It's the chore I hate the most. It's not sexy. There are no leather wielding mistresses or Leather Men in chaps. Depressing, I know. I battle various people with white hair, small, crying children, and the inability to move a cart from the &^%^$#@!! middle of the aisle. Added to this horror is the fact that the commissary (that's military talk for grocery store) has been undergoing renovations for months. The aisles are more narrow, the ketchup is now where the canned fruit is, and I'm hopelessly lost everytime I go inside.
What the heck does any of this have to do with writing, you might ask? Not a blessed thing. Except it takes up valuable time I'd rather spend writing, reading, or heck, pulling out my toenails one by one.
If you can't tell, I really hate grocery shopping. So wish me luck as I'm off. I SO wish I had a better picture than this, but hey, it's shopping.