Surviving the battle: My latest Grocery shopping saga.

The solution was so easy. For weeks, I was struggling with content to help fill a blog worthy of writing, and it just took the most simple act to bring things back to where they should be. All I needed to do was go to the grocery store.

For those who have read before, you are probably aware that I don't trust grocery stores. They are full of creepy people, strange sights and awkward conversations just waiting to happen.

My much-needed trip was not an exception, despite the fact that I tried to avoid the "danger zones." "Danger zones," for those wondering, include the off-brand cereal section, the frozen dinner aisle (not to be confused with the frozen pizza aisle), and the chatty cashier who feels her best quality revolves around her people skills. (This woman can be spotted easily if you just take the time to do a quick drive-by with your cart. She stands out by not seeming bored, dejected, or otherwise upset about her line of work. Her hair is usually somewhat frizzy, and her uniform clearly displays more than the minimum "nine pieces of flair." *For those who haven't seen "Office Space," an example of 'flair' is a flashy button.)

Unfortunately, there's one danger zone that is just unavoidable -- the condiment aisle. I have a dangerously unhealthy addiction to dill pickles, and had been without any for about two weeks. I saw the creeper right when I entered the aisle, and a voice deep inside told me to pull back, try again later. But the pickles were calling to me.

I took a deep breath, and headed down the aisle, concentrating hard on the spaghetti sauces opposite the man as I passed by. He didn't speak to me on the pass, and I paused to take a breath of relief. "Ok, we're in," I said to myself. "Now let's get what we came for and slip out the back before he notices me."

I frantically began searching for whole dill pickles. There were the baby dills, the mini munchers, the hamburger dills, and whole kosher dill pickles. No whole dill pickles. "You're taking too long!" the voice inside my head screamed, but I wasn't ready to compromise and take the Kosher Dills. Then, it was too late.

An attractive blond-haired college student started walking down the aisle, oblivious to the 40-year old creeper on her left. She needed something next to the creeper, and reached over to grab the item, depositing it in her cart. I thought she was going to survive, but then she made the common rookie error. Eye contact.

That was all the creeper needed, as he grabbed her cart, and held the gaze. "I was going to get that," he said. "You took my item."

Shocked (her, not me), the girl apologized, and offered it to him. "I'll just grab a different one."

"No no, it's yours now, you stole it right away from me." The shelves were well-stocked in this item.

This poor girl went through about six more exchanges with the man over the item, before he finally said, "I'm just giving you a hard time, because you're so pretty."

The girl turned red. Not beet red, a darker shade. She turned the shade of embarrassed Alysa Kotsmith. (Look it up, crayola recently made it an official color.) And down the aisle she went, giving me a helpless glance on her way by. I offered her a sympathetic smile and a silent salute, honoring the poor soldier who fell on the grenade for me. She'll learn.

The most important area of grocery shopping is a proper exit strategy, and after carefully scanning the possible options, I took my place behind the longest line, waiting for the most disgruntled cashier. Clearly, other people have the same scanning system, otherwise the lines would have been more even.

The woman in front of me had three carts of food, filled to the brim. She was probably about sixty, and had what I could only assume were 30-year-old kids shopping with her. I heard an audible sigh come from the cashier as he started scanning this woman's army convoy, and smiled. If this person had any desire to start talking before this woman came, it would be gone by the time I made my purchases. I contentedly waited, and watched the total price slowly rise as each items passed over the scanner, and down the belt to be bagged. At last, the total came to $344, and the woman reached into her purse, and plucked out three hundred dollar bills and a fifty. No credit card, no check, she's paying this small house mortgage with straight cash, homey.(Minnesota still remembers Randy Moss, right? I hope so...)

Satisfied with my trip, I drove home and reaped the rewards of what had been a dangerous, yet necessary trip. Pickles, deli sandwiches and a Caesar salad served as my medal of honor, and I savored every bite.