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Monday, November 10, 2014

I'm Back and I've Brought My Own Bags




Hey.  Remember me?  Ok, then do you  Remember this? 



 No?  I can't imagine how you could have forgotten, as this sight is seriously burned into my memory.  Ok, I'll give you a clue.  It's  Last Year's Wood Pile.

No, really,  that's what it is is, not, as you might have guessed, the remains of a horrible bear attack on a small village somewhere in the world where people still live in tents, along with their firewood, eight children and a chicken.  *scroll down to see authors note*

I want you to know before I go any further and get the urge to flog myself repeatedly for not writing in this blog for quite a while,  that I have grown up quite a bit over the summer and to prove that  this is pinky-swear true, I offer you this.  

My Current New and Considerably Improved Wood Pile



Ok, now I want to talk about something even more exciting - Supermarket evil.  

 Recently I experienced the most diabolical mind control and sinister abuse. Yes, you guessed it.  "Slower than Shit Grocery Bag Packing."  *cue the dramatic music, Dave!*  Now, seriously, very seriously, I am not kidding, the cashier was truly fucking with my mind.  I have a feeling it was because I am one of those "bring your own bags" types and I suspect that the cashiers hate our guts.  

I have this feeling because I know if I were a cashier I would hate our guts too. Of course, maybe I would have a very good reason to hate the BYOB ( Bring Your Own Baggers) maybe because people bring bags that are completely disgustingly gross. Maybe they have dried baby puke spewed all over them on them or maggots crawling on them,  or god knows what, or maybe some have been "reused" so much, and are so old they look like disgusting, disintegrating mummy wrapping, and like all things to do with mummies, there's is always a risk of a ancient curse, so hey, I get it. Some people's bags are not something you would want to touch.  But mine are clean.  This is my point.  I think.

So, where was I?  Woodpile, Baby Puke, Maggots, Mummy..........Oh!  Slow Bagging.  Christ, even that sounds dirty.  Alright.  Let's get on with the story.  So, before I even get into the store, I am in the Land of Slow Motion.  Why? Old People, that's why.  I know they can't help it -well most of them anyway.  Some I think are just faking it.  I mean, anyone can buy a cane.  (I saw a whole bunch of them for sale in the dollar store the other day)   but honestly.  First I was behind the slow elderly driver, then the slow elderly walker and then the slow elderly chatter and her friend Betty, and then the slow elderly meat guy who was restocking the exact place I was hoping to browse, and then the slow cashier who wasn't elderly but probably close to it, close enough to get away with a dollar store cane. 

"Oh, there's a bruise on your banana.  Do you want to go grab another one?" she asks the person in front of me in the checkout line,

"Really?  Would that be alright?"

"Sure!  You can stop by the bakery and get a muffin too, while you're there.  It's free muffin day!"

"I didn't know that!  Thanks!"  


Now of course, this was suggested while in mid-order, so no, she couldn't move me up in the line, and anyway I saw her eyeing my perfecting clean BYOB, and trying to hide that ugly look of disgust. 

Some time and 43 more grey hairs later, "Muffin" comes back with her spotless banana.  Then the bagging begins.  This cashier bagged like a professional hotel maid makes beds, making sure everything is just so, that the like items are in the grocery store plastic bag, same sized items, same category items, all items beginning with C are placed in a separate bag than items beginning with F, all the meat double bagged and given the last rites before placed in another separate bag reserved for all things once living.  What I am trying to say here is  - there were a lot of bags.

And that, apparently is why she suggested that the Banana Woman opt for parcel carry-out.  But first, it's time to pay.  But even before that, its time to suffer  through the usual line of  questioning, asking 

Do you have a (insert name) discount card?
Do you have a (insert name) discount card?
Do you have a (insert name) discount card?
Do you know about the latest promotional scratch ticket game where it's possible to win a year's supply of sauerkraut?
Do you want to donate a dollar to (insert charity)?
Cash?
Debit?
Credit?

Finally my turn.  But - not so fast, my friends.  Now she must load the carefully bagged items into the cart which will be taken out by the man she just called over the intercom, like this:

"Mrrooohbetakeooutbeyoufroregisterthreeplease."

But the bags must not be loaded just any old way.  No, no.  Carefully, very carefully in in alphabetical order and according size and weight, age,  sexual preferences and religion.  Somehow, eventually, before I died of old age, the woman in front of me left the store, with Mroooohb carrying her purchases that were properly loaded in a cart,  and was no longer keeping me from checking out.

And then the shifts changed.




*AUTHOR'S NOTE These are the times when I am so glad I'm not on Facebook or link this blog to FB as that comment would have inspired the Facebook Humanitarians, who would have beat me with their deadly clubs of stupidity and self indulgence. Ouch.

2 comments:

  1. I love when your in one of the 50 banks in town...and the"retired" person talking to the teller starts gosiping about someone's mother... who is in the hospital again and lists every illness she's ever had...and you who actually has a job.. that your just about to be late for... is forced to sigh (loudly) to speed things up!!!! AHHHHH! Shut UP!!!! No wonder your jobs are being replaced by machines!

    Sorry....and thank you I feel better.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Oh, I know. You really have to leave yourself a lot of time if you have to do some banking around here. I hope that when the real people are replaced, they don't start programming the machines to be friendly, suggest new products and make small talk with customers.

      Delete

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