'AIN'T NOBODY HERE BUT US CHICKENS"

Jul 29, 2025

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Adventures in shopping by forklift.

Original post date: 11.02.2022. Revised 07.19.2025.

I’ve long suspected that hiding in the free little morsels they pass out at those membership-only big box stores is the same ingredient that made Alice grow taller in Alice in Wonderland. Because once you’re inside, your ability to discern size is completely distorted. Everything is SO BIG, it all just looks... normal.

Which explains how I walked out with forty-eight bottles of San Pellegrino water, eight chicken pot pies, a tray of lasagna that feeds fourteen, and a bag of chips the size of a California king pillow.

I had intended to buy one thing: a rotisserie chicken. But the case was empty. Not a single bird in sight. A small crowd had gathered around the dark, forsaken display—some in disbelief, others in quiet mourning. I could’ve sworn I saw a tear roll down the cheek of an elderly man as he muttered, “I drove all the way from Akron for that chicken.”

So did we all, sir. So did we all.

Well, what’s a gal to do?

I figured if I wandered a bit, the chickens might come home to roast, so I steered my gargantuan cart (the size of an F-150 bed) toward the beverage section.

Oooh—San Pellegrino. I love San Pellegrino. I heaved the shrink-wrapped pack toward my cart. It takes real momentum to pitch forty-eight sixteen-ounce bottles into a giant rolling metal cage. If you’re not careful, you can fall in like a Slinky tumbling down a flight of stairs.

(Fast Forward: After days of drowning in bubbly water, my passion for Pellegrino has, regretfully, waned.)

Narrowly avoiding a collision with a man loading cases of beer into his cart, I wandered into the frozen food section. I rationalized that a frozen lunch was better than skipping lunch altogether. That's when I saw them: Marie Callender’s® chicken pot pies. I asked myself, “Do I like chicken pot pie? Honestly, I didn’t know. I couldn’t recall ever eating one. So, I thought, Sure. Let’s try it.

At home, I discovered that the “box” was actually a Russian nesting doll of disappointment. Every time I pulled one out, another popped up behind it. There were eight. Eight chicken pot pies.

(Fast Forward: Turns out, I’m not a fan—especially if each pie only contains three miniscule pieces of chicken. Peas? Oh, there are plenty of peas. So, so many peas. And I don’t like peas.)

Now, in my defense, the lasagna tray seemed modest compared to the water and pot pies. But once I brought it home, I realized I didn’t own enough plastic containers to store it. And I have a lot of plastic containers. So many that I had to buy a container to hold the containers..…And I used to like lasagna.

The chips? I’m not going to lie—I knew that bag was gargantuan. I bought it anyway. If the woman next to me in checkout could buy three boxes of ice cream sandwiches (24 to a box), then I wasn’t going to be judged for my two-pound bag of Ruffles.

That’s the thing about warehouse stores. There’s no judgment when you’re shopping by forklift. You can always justify it—“I’ve got a big family reunion coming up,” or “I’m helping cater a fundraiser at my kid’s school.” But the truth is, nobody cares what you buy or how much of it. If it’s on the shelf, it’s fair game.

Except the rotisserie chicken. It’s a sad day when they run out of that.

(You thought I was going to say fowl, didn’t you?)

Have you ever gone into a store for one thing and come out with… well, everything but? I’d love to hear your best “How did I end up with all this?” story in the comments.