I had to go to the grocery store yesterday. I hate going to the grocery store. I originally planned on using the hot weather as incentive -- we have no AC so a trip to the store would be refreshing, right? It didn't get as hot as they said it would and I remained comfortable until I saw the time and realized I would not be able to get to the store, back home, and then downtown to pick up Dave.
Plan B: We still had the cooler in the back of the car from our road trip and we needed only some essentials, so I planned to hit the store, buy some ice, chuck the perishables in the cooler, and then continue heading south to the loop to get Dave.
The store was strangely quiet for a weekday at 5:30 pm. Excellent. I grabbed the essentials (a few were even on sale!) and also had a nice chat with the lady at the deli counter about how to tame crazy hair on humid days. At the last minute, I decided to grab some Wheat Chex. I hit the aisle, grabbed a box on the fly, and then had to put on the brakes.
An elderly couple had parked their shopping cart on one side of the aisle and was standing in front of it trying to combine the powers of their dimming eyesight to read jelly labels. The woman saw me coming and gently nudged her husband into the shelves in front of them to let me pass.
But I was stymied again. A young woman looking very much like a Lincoln Park Trixie walked toward me and stood exactly between the elderly couple and their cart.
[Note: A Lincoln Park Trixie is a unique breed of 20-something females -- and some 30-somethings who wish they were 20-something -- who see themselves as some sort of Ally McBeal professional, single woman searching for the right (wealthy) man and live in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. They own Kate Spade bags and drive Volkswagens and live six to an apartment if necessary to afford the neighborhood. I can't really describe them. Click here to visit their society website. It started out as a few women making a parody of themselves back in 1990, but has grown to something much more. I'm afraid the typical trixie doesn't even realize she is making fun of herself.]
She stood there with a blank look on her face. The elderly woman didn't see her and was looking at me wondering why I was letting her crush her husband against a thousand jelly jars and wasn't moving. I said "Excuse me" and looked at the trixie so the elderly woman would know what was happening. The trixie looked at me and smiled. And stood there.
I nearly lost it. I took the aggressive approach and just started moving towards her.
Once I cleared that gauntlet I headed for the three out of twenty check out lanes that were open. I found one that had one woman and her 13-year-old-looking son at it. No line!! I moved in behind them. The mom was yelling at the son for not helping her put groceries on the belt. He stayed behind the cart and claimed he couldn't reach any of them. She ended up emptying the three different kinds of chips and four kinds of cookies and two tubs of ice cream et al. onto the belt herself. Then her son said, "Were you looking at the candy? I can get the one you want for you." Nice move.
The check out person scanned everything and then predictably looked at the mom to receive payment. The mom said, "Oh I'm sorry, we need to wait for my husband. He has the debit card."
What? I did not sign up for this. This is not how this works.
We waited. By this point, my blood pressure is higher than usual and I'm getting a vein on my forehead like Dad's. I've noticed that people have stopped making eye contact with me.
The husband showed up in a minute or so. Clearly, he doesn't often buy the groceries. He had never used one of the boxes that you swipe your own card on. He tried -- and failed. And then failed again. The mom and the check out lady tried to show him how it works. Nothing. It turns out that it probably wasn't his fault. Apparently, lots of ATM and debit machines have been devastated by the latest internet virus.
He found a credit card that worked. Then he signed the receipt. At which time he saw the total. "Does that say one hundred sixty-four?" He glanced at the ten bags, checked the total again and became upset. "What did you buy?"
"Honey, it's okay. We do this all the time." Not a good answer.
"What do you mean 'all the time?' What is so expensive?"
"You're the one who wanted the Boca burgers..."
They continued in this vein while the son helped himself to some variety of chips that were not a natural potato-chip color. Oh, and they didn't leave the check out lane.
So now my groceries are finally being scanned and I can't push my cart forward so that the nice looking (and very calm) young man who was bagging could load it up. The good-looking bagger kept bagging my things and then in one motion pulled their cart out of the way. He was maybe seventeen and had the darkest skin I've ever seen. His eyes were brilliant beacons on his face. He wore a bracelet of bright woven threads. He was tall and lanky. He worked quietly and efficiently.
The family continued fighting, but moved along with their groceries. I finally got my total, gave the checker my cash, and got my car keys ready while waiting for my change. At this grocery store, the change gets shot out of a separate machine near the customer so that the checker only has to deal with the big round numbers on paper money.
Not this time. My thirty-three cents did not shoot down the ramp like some kind of slot machine winnings. The checker gave me my eleven dollars and my receipt and shut the cash drawer. When I explained that I still needed thirty-three cents I got the strangest look. Had I asked for the impossible? Was the vein on my forehead pulsing now?
While the checker tried to figure out how to liberate my thirty-three cents, the bagger walked to the ice freezer, grabbed my bag of ice for me, put it in a shopping bag, put it in my cart, looked me straight in the eye and smiled.
Nervous breakdown averted.
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