The Tropicana Dilemma
budgets, thrift and personal responsibility in the grocery store

January 20, 2009 had been on my mind since the day I started working for the Bush administration a few years ago. Like many D.C. politicos, campaigners, contractors included, my new career had an expiration date. Surely, I thought, as a senior level person with an advanced degree and serious accomplishments under my belt, I would be scooped up by January 21st. Ah, to be young and naïve.

So I find myself some weeks into unemployment, working a tight personal budget. (open invitation to any Senators who want to see how it’s done…). And I head off to Safeway for my weekly food shopping.

I walk to Safeway- I don’t own a car. Between the payments and the taxes, gas, insurance and parking, I am convinced I save more money walking and taking the metro (and the occasional cab) than owning my own car. Sure grocery shopping means white knuckled fingers and deep crevices in my hands as I lug plastic bags to and fro… but a little pain is worth the savings.

Safeway’s own brand orange juice is on sale. Simply Orange- the Rolls Royce of orange juice- sticks his nose up at me. He knows he’s too good for me. At $5.95 a container he’s right. I hate him. I pick up Safeway’s own brand instead. But, you know, I don’t even really need orange juice. Sure I like it- but I don’t need it.

No orange juice.

Safeway’s own butter is 2 for 1. I buy 4. Butter freezes perfectly. Mom taught me that. See ya, Land o’ Lakes and your $4.29 per lb. price tag. I give it the finger.

Meat section. Beef is out- chicken is fine… skip the Tysons, skip the Purdue… too expensive. Pork chops half price value packs- sure I don’t need 12 pork chops but I can eat two tonight, and freeze the others in 5 separate pack. Score!

My successes are mounting. I’ve got coupons for chicken stock and I convince myself that small onions will taste just like shallots. Whole canned tomatoes are on sale. They aren’t San Marzano, but they will do. I need something for breakfast. I love cereal. I’m an American boy- we all grew up on cereal. It was the first breakfast we could make all by ourselves. But at $4.99 a box I tell the cereal, sadly, it cannot be. A box of Frosted Flakes looks at me as the cart passes by- like a train pulling out of the station leaving one lover on the platform. Tony calls to me: “They’re grrrrrrrreat”. Sorry pal. I will miss you too.

I do need to eat breakfast. Oatmeal…hmmmm…it’s cheap and fills you up. My grandmother used to make us this stuff called Maypo- it came in a green box with a picture of something from New England like a… tree? A well? A goose? I forget. Do they make Maypo anymore? I search, telling my heart that nostalgia for my Grandmother will be better a better breakfast companion than Tony and his magical flakes. No Maypo- but regular oatmeal with brown sugar and some cinnamon it will be fine. Quaker Oats is fifty cents more than Safeway’s own. No brainer which one I buy. Raisons would be good until I see the price… I don’t need raisins.

Check out time- I have to get home and continue to thumb through my contacts. I’m tired of asking for favors- but this is D.C. The people I ask only got their job because they asked before me. I swear when I am in the spot to help someone get a job I will remember this feeling. Note to self: remember feeling unemployed and help when you can.

I don’t feel sorry for myself nor am I nervous…yet. My unemployment routine is active- there’s the temptation to watch west coast NCAA games until midnight and wake up in time for The Price is Right at 11:00am. Sloth will not help me get a job. I get up at 9:00. (ok- I sleep in a little), gym by 9:20 (the gym is in my building and free). Shower, coffee and oatmeal sans raisins. Work. Mass at noon. More work (work is code for “job search”. A neighbor asked me if I have begun working from home. I liked the way it sounded). Thursdays I run errands- you know, to mix it up a little.

So here I am in Safeway kicking full price butt with my smart shopping and nerd pack of coupons. Luckily few single women shop at 1pm on a Thursday. And hey… the type of woman who will fall for me will find my coupons endearing. Yeah. Endearing. Maybe even cute. Maybe she thinks coupons are sexy… ok, I’ll stick to endearing.

The woman in checkout ahead of me has a who’s who of groceries. Doctor Pepper. Captain Crunch. Jell-o pudding cups (a box of instant pudding is seventy-nice cents, 3 cups of milk and 4 minutes of mixing. She buys the pre-made for $2.79. Go figure). Beef tenderloin? Tropicana- no pulp. What is she shopping for Easter already? Such designer labels. My generic groceries are ashamed to be on the same belt. No-name salt tries to hide behind the buy-one-get-one free Barilla rigatoni boxes. Her organic avocados laugh at my frozen peas. The plastic “place divider between check-outs” acts as a food bouncer segregating her A-listers from my poor food. It’s like the people who can’t get into a cool club because they don’t have the right look. I would never go to a club like that. I got better things to do than wait in a rope line because my jeans are from the Gap and not D&G.

