I was navigating through Ralphs for Super Bowl XLIV just ahead of the Valentine’s Day XLVII eclipse (for me it’s XLVII . . . you figure out your own Roman numerals). It was a scary ride as I followed Mr. Toad up and down the aisles.

Ralph has nothing to do with this. Ralph, like Mr. Von and Mr. Albertson, only provides the venue. Sort of a Colosseum for the battle of the sexes. Maybe that’s why they have to make these stores so enormous . . . to accommodate holiday collisions.

So here we are, back at Ralphs, sandwiched in between Joann’s and Home Goods on Moorpark and Janss in T.O.

It’s a soggy Saturday, and I’m at the store to prep for Super Bowl and get the ingredients to make fudge and margaritas for Grumps.

I can never lose if I stay with his four basic food groups: chocolate, vodka, nachos and tequila.

So, on your left you’ve got every object imaginable for your man’s favorite holiday, Super Bowl Sunday. Paraphernalia laced and flavored with beer, soaked in lime and tequila, buried in Velveeta, con chilis and frijoles and anything that makes a fella toot.

You got your football-shaped cakes, your football plates, your football napkins and your giant Dallas cheerleader blow-up dolls. Everything a man needs to be happy.

Vying for the 50-yard line, a 15-foot bottle of Corona holds hands with a 90-pound bag of Doritos. It’s wedded bliss for those with the Y chromosome. Go, Y, go.

On your right, you’ve got the pink explosion, a Cosmopolitan au bombtastique, a festathon of feminity. Y guys run from this zone. You could put a giant bottle of tequila right in the middle and they’d never see it.

There’s this Cupid guy soaring uncontrollably over the produce department.

Honestly, I don’t understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine’s Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon. 

This world is pink and frilly with chocolates in the shape of amphibians, flowers electrified and petrified, love-deprived bears, hearts that glow in the dark, sequined frogs and hopes of a romantic romp. April in Paris. Autumn in New York. Breakfast in Bora Bora. Or one of the Boras. We’ll settle for one as long as there’s room service and clean sheets. You get my drift.

If there ever was confirmation of Venus meets Mars, it’s this collision at the Grocery Store, the showdown at the Okey-Dokey Corral.

It’s beer versus bling, and they’re face mask to lingerie in this race.

By the time I’m out of there, I find Mr. Toad coated in chocolate, carrying a balloon bouquet in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, pulsing to the sound of “Baby I Need Your Lovin’.”

Hmmm. Come to think, I’ll be safer watching this one from the 50-yard line with a margarita and my blanket.

Those nachos are looking better all the time.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com or visit her blog at open.salon.com/ blog/elizabethkirby.