Trader Woes

First, let me say, right off, that while this rant/posting is about Trader Joe's, the chi-chi supermarket chain, coming soon to a high-income neighborhood near you, I do not have a problem with Trader Joe's, in and of itself.

In fact, generally, I like it, at least in concept. You get high-end food at, admittedly, high-end prices. (Four cloth bags of groceries for $91.58--such a bargain!) The staff is often quite friendly and helpful, with no exceptions being all that exceptional--excepting maybe the one check-out clerk who insists on wishing me a "blessed day" through gritted teeth after every transaction. I keep feeling like she's doing field research for her church. "Befriend the goofy homosexual and report back to us on what he purchased, so we can boycott those companies. Praise the lord!"

And what is not to like about chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, Marcona almonds with rosemary, and the TJ-brand mac 'n' cheese? Good, waist-wasting eats.

Compared to the local mega-chain Giant Eagle (nostalgic for the dark days of bread lines, grim decor, and surly service of the Soviet Union? They live on at Giant Eagle), Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are making-glorious-people's-revolution for Pittsburgh foodies.

I still wish we had a Wegman's for comparison and contrast. I can see how that would be a tough sell in town, with both TJ's, Whole Foods, and the Gucci Eagle Central Market covering the Oakland-Shadyside-Squirrel Hill-East Liberty 'hood. But surely Mount Lebanon, Fox Chapel, Wexford, or Oakmont could support a Wegman's. Heck, Erie has a Wegman's--and several Tim Horton's, too. Yet Pittsburgh has got bupkus to show for New York-based megamarts and Canadian doughnuts.

Second, I'm not saying I want to move to Erie anytime soon. In addition to Tim Horton's and Wegman's, Erie also had 129 inches of snow in January alone this past winter. I'm sure it's lovely in a certain light during a certain time of year, but if I were living in Erie, I'd be thinking of something other than 20 songs to kill yourself by. I'd be thinking of 20 ways to do it.

I do have my quibbles with Trader Joe's. The Pittsburgh store seems a bit undersized compared to some other TJ's I've been to (as does the Whole Foods, and as did the late, lamented Filene's, may it rest in peace). And there are times when you just can't get what you want. You go one night and they are completely out of parsley, flat-leaf for curly. You go another, and there's been a run on toilet paper or pineapple. You go yet another, and that Applegate Farms free-range Amish sandwich meat and cheese I like is nowhere to be found. Nor is the bread. Or the fat-free milk.

So, from time to time, the Trader Joe's experiene can be a bit frustrating merchandise-wise. But, really, the crux of my bittertude toward TJ's is not TJ's itself. It is with those who frequent Trader Joe's.

Excepting yours truly of course.

Really, I'm talking about a certain type of denizen of Trader Joe's. The Trader Schmoes. The Trader Slows. The Trader Foes/Fauxs.

Oh, c'mon, don't play all goody-goody. You know exactly what I'm talking about. There are the Trader Schmoes--the posh, East End of Pittsburgh types, with one foot in Shadyside and one foot on the gas pedal of their Lexus SUVs as they plow you under in the parking lot. They swear Trader Joe's is the absolute only place they shop for groceries anymore. They can't deal with the hoi polloi at Giant Eagle in North St. Clairvale East Versaillesport West Millquense any longer! Trader Joe's is all that's standing between them and starvation--and they are of course already beyond fashionably thin, so they can ill miss the calories.

This type worries me. Deeply. I mean, god forbid we should have a Day After or a Day After Tomorrow scenario play out in this country. These poor slobs won't know how to forage for groceries at Shopper's Food Warehouse, let alone be able to gather enough nuts and berries to survive on in a nuclear wilderness.

Then there are the Trader Slows--and like the poor, red lipstick, and spiteful Republicans, the Trader Slows will always be with us. Moving at a snail's pace through the aisles of TJ's, slowly picking up each item of produce, examining it with microscopic movements, and slowly returning it to the bin . . . only to pick up yet another item of produce, indistinguishable from the last, ever so slowly . . . .

These are the ones who leave their carts higgledy-piggledy in the aisles and common areas. The ones who have to chat extensively about their food purchases with everyone in line, everyone walking through the door, and everyone in the parking lot. These are the ones who see shopping at Trader Joe's as An Experience that no one has ever felt quite like they have.

The Trader Slows are to be avoided at all costs. Especially when you are in a hurry and/or have low blood sugar, which is really not the way to experience Trader Joe's. So maybe the Slows are on to something and get the TJ experience much more than I do. That or they need their own special-needs-themed store, with their own very special check-out aisle.

One variant of the Trader Slows type is the aging hippie type--Trader Cornrows, perhaps?--with wiry gray, overly long hair, and wearing nothing but organically dyed hemp fibers picked up from their last grant-funded research/shopping trip to [insert Third World country name here]. Where do these people work? Other than in academe, I mean? Goodness, it is obvious they stopped watching TV and reading magazines sometime before 1978. Instead, all their spare income goes to Trader Joe's, Moveon.org, and to periodic tune-ups of their "classic" Subaru wagon, the one in the lot that is more bumpersticker than paint job at this point.

And then there is my favorite (at least to make fun of) type--the Trader Fauxs, who are indeed my foes and the source of all my woes. You know them. They live among us. And they breed like rabbits. Fine, pampered, angora rabbits, but rabbits all the same.

They come to TJ's with an entourage, generally consisting of children, either worn en papoose, like pendants or designer gear, or, if the child is beyond the larval stage, then the child is encouraged to freely express his creativity and independence, primarily by dodging among shopping carts and around the legs of other shoppers with their own entourages, mostly of the adult variety, who insist on doing all their shopping at Trader Joe's (see Trader Schmoes above).

There is so much to loathe about the Trader Fauxs, so very very much. Nonetheless, they make me giggle to myself for one very simple reason: Is it me or have the Trader Fauxs made the mistake of naming all their offspring after humble, pre-20th-century professions? There are Porters, Tanners, Carters, Taylors (Tailors), Hunters, and Coopers to name but a few. Can Farrier, Gatherer, or Lumberjack be far behind? Is it an attempt to sound chic? Or is it an effort to make their kids more downwardly mobile, jealous of any potential success they might have, despite the incessant efforts to give them all the advantages they never yadda yadda yadda?

I chuckle further when I start to wonder if the White Trash--er, the Anglo-Saxon working poor with TV sets and Us Weekly subscriptions--will eventually toss aside all those soap opera names (Krystal with a K, Alexis, Marissa, Schuyler, Nash, et al.) in favor of naming their children after upwardly mobile professions. Little Surgeon Marshburn. Sweet Attorney Tyndall. Darling Civil Engineer Stroud. Adorable Hedge Fund Manager Jarman.

Well, OK, maybe not Hedge Fund Manager Jarman. The working poor may be poor but they are smarter than that.

And probably way smarter to stay out of Trader Joe's when they are in a hurry and have a bad case of low-blood sugar.

Just call me Trader Doh!'s.