Confessions of a Supermarket Diva - Drama doesn’t stop at checkout - 1. Confessions of a Supermarket Diva - Drama doesn’t stop at checkout

It was a typical Saturday morning, and I was heading to the supermarket.

Another thrilling day in the life of a librarian. And just look at you, darling—boring jeans and some rag that’s euphemistically called a vintage sweater from the bargain bin...

What was on my list again? Milk, bread, butter, eggs. I wandered through the aisles, lost in thought, letting the shopping happen almost on autopilot.

John, sweetheart, that is so you. I can’t imagine anything more exciting—though watching paint dry might edge it out by a hair.

Suddenly, I heard faint giggling and whispering behind me. At first, I chalked it up to my imagination and kept my focus on the milk section.

Oh, do you hear that? Your fans are here. How delightful.

The whispers grew louder, and before I knew it, a group of teenagers was standing in front of me. “Excuse me, aren’t you Daisy Dessert?” one bold girl asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

I froze. This was the last thing I expected.

Oh, now this is getting interesting. Let’s see how you squirm your way out of this one.

“Uh, no, you must be mistaken,” I muttered, lowering my gaze, hoping they’d just drop it.

Sure, John. That’s totally convincing.

“Really? But you look just like her!” a boy in a colorful hat exclaimed, his eyes full of curiosity.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” I tried again, hastily grabbing a carton of milk as if that might make me invisible.

So subtle, John. Like a sledgehammer in a china shop.

The teenagers whispered again and pulled out their phones. “We’ve got Daisy’s latest show right here!” the girl announced. “Let’s compare!”

Oh, this is going to be good! Get the popcorn, darling—it’s amateur hour in here.

They held up the phone, showing a video of Daisy’s most recent performance. I watched as their eyes darted between me and the image on the screen. My knees went weak as Daisy’s distinctive voice rang out.

“Listen to this,” the boy said triumphantly. “It’s the same voice!”

“And the same eyes!” the girl added.

Well, congratulations. You’ve been unmasked. So much for your nocturnal crime-fighting, Mr. Wayne.

I felt my cover crumbling. “Okay, okay, you got me,” I admitted with a sigh, while my heart pounded in my chest. The teenagers broke into cheers and excited clapping.

“Can we take a selfie with you?” the boy asked, trembling with excitement.

Well, go on, show them what you’re made of—though I hope it’s more than awkward silence and poor choices.

I sighed inwardly. Daisy would’ve loved this. She’d flash a dazzling smile and toss out a cheeky remark. I, however, felt more like a deer caught in headlights. “Sure, why not,” I said, trying to channel some of Daisy’s confidence.

Could you sound any less enthusiastic? Honestly, if you had the confidence of a nervous choirboy before his first solo, it’d be an improvement.

The teenagers gathered around as the girl with the phone held it up. “Say something funny like Daisy!” she urged.

All right, Mr. Wit—don’t let us down. How about a clever quip on overdue book returns? A classic crowd-pleaser, and you really can’t go wrong with that!

After a brief pause, I let Daisy take over. “Oh my goodness, I see you’ve all lost the ‘I-style-myself’ challenge! Luckily, Daisy’s here to save you. Best stand behind me!”

The group burst into laughter and snapped the photo. I couldn’t believe how easily the comment had come to me. It felt almost... good.

And that wasn’t half bad, John. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—or I’m just growing sentimental in my old age.

“Thanks, Daisy!” they called as they walked off, giggling.

I took a deep breath and continued with my shopping. I tried to focus on my list, but the encounter had left me a little shaken.

What’s the number for a good disposer?

As I placed bread into my cart, I couldn’t help but wonder how Daisy would’ve handled the situation. “Oh, Daisy would’ve told them to improve their taste,” I muttered to myself, chuckling softly. “And to style their hair in front of a mirror next time, not in the dark.”

Wow. Did you come up with that yourself, or did you pick it up at a flea market?

At the checkout, I noticed I actually felt lighter. The cashier, an older man with a perpetually grumpy expression, gave me a skeptical look as I placed my items on the conveyor belt. Feeling oddly emboldened, I ventured, “Nice day, isn’t it?” Daisy in my head couldn’t resist adding: “Well, as nice as a day in prison, but you can’t have everything.”

I’d rather listen to elevator music on repeat for a week.

The cashier grunted something unintelligible as he scanned my items. I paid, packed my groceries, and headed for the door, realizing I hadn’t just bought milk, bread, butter, and eggs—I’d also gained a bit of Daisy’s confidence.

Now it’s getting cheesy. Stewardess, bring the vomit bag. No, scratch that—bring a bucket; this can only get worse.

As I got into my car, I smiled. Maybe being Daisy every now and then wasn’t so bad. “I should do this more often,” I thought as I started the engine. “A little glitter and glamour never hurt anyone.”

“Oh, John,” Daisy chimed in. “Do you really think I enjoy being stuck in your boring little head? You need my sparkle, sweetheart.”

Is that what you think of me? Am I like some overdosed social worker to you?

“Come on, Daisy, I’m trying,” I thought back. “It’s just not that easy.”

“Hopeless, sweetheart. If you had the courage of a half-squashed turtle, you’d already be miles ahead.”

I’d never say something like that—not that I’m a card-carrying member of the animal protection league, but that joke is about as hilarious as filing a tax return.

“I suppose it’s easy for you,” I replied. “You’ve got the dresses, the lights, the whole stage.”

“And you’ve got me. Use it! Life’s too short to be boring. Add some bite, some glamour—it’ll work wonders.”

“Maybe you’re right, Daisy. Maybe I should listen to you more often.”

The first sensible thing you’ve said all day—don’t strain yourself, though; it’s obviously new territory!

“Finally! Wake up, John! Life’s too short to waste as a colorless wallflower. A little color and confidence would do wonders for you.”

“Thanks, Daisy. I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit, John! Now go home and enjoy your day. And remember: a little glitter never hurts.”

With a grin, I drove off—John Brown, librarian by day, secret drag queen by night. Ready for the next big performance—be it on stage or in the supermarket.

After a story like this, I desperately need an Aperol. No spritz. Just the bottle. Actually, scratch that—a whole carton!