An Open Letter to the Crazy Lady at the Grocery Store

Dear Madam,

Hello! You may remember me from our encounter at the friendly neighborhood Kroger a few months ago. I was the blond in the flouncy skirt who was perusing the salad section. You were the … eccentric … woman who was also (unfortunately) perusing the salad section.

Let’s be clear: When I politely smiled at you as I passed by the display of tomatoes (both plum and cherry), it was more of a courtesy, really. I did think better of it, however, when you turned your hooded eyes on me with a gaze that was part-crazed, part-lifeless.

And as I’m sure you recall, things only went downhill from there.

I skirted past your squeaky-wheeled cart, which had taken up residence in one of the aisles in an off-hand, careless fashion not unlike the disarray of your frizzy, Chow-like hair. As I parked myself squarely in front of the spinach (pre-E. coli scare), I could sense you inching ever closer, and I grew increasingly more alarmed. Maybe it was your well-worn moccasins paired with tapered, acid-washed jeans that filled me with fright. Maybe it was your overabundance of turquoise necklaces. Maybe it was the aforementioned Crazy Eyes or cotton candy hair.

We can’t be sure. But allow me to answer the slightly slurred question that you posed.

I don’t have an earthly clue what you should cook for “your man.”

I don’t believe that I know your man, as I’m going out on a limb and guessing his name is Bubba or Earl, and I know no one with these monikers. I also would wager a guess that he doesn’t spend much time at Ann Taylor or New York Deli; hence, we likely haven’t bumped into each other.

In short, I doubt that I’ve made the acquaintance of your paramour, and therefore I know not of his culinary tastes.

There. That’s out of the way.

I’m sure that you’re curious as to why I then walked away. You see, I believed our conversation to be over. Ahh, that’s where I was mistaken. Or rather, you were mistaken, as somehow you came to believe that our four-second exchange had forged a deep, meaningful friendship that warranted further exploration, possibly including a mani/pedi and a frappuccino.

Alas, it had not.

And I would like to apologize for ignoring your next attempt at a tête-à-tête in the bread aisle. Allow me to explain: You didn’t make an actual statement. You merely began babbling unintelligibly, potentially in another language, but I’d gamble that it was a make-believe one.

I’ll also apologize for tearing away at top speed, careening through the butcher section to put as much distance between your braless chest and my person.

In closing, I’m sorry that we didn’t form a lifelong bond there next to the cucumbers.

Oh, and one last thing. I’ll presuppose that Bubba/Earl doesn’t particularly care for salad. Perhaps that’s where you went wrong in the first place. May I suggest the canned bean aisle?

Good day,
Kathrin