As I plodded through my local grocery store yesterday, I was seething with anger and discontent. All four kids flitted about, still fuzzy from vacation and thus asking for no-no’s such as chocolate biscotti, hummus, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. That’s not what was making me so mad, however; we’d lived the high life ($25 per day) while on vacation for a week, and I’d assumed they would be wanting things we’d long since given up.
No, what made me want to strike hard and give no quarter wasn’t Angus falling to the floor in tears when I didn’t buy the aforementioned Reese’s, Eliza slipping expensive items into the shopping cart, Anabel incessantly asking for fresh mozzarella, and Helen pulling me over to the $14-a-pound scallops. No, I was near hysterics over the outrageous prices and unconscionably insufficient number of sale items. Nearly everything was full price; not a single vegetable was marked down; and again and again, I found myself removing things the kids had just placed into the cart. Out came the broccoli at $2.99 a pound and the Roma tomatoes at $1.75. And that block of $5-a-pound sharp Cheddar didn’t even make it off the shelf.
Although we’d spent an hour shopping, we left with a cart nearly as empty as when we’d started.
I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t buy.
According to a recent news report I caught on TV while in Florida, 70 percent of our economy is a result of consumer spending. Well, if I have my way, all that is about to change. It’s about to become 69.999 percent.
We’re broke as hell and we’re not going to buy anymore!
I’ve hit a wall that I have no desire to get around, and it’s turned me into a combination of Howard Beale (Peter Finch in Network: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!”), John Paul Jones (“I have not yet begun to fight”), and SpongeBob Squarepants (“I smell the smelly smell of something that smells smelly”). Aargh. So, last night as I rushed around the kitchen helping Eliza make chocolate-dipped almond biscotti for about 40 cents instead of $3.99, while also blending up hummus to save another $3 or $4, I decided it was time for a little offense. Enough of always reacting and meekly turning in coupons. It was time for Plan D.C. I was going after the free stuff: dumpster cuisine.
After the kids were tucked in bed and Lisa had taken her nightly position—asleep on top of Maine’s Rules of Court—I cased our supermarket’s trash facilities. In truth, I had planned on doing a bit more than casing. I was going dumpster diving and would return home a hero with a cornucopia of tossed foods. I was mad as hell, after all. But that was pure fantasy. Bringing home the bacon…well, actually, I’d probably pass on the bacon. Bringing home free food was going to be a bit more involved. The dumpster, with its reinforced steel sides and hydraulic hatch, was like a small, odiferous Fort Knox.
How’d it go? Well, while I didn’t actually bend my hammer, I have had to move on to Plan B.S. Here’s a short recap of a conversation I had earlier today, while undertaking phase one.
Me to assistant manager in charge of shelving: “Is Frank here today?” (I was acting like Frank and I are good friends, although I had only learned his name a few minutes earlier.)
Assistant manager in charge of shelving (AMCS): “No, Frank has Wednesdays off. He’ll be in tomorrow morning at eight. Eight to nine P.M., in fact.”
Me: “Well, I was hoping to talk with Frank or maybe somebody else about getting your leftover produce. The stuff you throw away.”
AMCS: (Doesn’t say anything. Just stares blankly.)
Me: “Oh. It’s not for me. It’s for my…um, chickens, er, I mean…my, um, pigs. Yeah, pigs. They need a lot of food and can eat old stuff, even. Can you help me with this, maybe?”
AMCS: “Pigs, huh? No, you’ll have to talk with Frank. He’ll be here tomorrow. Eight A.M. Have a nice day.”
For those of you who haven’t been keeping up with the Carters, we do not have pigs. I will go see Frank tomorrow.