Tomato Paste

I'm hoping that by writing this down somewhere, I will eventually remember where the fuck tomato paste is found in the grocery store. In my defence, I suffer from "face blindness." No matter how I try, I cannot remember people I have met if there isn't a meaningful social construct around it.

"Hi," he said, "my name is Bob."

If there isn't a deep social reason to remember Bob, my brain goes, "Remember Bob, you just met Bob, Bob is a great guy and you need to remember Jim. Him? Jeff? Bryan?"

This is how my brain works. I now ensure I give everyone I meet a two- to three-word nickname. "Bob" would become "Bob The Builder," and so on.

This should explain my challenge with tomato paste, but I also blame "Big Grocery."

I don't have a deep societal connection with tomato paste, and maybe I should. Maybe I should name it so I remember that it is never shelved with other canned tomatoes. It's in the aisle beside the tomatoes. Something like sauces. I can't tell you how much this annoys me. I buy canned, crushed, diced, and puréed tomatoes in one area of the store. Tomato paste? Nowhere to be seen.

Every time, I can feel my blood pressure rise. I remember this. His name is Jim. The tomato paste is here with the tomatoes. Wait, what was his name? Jeff? No, shit. This happened last time. It's Bob. Where the hell is Bob? Why isn't he here with his tomato friends?

Angry and seething, I lurch through the store yelling, "BOOOOBBBBB!!" and gasping, "Where are yooouuu, BOB?!" I stagger against end caps of low-rent pasta while the staff call security on various phones. I smash my basket into a shelf of Weekend Special Wafers and Kombucha.

Just before security tackles me to the ground, I see an entire shelf of tomato paste beside the avocado oil. Makes perfect sense.

Thanks, Co-op.