– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young – - I really hate it when my food mutatates

– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young –

About a month ago, I went out to eat with my co-worker and her family, and afterward, she asked if I wanted to accompany them to Sam’s Club. Sure, why not.

Since I hadn’t mentally prepared myself for such a scenario, I came home with a fountain drink and a soft blanket, despite having empty cupboards and access to bulk food/ toiletry items. As my friend’s five year old repeatedly asked me, “Ninna (Aunt Ginna), you sure you don’t want to get anything? All you have in the cart is a blanket!”

But, I digress. As we proceeded through the store, I ended up pushing little Warren in the cart. Out of nowhere, he looked at me and informed me that the zombie apocalypse had started. Perfect, we’re in the right place to stock up!

We immediately began planning for what we would need to live, with me pointing out that we had to have shelf-stable, non-perishable items. “Oh,” came from a disappointed Warren.

He got on board when I explained why: your electricity will go down, if not right away, then within a few hours to days, so you can’t have perishable items, like milk and cheese. A groan came up from both of us at the cheese, but we pulled ourselves together.

Warren really got into it then, asking what else would be good. Canned goods, soup mixes, powdered milk. Powered milk? Yes, powdered milk. At that point he looked visibly ill, but actually, powdered milk is quite good when you use it in cooking.

Anyway, we also discussed how much food we would need until we could grow our own, meaning we also had to grab some seeds. Canned beans won’t last forever! “You’ll need water, too,” I told him, “because unless you have tablets to purify the water, it could make you really sick and you can’t go up against the undead if you’re sick.”

At that juncture, Warren called a halt and said he was getting out his guns. Here’s a shotgun for you. I thanked him, but turned that down, because you’ll run out of ammo long before you run out of zombies. Plus, the sound draws them in. No, no, a machete for me.

Hah, I’m not giving you that. How about a little knife instead? As he handed it to me, I scoffed at the size. How exactly was I even going to penetrate the brain with the puny thing. Fine, here!

At last, my machete – with a catch – he wanted his knife back. Deal! (Please note, these weapons were completely imaginary.)

We resumed our foraging, while his oblivious parents were unaware the apocalypse had started and debated how much milk to get.

They won’t last long.

I started drooling when we reached the luscious looking cakes in the bakery section, but Warren told me that all but the one kind had been “mutatated” by the virus. No, that’s not spelled wrong, that’s the word he used – mutatated.

Of course, the cake actually looked like a zombie brain anyway, so, naturally, they didn’t want it. Figures.

As we went up and down aisles, Warren would point out items. Nope, mutatated. Mutatated. Mutatated. Wait, that one doesn’t ever mutatate!

The one food item he deemed safe, was a gigantic, army-sized can of tropical fruit salad. There’s just one little problem and one Warren quickly acknowledged. Neither of us like tropical fruit, so, it stayed where it was on the shelf.

Once our shopping was done, came the tricky part – getting to the truck. According to Warren, he’d called in a chopper and the way was clear, “but we gotta go now.”

We made it to the truck alright, and as Joy and Joe unloaded stuff, I kept watch for the undead (vehicles) and Warren stood, inspecting the truck. I’m gonna have to modify it.

Finally, I kissed him goodbye and Warren climbed into the truck, where he gazed into the distance, waiting for his parents to get in and drive away, still scheming of ways to stay alive and well in the zombie apocalypse.

Or, judging by the video Joy sent me a couple minutes later of him snoring soundly in his car seat, he immediately conked out on the ride home.