Last night we were rushing to get home with the groceries before Hubby arrived with the news about his workplace transfer. Did it go through, or was there a hitch? (Tie up that horse and go on.) Mama needed a kiddie burger. I pulled up to the Mickey D’s window.
“Welcome to Calories Central. Would you like to try our frozen Strawberry Lemonade?”
Would I ever. But . . . no.
“I just need a double cheeseburger with no meat.”
. . .
A screech from the sidecar. “No CHEESE, I said!” Laughter.
“I meant . . . yeah, no CHEESE. You know, a double HAMburger.”
Good thing the clerk’s first language wasn’t English or she’d have been laughing as I pulled around. She probably just thought about the crazy customers who should be going to the Have It Yer Own Way store.
Then I floored it for WallyWorld, where I could get some cold cuts from the deli so Hubs can make his own lunches for the next couple of weeks. Well, I was smart: I went to the deli and placed an order first (“be right back for that”), then ran through the rest of the store for a few odds and ends. Then I zipped to the self-checkout, scanned it all (“Unexpected item in bagging area” was my purse), and zoomed outside where the van was still idling (with doors locked and crew listening to crazy radio pundit–don’t get me started on his take on certain issues!) We were halfway home when Mama said in a disappointed voice, “We didn’t get any ham.”
*dang* How long had it been since we left? I pulled a U and got into snarled traffic. Was I even going the right way to the store? That’s what low blood sugar will do to a person. I hurried back inside and the deli clerk said, “I wondered what happened to you.”
Again with the self-checkout. When I was three or four, I remember expressing the desire to become a checkout clerk to the Henke-Pilot clerk because you got to use that conveyor belt thingie. (It was in the days before the price scanner; you actually had to punch in the sticky tag number and make the taxes calc yourself. Wow! What we did at Dairy Queen in the seventies was ignore the ones-place digit and divide by two, which gave a close enough approx of the 5% sales tax at the time. It HAS gone up.) Anyway, now that I get to check out my own groceries, the charm is gone. I feel as if I have to work at the store as well as shop there! No more riding on the conveyor belt like Maggie Simpson.
One quick stop at Dollar General and we’d be finished. “There’s a coupon for those chips,” chirped the clerk. She ran over to get one. The register didn’t recognize it. She ran back for the manager. A long line began to form. . . .
Coupon never did go through. Mutiny in aisle 9.
We got home to discover that his transfer was approved. Now comes the “proving yourself” phase all over again. And moving to a different cubicle! But he’s happy. He thinks.
(The phone is ringing. Oops–he’s at the doctor’s office and needs a check because they don’t take plastic. Off to the rescue with check #3405!)