Children, Tighten Ye Jackets And Buckleth Thy Sneakers, The Time Is Nigh For Our Pilgrimage To Trader Joe’s (a.k.a. A Modern Day Odyssey)
by Jessica Delfino / @JessicaDelfino
Come children! And tarry not, for we must make haste — though we see the light of day now, dusk will rear its aubergine-colored catalog-sweater clouds upon us in nary seven sweeps of the clock’s hand, thus we shant hesitate, but move steadfastly to the place wherein we shall acquire food items, some of a snack-like manner that will yet provide sustenance for half a fortnight: to the shoppe of the Trader known far and wide across this land by the name of Joe.
Do not ask questions, my feral offspring! I cannot answer ye how longeth a fortnight is. Just follow my lead and put some pep in thouest steps, soeth we may beateth the slew of other travelers on thine own wayfares to collecteth all the pomegranate seltzer and Inner Peas on sale, whereto they become depleteth, and we are forced to requesteth a rain check.
The journey is long, and longer so on the time stamp which we have come to call Saturday! One cursed mile, methinks we shall travail, by hoof and by bus, away from our warm nook; a distance from our Google Home. It will taketh us who knoweth how long to traverse through the relentless chill of winter’s own menacing crevices? Hark; we must tally-ho in a zestful fashion to seek out our cage-free eggs, hand-madeth tortillas and organic wheat milk which lie-in-waiting for our retrieval, ‘ere a parade of other souls descend upon them before us, all the while donning Urban Outfitters dead-stock vintage sweaters and Madewell torn ankle denim. Nay! Let us find swift motion.
There is no time to gather the childish things of your youth — do not fill me with vexation, now! Pray you, leave behind what items you don’t absolutely needeth. I shan’t say when we shall return, stop askingeth questions and doeth as I say. It could take two hours or more, depending on thine line, and I want not to be stucketh holding ye and ye sister’s loud trinkets, born of Satan’s bowels but distributeth by Fisher-Price, alongside recyclable satchels beaming with artisanal mushroom brie and traditional marinara sauce, purveyed by Joe’s half-brother, Giotto.
As with any hazard-riddled voyage that approaches us, I will now make a sign of the cross to assure that we are blessed with the tokens necessary for safe passage: spectacles, testacles, wallet, keys. Hear, hear! All things are present where theyeth shouldeth beeth.
And in a cautious place too, I carry mine own compass, which also serves as my necessary collection of the sweet hymns of minstrels via mp3, a treasure trove of links which I voweth to readeth someday but probably never will, my clock and phone, to-do and shopping scrolls, as well as my e-mail and portable mini-officeth.
Yea! The cold winds scream like frightening banshees, but we are protected against such trifling thwarts our natural enemies would launch upon us with our woolen Patagonia hats, alpaca scarves and L.L. Bean coats.
The night will eventually threaten, it grows ever anxious to consume our footsteps, children! Let us make way before something truly wicked might block our quest: an endless procession of gluten-sensitive scalawags set on the depletion of the bounty of scrumptious sample cups.
Nay — I won’t have it. Let us be off, before I should begin with a most churlish punishment that is the dreaded countdown from three!
