adorable cretures, or evil poltergeists?
Just a simple quick trip to the grocery store: one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon – 8 items – in, out, done. Oh, yeah, and return a Red Box movie we didn’t watch. Drop it the slot, done.
Let me quickly assure you that this is nothing like your 30 year olds ‘used to be your BFF before she went and ruined everything by having kids, instantly relieving her of her former intelligence, wit and sense of adventure and dumping her into ‘bore your socks off with endless crap’ about whatever new ‘oh so precious’ thing her bundle of spit and yellow-green excrement spewing joy did today.
No. Bitch has nothing on me when it comes to grocery store adventures. Sorry, that kind of ‘never to be spoken aloud thought’ is most likely the very reason why things like this happen to me.
I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t be sharing any stories about my kids with you. I have two teenagers, 15 year old son & 16 year old daughter. When they do something remarkable it generally entails: a. irreparable damage to home or car, b. illegal activity, or c. horrifying acts of death-defying stupidity – often all of the above. I’d be too mortified of what you’d think of me. What kind of mother must she be???
Let me set the scene. Whole town has been waiting for winter to hit all winter. Now that it’s mid-February, we get a big snow (for us, 1-2” of snow) and 10 to 20 degree temps with single digit wind chill factors. Nothing drastic at all but, well, you know how it goes. Everybody freaks out and runs frantically to the store for milk, bread and bananas. What is up with that? Are they planning to hole up and eat bread pudding for the duration?
Anyway, off I go. Parking space two slots from the store fortuitously opens up right on cue, things are looking good. Store is packed, but I am a deft cart driver on a mission. Already have bread and milk at home, don’t consider bananas a staple, so I can avoid those aisles all together.
Know exactly which aisles to go to, no need to read any labels or price compare. This is my store.
Only one express lane open, but that’s cool; only one person – already unloaded and nearly finished checking out - ahead of me. Damn, I’m good.
But noooooooo… it’s a little old lady. Now, don’t get me wrong, I really find old people adorable; they deserve all due respect if only for having made it this far and still able to dress themselves. In the right context that is. The grocery store is one of the exceptions. Why? Because they still use checks (or the dreaded cash with exact coin change) to pay for everything. Check writing? Coins? Really? Makes me want to slap their children silly for not insisting they learn how to use a debit card – how hard can it be?
- "Just let me find my check book..."
So, like they ALL do - EVERY TIME – she waits until the groceries are tallied and the cashier is waiting expectantly, to start sorting – very methodically with their trembling arthritic hands – through her ancient ‘pocket book’ for her wallet. She finds her checkbook, which - for some mysterious reason - is wrapped in layers of rubber bands, and commences to remove them one-by- one.
She manages to find it in pretty good time, so I’m still being respectfully patient. I’m not really in any hurry, I just loathe shopping (and yes, I am a woman. Not a fan of chocolate either. Wanna make something of it?)
Little old women still take penmanship very seriously, and insist on ceremoniously writing in a very precise script every time they write. Little old women don’t scribble for time’s sake. I actually get it, if you’ve made it to 92 and can still write legibly, well, you’ve got it all goin’ on and deserve to take pride in it.
But here’s the next rub – they haven’t even progressed to duplicate checks. Those marvels of time saving ingenuity introduced what, 20 or 30 years ago? Check written, she tears the check every so slowly and precisely from the pad, sets it to one side and commences to flip through the register – the register!
Now, repeat all of the precise steps above to record the vitals and commence to tally the balance. Don't forget the rubber bands. Oh, sweet Jesus save me. That’s my breaking point. I can feel my eyes turning from blue to white hot flames of rage. If it were humanly possible – at this point – I would shoot those white hot lasers of fire from my eyes directly into the back of her little – perfectly coiffed – head, and end her in an inferno of fire and blue hair, so help me god.
Thankfully, the moment passes and I am consoled with the thought that this is over and I am now only moments away from heading home to pour myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and build a fire so I can tuck in for a 10 degree night in my cozy little house.
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| "I want the Jungle Book!!!" |
Controlling them by sheer will of muscle memory and super human peripheral vision, she stays on task. Choosing carefully from the hundreds of animated delusions available to keep the little monsters at bay while she cooks dinner and surreptitiously nips vodka from the bottle in the freezer to numb her previously functional brain (valium's not as easy to come by as it was in my mother's day).
I stand behind her with my movie held aloft in an unabashed, though silent, plea to just get out of the way for 30 seconds so I can be on my way. Of course, to no avail. The wrath of the little monkeys vs. the total stranger is not even a contest in her mind.
- I guarntee you there's a mom with her monkeys at the front of that line.
Finally, she makes her selections and walks away in that tell-tale mommy trance, herding the little heathens to the car, four-door sedan or mini-van/SUV.
It’s freezing, so I am wearing gloves. Push the return button, rub on the return button, beat on the return button. Finally, resign to remove a glove, warm my finger by vigorously rubbing the return button. Finally the machine responds, and I slip my movie in the slot. Off I go.
Have to press the trunk button on the fob repeatedly, trunk frozen shut. Finally give up and throw may 4 small bags and the treasured kindling across to the passenger seat.
