Archive | July, 2013

Beer Is Not a Grocery Store Purchase

27 Jul

Today I was in the supermarket, standing in line with my two items: peanut butter and English muffins. Because I needed cash back, and I was hungry, and I’m really susceptible to those end-of-the-aisle displays. I waited behind a guy with a curly mustache which I’m realizing now I was staring at blatantly. I try not to judge anyone for his silly facial hair because if my past haircutting and dyeing experiences are any indicator, I would probably have rocked a silly mustache if I were a man. I try not to judge, but I don’t always succeed.


You’re thirty, dude. Can’t you just grow a respectable beard or something?

While I waited, my eyes wandered to his craft beer (ooo, what a daring and unusual choice, Mr—oh, whoops, there I go again), and suddenly, I realized the real, divinely-planned, subconscious reason I had come to Hannaford’s: I needed beer. I haven’t bought beer in a while for two reasons: 1) because I’m broke, and 2) because I’m living alone and what kind of sad piece of work do you take me for? But, today, I decided to treat myself because 1) I got a long-awaited, yet somehow still measly paycheck, and 2) I’m getting behind on my mission to try all of the beers. I need to try all of the beers because words like “hops,” “ale,” and “mouthfeel” (ew) mean nothing to me, so I’m compiling a comprehensive list of beers that I like. That way, when I get a beer somewhere, I can shamelessly pull out my list, compare it to the restaurant’s/bar’s, and find a beer that doesn’t taste like someone drank it once already. The only risk is ending up with something inappropriate for the meal/season/available real estate in my stomach, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Mmmm, nothing says “It’s July” like a chocolate stout.

Mmmm, nothing says “It’s July” like a chocolate stout.

I grabbed a six-pack of Roscoe’s Hop House Amber Ale because it was the cheapest craft beer they had and I was not about to be outdone by Mr. Mustache. Then I walked up to the register, and this is where things got hard. For some reason, even though I have been 21 for over a year, I am still 17 every time I go to buy alcohol. Which is ridiculous, because when I actually was underage, I would practically tip my hat to the police officers on my way out of a busted party. I guess it’s not necessary to seem self-assured when you’re no longer breaking the law.

So now, at a seasoned 22, I sheepishly approach the check-out counter dreading the inevitable “BOB TO 11” because no matter which aisle you pick, it’s never the one with the person who is authorized to check licenses. He appears solely to perform this task, then evaporates into the ether until another 20-something needs to be shamed. And so Bob did come to 11, and Joanne (I’m making these names up, it’s all a blur) passed him my license and said, “It’s out of state.” At that point, I was starting to feel like I’d crapped myself in the aisle and everyone had to wait while Bob came to clean it up. Joanne was eyeing me critically with growing conviction that the sweaty, makeupless creature in front of her could not possibly be the smiling woman in the photo. (What, as if I’m the only one who gets a little dolled up for the picture I’ll carry in my wallet every day for the next five years?) It probably wasn’t helping my case that I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone but the front-page face of Khloe Kardashian. The woman in line behind me with her kid said smugly, “Uh-oh, probably underage and out-of-state?” In retrospect, I kind of want to tell her to piss off, but at the time, I was just sorry I’d crapped on the floor. Meanwhile, Bob was flipping through a book of licenses to figure out if mine was legit, because apparently only Bob is qualified to use The Book with large color photos and detailed descriptions. “Yup, looks fine to me.” But it did not look fine to Joanne, who continued to scrutinize it for another 10 seconds or so after Bob had left. For a moment, I was afraid she would snap it in half with a victorious cry of “THIS SHALL NOT STAND,” but finally she passed it back to me, clearly still furious that I had gotten away with this shit.

I will find you. And I will kill you.

I will find you. And I will kill you.