The Chicken Incident

Yesterday, my mom sent me to the grocery store for three things.

Milk. Eggs. Bread.

Three things.

I even repeated them in my head while walking into the store.

Milk. Eggs. Bread.

Easy.

I grabbed a cart and immediately forgot all three.

Instead, I walked around for about fifteen minutes looking at snacks I didn't need.

Then I remembered the eggs.

I found the eggs, put them in the cart, and felt extremely accomplished.

Then I remembered the milk.

I got the milk.

At this point, I had forgotten the bread.

I walked past the bakery three separate times.

Then, just as I was about to leave, I saw a display of rotisserie chickens.

I don't know why, but I suddenly thought, We need a chicken.

We did not need a chicken.

Nobody had asked for a chicken.

But somehow I convinced myself that bringing home a whole roasted chicken would make me look responsible.

So I bought one.

I got to the checkout.

The cashier looked at my cart.

"Just these things?"

"Yep."

She looked at the chicken.

Then the eggs.

Then the milk.

"You're making breakfast?"

I paused.

"Apparently."

She laughed.

I paid and walked out.

Halfway home, I looked at the receipt.

Milk. Eggs. Rotisserie chicken.

No bread.

I sat in the car for a solid thirty seconds staring at the receipt like it had personally betrayed me.

Then I called my mom.

"Hey."

"Did you get everything?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"Why do I hear doubt in your voice?"

"Because I forgot the bread."

Another pause.

"Did you at least get the milk?"

"Yes."

"The eggs?"

"Yes."

"Okay. That's good."

"And a chicken."

Silence.

"...Why?"

"I don't know."

She started laughing so hard she couldn't talk.

So I went back into the store.

I bought the bread.

And somehow, on the way out, I almost forgot the chicken.

I have officially decided that grocery shopping should require a license.