Paris Hilton swipes a debit card. She has no Safeway card or coupons. The card doesn’t go through. A discreet “FS” appears on the digital screen.

FS. I feel my jaw clench. It always does when I get mad. I know what FS means. For a person who’s not actually paying she’s got great taste.

“You can’t buy Starbucks Frappuccino with this- you gotta put it back”, notes the cashier. Another swipe- still invalid. “You got cat food here? No cat food”. Not just cat food: it’s Fancy Feast. The cashier swipes the card now- still invalid. It’s gotta be the Tropicana- I’m sure of it. The system knows that Safeway’s own brand is $1.50 cheaper. Some green grocer god of frugality will not allow such injustice. It was the Pinot Griggio. She puts it back and the card goes through. Groceries are bagged, Tropicana and Green Giant steam-in-a-bag vegetables with it. The woman departs and my groceries come out of hiding.

I hand over my Safeway Card and my clipped coupons. $55.29 is my total- and I saved over $17. I take a few seconds to glow in my talent and wonder, again, why I am unemployed. That 2 foot long paper receipt is like a blue ribbon. Now for my little ritual of repacking everything so I can carry it without a bag breaking. Ideally, they won’t cut the circulation in my fingers. But if I have to, I’d choose the latter. Blood flow will start again and that’s better than breaking an egg.

I’ve given up on looking cool on my walk home. I look like an urban Sherpa. At least if I am mugged, by the time I put down my bags to hand over my wallet the robbers will have grown old and confused. I don’t care if I look like a pack mule. I just saved over $17 and…what the hell? I stop…it can’t be…the Elizabeth Taylor of grocery choices is loading her bags into a silver SUV.

Maybe the food stamps helped her to save enough for the car, I think to myself. I admit- my thoughts are cruel. I remind myself I don’t know this woman’s plight. Maybe she needs the food stamps. But I answer myself back: did she need the Tropicana? I debate myself- so glad this happens in my head and not aloud. Bad enough I look like a bag man- if I start talking to myself someone from D.C. services will pick me up and bring me to a shelter.

But I still feel a sense of injustice. I sacrificed- she didn’t and it’s not even her money. Somehow this is just wrong. I feel socio-economically violated. Even my saved $17+ doesn’t help.

I call my life coach. “Mom”, I ask “did you ever buy Tropicana when we were kids?”. “Never” she assures me.

Dad always warned me of a society that distributes free anything: healthcare, education even orange juice. The virtues associated with stewardship: prudence, moderation, upkeep, are predicated on ownership. Without being the owner of that thing, that object, that home or even that money, a person can never be a proper steward. Entitlement breeds flippancy, immaturity and indifference.

I hope that woman had a pleasant ride home and a good meal. I wish her well, honestly, because despite her car and her cuisine she is much poorer than I will ever be. She doesn’t have ownership of anything. She will never know that feeling of victory over a store when you use a coupon on something already on sale. There is a triumph in taking advantage of a sale at Macy’s with the all-day pass combined with a Macy’s credit card. And I wear Polo boxers- who cares if I bought them at TJ Maxx?

I am the owner of my money and I spend it more wisely than anyone else. Frugality, thrift, bargain shopping: these are wonderful tools, wonderful virtues and my unknown shopper friend will never know how much financial freedom and peace of mind these virtues bring a poor guy like me.

So my groceries are ugly and my boxers aren’t from the Ralph Lauren store. In my self-inflicted poverty I am pretty rich. You know, for an unemployed guy.

Now I feel bad for that woman. She is given everything and she owns nothing. What a sick system. Using my money, welfare is designed to help her when in actuality it keeps her prisoner. I think of the irony that we checked out together and wonder what she is like.

Now I have to make some calls and find a job. No more dwelling on social injustice and the evil of a welfare state and a President who will make things much worse for people like my checkout partner. Maybe I could change the system somehow. Note to self: do something good with the job you get.

And then I’ll also buy raisins for my oatmeal. If I have a coupon.