So there we were, driving down Ogilvie Road and talking, and she says, “You know, there’s a sale on those Swanson TV-dinners you eat at lunchtime every day of your life. Loeb’s got them at $1.50 right now.”
“What?” I hyperventilated.
“Yeah! A buck-fifty. Not bad, huh?”
My first thought was that it might be worthwhile to buy a separate deep-freezer to put them all in. I will buy 200, no, 300 dinners…. etc., etc.
My second thought was to speed up so I could get rid of Kathleen faster, and head to the nearest Loeb store.
Which I did.
It was true.
There they were. In all of their artery-clogging glory! Wonderful mountains of Swanson© products.
All types of species.
I pretty much emptied the bin and made my way to the cashier.
The place was busy. I all of a sudden became sort of….. conspicuous.
People, the kind that actually buy produce, were evaluating my hoard of… frozen boxes.
I glanced at a few of these people and had this mental image of my face probably looking by now like one of the Swanson serving trays! Instead of eyes I’ve got a mound of mashed potatoes on one side and a pile of corn in the other, and a bright little nose of red fake-cranberry dessert in the middle!
Below all of this, I’m grinning like a Salisbury steak!
I piled it all on the conveyer belt, clunk, clunk, clunk!
The cute little Oriental cashier rang it all through.
We’re both stuffing it into plastic bags and I felt that some words of explanation were in order.
So, glancing at this one guy now lifting onto the counter his basket of stuff containing things with leaves on it, and like dirt still hanging off the ends of whatever it was… I said, “I’m quite the chef.”
Thinking I am making some sort of serious statement the girl says, “Ohhh! You are chef!”
Me: → “Umm. No, actually I…”
Cashier: → “You like cooking. Like chef.”
[I now suddenry rearize that she know very rittle Engrish rangrage!]
But I have committed myself to some kind of joke here and so, looking back at the lineup of folks behind me for some support, [and getting none at all, not one smile] then back at the girl, I exprain to her…. “No. See. When I said I am a chef I meant it as a joke. What I mean is…. I CAN’T COOK! SOMETIMES I EVEN BOTCH THESE THINGS AND DON’T GET IT RIGHT!”
“Yes. You cook!” she says, sliding toward me the last packed bag.
I would have literally ran away but I had too much stuff to haul out of there!
Weighed down with frozen boxes.