Haiku to the Grocery Store

 I avoid the food store like our boy avoids the deodorant stick. "I do not like grocery shopping" is putting it lightly. I'd rather. . . I don't know. . . scrub the bathroom, do ten loads of laundary, stick toothpicks in my eyes. I despise grocery shopping. I hate going up and down the aisles, knowing that I have to do it all over again in a week. I hate plunking down hundreds of dollars a month to a corporation, and in a week have nothing to show for it. I don't like all the people who decided to shop when I shop, the silent cashiers who have no idea how to make nice noise that makes the waiting in their lane a little less painful, the stock boys who are in the way of me getting that specific type of mayonnaise my beloved likes. I dislike the cart that always seems to find me, you know the one, the one whose wheel makes that repetitious noise that drives me bonkers, the riding horse that plays the theme to Bonanza, which I take home and irritatingly hum for the rest of the day.

 But, most of all, I hate the constant loading and unloading. It's loading up the cart with the food, then unloading the cart at the checkout. Then loading up the cart again with the food now in bags. Then, loading up the car with the food, then unloading the car at home. Then unloading the bags of food and loading up our cupboards and refrigerator. Because my family consists of living organisms, I must feed them. And because I must feed them, I arm myself with my list, and do this loathsome chore weekly.

Let me present my haiku inspired by today's trip to the grocery store, otherwise known as Hell. 

Automatic doors!

Hmmm, nice. But you can't fool me.

You want my money!