Maintain a sense of decorum and socially acceptable behavior that insists I return my cart several spaces up the aisle to the ‘cart corral’ and smack – what’s this? Car parked directly across the aisle behind me (of course), probably as harried as I am at this point, backs right into the car zooming up the aisle behind them in search of a space.
- Evil potergeists?
You have got to be F^*ing kidding me! What are the odds? Is it because I had all those evil thought s about the little old lady and the pitiful shell of what was once a vibrant young woman mom, with monkeys at her heels no doubt.
2 or 3mph hit at best. That used to be 100 bucks worth of damage. Now, thanks to the molded uni-body it will now cost both of them thousands.
Still, shouldn’t be a big deal. Cops aren’t going to come and tape off a crime scene – this is private property and not their problem.
Does the ‘hitee’ politely go ahead and park, walk back to exchange insurance info with the ‘hitter’ so as to accommodate the increasing frenzy of traffic frantic for milk, bread and bananas to sustain their families on bread pudding for the duration of the devastating inch or two of snow that will be gone by noon tomorrow?
Not on your life.
I didn't actuall lay eyes on either dirver, but I would swear my last dollar that one of those ill mannered drivers was the little old lady - the other was the mom and her monkeys.
I slide the cart into the cart corral and trot back to my car to crank the heater and get the simple store run that has become such an absolutely absurd cluster f^* behind me.
Take a deep breath, stay cool and calm. It takes some real finesse, several small turns and maneuvers, but I manage to escape the narrow lane without ramming every car around me. Of course, by now, there are at least 5 cars lined up behind me just wanting by to get the hell out of the parking lot and get home to their own sanctuaries.
I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about them. Actually, I secretly take a little evil joy in sharing my pain with them.
Take a big sigh of relief. I’m on my way – only minutes to the comfort of home. Carry the lighter bags in the door and hubby – as always – obediently jumps up to bring in the heavier fare (pretty sure he is a little afraid of me, which is as it should be) – liters of soda and a heavy bag of kindling, the real inspiration for taking on this whole debacle.
Must be the exposure to the cold, but this makes him need to run take a pee, post-haste.
Items placed appropriately in the fridge or cupboards. Dutifully look for my purse to hang the car keys on the allotted hook to save any searching later.
But wait, what’s this? Where is my purse? I always dump it on the counter; remove my jacket and gloves etc. I haven’t yet been anywhere but straight into the kitchen. Is it accidently hung with the coat on the rack? No. Uncharacteristically tossed on the couch? No. Kitchen table? No. Oh, wait, bet I left it in the car. After all, this has been a harrowing experience for me, relatively speaking. Run out in the freezing cold sans coat – quick once over – passenger seat, floor boards, back seat. Check, check and check.
Are you f^*ing kidding me???? Could I have actually left a rather large black slouch shoulder purse in the cart when I parked in the corral and the smack of the fender bender distracted me?
Ran to the desk, hit YP.com, type in store name, city state and street. ‘No Search Results”. WTF?
Meticulously check the spelling. Hit search again – no luck. Google, here I come (I should know better by now, the oracle is all knowing without rival). Dial the number, describe the purse – whew, it’s there.
Don my jacket, jump in the car, speed over, park right out front and dash to the Customer Service counter. One register, one customer. Woman who works there – loading up on snack foods. Goes to pay but, "oh wait, I also need two packs of…"
Cashier glances at me and gets it. Not sure exactly what it was about my body language, but it is entirely possible that I was, in fact, pounding my head on the counter at this point – blind with rage and frustration at both all the people who have conspired to put me through hell, but myself as well – I am my own worst enemy. “Are you the (idiot implied, but not voiced) who left their their purse in their cart?” she asks.
"Yes," I whimper – I can see it 4 feet away behind her and have actually contemplated breaching the sanctity of the counter to just grab it and run. She calmly takes three steps to retrieve it and hands it to me - ever so gently – saying “you have a good night, hon.”
As I walk in the door at home, this ordeal finally behind me, hubby says “where did you go?”
"I left my –several epithets ensue – purse in the cart." “WOW, IS EVERYTHING IN IT?” "Yes, it’s all good."
“How in the world did you manage to miss that big old thing and leave it behind?”
White hot eyes, jaw unhinges, rip his face off and toss it to the dog.
- I swear, he left me no choice...
Breathe a well deserved sigh of relief. Pour my glass of wine and commence to build that fire.
Ahhh… all is right with the world again.
Later, fellow bloggers. If there is one edict of the blog that I will not breach it is blogging under the influence.
EPILOGUE: I know, this is already way too long, I’m sorry. But this last bit is so incredible, so sublimely fitting, that I wouldn’t believe it myself if it hadn’t actually happened to me.
Remember the bag of kindling for the last fire of the winter? The impetus for this whole impossibly surreal adventure?
Hubby didn’t bring it in from the car, hands were full. Luckily for him, he is unconscious from blood loss and shock – therefore immune to any more pain I might inflict (thus totally depriving me of the joy of inflicting said pain). Previously alluded to daughter took that car to an overnight with a friend in another town – kindling in tow…
I’m just going to bed. Goodnight.
All photos via Google Images
