The grapefruits were not ruby red at all but more like Pepto-Bismol pink despite the sign over the grocery store bin.

An unsuspecting consumer, I had no inkling until I got home, sliced open one and found its anemic color. By then, juice had squirted across the breakfast table as grapefruit halves were sectioned and sugared. By then, it didn’t seem to matter enough to return to the store toting the remainder of grapefruit under my arms like Nerf basketballs the kids used to shoot in the house.

Nor did I complain about the seedless grapes that weren’t. After all, they were only 99 cents, so what were a few surprise seeds stuck between the back molars?

Not until recently did I pitch a hissy fit when grocery shopping. It was when a package of chicken livers rang up as $12.

“That’s what it says,” shrugged the clerk as I contemplated whether to lunge over the checkout counter and smash the bar-code scanner with a can of coffee, which was allegedly “on sale.”

“A whole chicken – even the one that laid the golden egg -doesn’t cost $12,” I said while glaring into a face that merely repeated itself, “That’s what it says.”

By this time, customers behind me were fidgeting and inching forward their conveyor belt dividers as if to shove me out of the line altogether, past the credit card machine and beyond the plastic-or-paper? baggers, with or without my chicken livers.

They were armed with fists full of coupons, and they pretended not to notice their shopping carts scraping into mine like bumper cars.

Aisle rage, I could feel it happening as I thought about flogging the clerk with asparagus spears. “I think that’s $1.20, hon,” I said, gritting my teeth so that my lips did not move, my eyes squinted at half-lid. She took a few steps back before announcing on the speaker, “This is Zelda; I need the meat manager now.”

My blood pressure climbed as the bouquet of tulips – in the top of my cart where toddlers sit -drooped.

By now, the two-for-one margarine was soft, the fresh mushrooms were turning brown, and my disposition had hardened like ginger root.

People abandoned my aisle and fled to Express Lanes, where they arranged their items in “tensies” as if playing Jacks. They had long left the store while I stood watching leaf lettuce wilt and frozen haddock thaw.

The manager finally came to punch the right numbers … before somebody was punched.

It was a close call, almost like the day I spent 45 minutes searching for horseradish before finding it hidden among the yogurt; or the time I routinely turned to the aisle where bagels were displayed, only to find the entire bakery moved where cosmetics previously were shelved.

Unlike some folks, I don’t enjoy grocery shopping, or having to put on bifocals to determine whether it’s cheese or cheese food.

I don’t like being sprayed with mist in the produce section, and it annoys me that wieners and hot dog buns aren’t matched up by their numbers.

I can’t figure why white eggs are cheaper than brown, why cereal costs so much or why kiwi fruit doesn’t.

Let alone, how come lettuce jumps from 79 cents to $1.49 in two measly days.

At least, chicken livers stay about the same price, year round. Or should, hon.