My friend from high school recently visited me, so before she arrived I took a good look around my kitchen and decided I needed to drag my lazy ass to Albertson’s and buy some food. At that moment, my fridge contained the following: a bottle of salad dressing, mustard, tomatoes, lettuce and Coke Zero. My freezer was arguably bleaker (or better?). Frozen elk given to me by my cousin. And vodka. Obviously I have no idea how to cook elk; however, I am kitchen-savvy enough to pour vodka into a glass, so I’m sure you can guess which of those items was consumed.
I knew my friend didn’t care whether I had food in the house – we met in 8th grade, so we’ve seen shit go down together – but I didn’t want her to think I had turned into some anorexic who subsisted solely on lettuce, diet soda and oxygen … as my fridge (not my body) would indicate. So that meant I had to go walk around a grocery store and buy stuff. God f-ing forbid.
I made a list – with the realistic intention of buying about half of what was on it. I’m largely clueless as to where most items are in grocery stores, and inevitably I just tire of wandering aimlessly and eventually abort the mission.
Lately I have been avoiding Albertson’s like an ex-boyfriend. For one reason: No more self-checkout. Where did they go? Not to sound completely antisocial (because that is exactly how I am going to sound), but sometimes I just want to buy my shit and not have to talk to anyone. In line or at the cash register. Why is that no longer an option?
(And I wonder why I’m told I come off as unfriendly. Sorry. It’s actually a syndrome called Resting Bitch Face.)
White girl problems.
Checkout tangent aside, the experience was not all bad. I managed to find the basics. But then I happened upon the promotional aisle. Whoops. I bought three beach towels for $9.99 each, a purple pitcher for $5.99 (that turned out to be a chintzy piece of crap, but, realistically, what were my expectations?), a Jackson Hole High School sweatshirt (I don’t know. I can’t explain that purchase.) Oh, and $40 worth of flowers that literally died in three days. What? I put them in water. Am I supposed to do something else, too?
Bottom line: I bought these groceries … and towels, clothes and flowers for myself … but we went out to every meal anyway. Because it was a vacation. I mean, I say do what you want every day, but especially when you’re on vacation (heck, get a Jettly private jet to take you to your destination if you want the ultimate luxury experience). If you like to cook, then by all means, go to town. In my case, not so much. We’re going out to eat. If that’s not OK, then you’re eating cereal … and you’ll take what you can get and like it.
We hit a lot of restaurants, but the highlight was definitely pork belly eggs Benedict at Café Genevieve. We had big plans to go for a hike that day, but then we made a game-time decision and got some breakfast cocktails instead. Grand ambitions, no follow-through. Story of my life. Our big move of the day: happy hour at the top of the gondola. I have never been up there in the summer. Tram, yes, but Corbet’s Cabin doesn’t have cocktails, so why waste my time? Is there like a nice view or something? 
Why have I never done happy hour at the gondi? It’s so great. As I sat outside with one of my oldest friends, margarita in hand, the evening sun illuminating the valley with a warm, just-about-to-set glow, I thought: This is her vacation, but I could do it every day. Well, not actually, because I have this stupid thing called a job (and potentially a drinking problem), but you get my point. My life is really hard.Â
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