQ with your dark jeans, purple striped button down and fantastic leather wing tips while I'm here in shorts that say '*    S    T    A    R' and breaking out like a 16-year-old, Halo-playing virgin". But I didn't because I couldn't find my tongue. There's something about his dark, bespectacled, statuesque body that makes me absolutely stupid.

And then? When I went to get wings? The Trainer was in B-Dubs. I cannot believe that I went through all of that to change my phone number and still managed to come into contact with both of these fools.

You wouldn't happen to have a plane ticket I could borrow?


** Events recorded here may or may not be based on actual occurrences or delusions of grandeur.

*** Is that not the perfect man name?

**** If I'm a punk, you're mom's a bowling ball. Yeah, deal with that.