They rearranged my Giant Eagle.
They didn’t just rearrange it; they changed every single thing.
The former two door entrance is now one giant door.
Nothing is where it used to be, except for the milk. The milk I found. And the deli.
The floral moved. The bakery moved. The pharmacy moved all the whole freaking way across the store.
The diapers are where the organics used to be, the juice where the chips lived, the bread where the magazines were once perched. And because the entire store is a work in progress, things have moved multiple times. Just because you know where the bread is today, doesn’t mean you’ll know where it is tomorrow. Tomorrow it might be on the roof.
The prepared foods moved.
The salad bar took steroids, is fifteen times larger, and also moved.
The Iggle’s Nest got halved.
The floor is new.
The freezers are new.
The registers are new.
The conveyors are new.
They added a cafe with 4 million kinds of beer, but be warned, if you buy beer, you have to bag it yourself. I assume because the Liquor Control Board thinks that if a clerk bags your beer, Satan and the Prohibition Monster will eat the poor clerk’s soul.
They added a wine kiosk that was operational for a week before the kinks took it down. In this case, The Kinks is not a band.
In this case, the kinks is a myriad of things of bazillions of things that could go wrong with the technology that is required to have a resident of the Commonwealth stand in front of a giant glass fixture, select a nine-dollar bottle of wine that’s being guarded as if it’s King Louis XV The Beloved’s last surviving bottle of port, scan her driver’s license, scan her eyeball, scan her assprint, swab her DNA, insert five drops of blood into the depository, just so they can prove that she’s really a 36-year-old mother of two who just wants a bottle of California wine to take as a hostess gift.
All of this technology, of course, because the flip side, actually allowing the PEOPLE to sell the alcohol, would result in the immediate ruination of morals, the institutions of marriage and family, and the entire infrastructure of the State, leaving in its wake from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, a sea of drunks crawling from their cars to vomit in the turnpike potholes.
Not that I’m bitter.
So now when I go to my Giant Eagle, which by the way has instituted this complete overhaul in the hopes of combating the coming competition from a new Wal-Mart across the street where I will be able to buy avocados and limes for less than the market price of Maine lobster, I wander the aisles questioning why the mayonnaise is three aisles over from the mustard and ketchup aisle, while I’m surrounded by the confused elderly who are slowly pushing shopping carts full of milk and lunch meat while muttering, “I can’t find any damn thing in this damn place.”
Not that I’m bitter.
Also, Satan and the Prohibition Monsters would make a kickass band name.