A Simple Trip

Two days before Thanksgiving and following one quick round trip to Harrisburg to pick up number five, I felt the need to grocery shop. The need, I say because we live in Pennsylvania and it is going to snow tomorrow which is when I prefer to shop for the big feast. As a rule I enjoy strolling around the store, running into folks I haven't seen for a while and will probably not see again until the same time next year. I like the rush of uncertainty about whether or not there will be any fresh turkeys available at this late date, I get a big high when it's me who grabs the last container of Durkee fried onions, c'mon you know you love green bean casserole. So doing this a day early was disconcerting, and it was late, around 4:30pm so all the working moms were now in high gear, hand held devices at the ready. But I was determined to enjoy the process, picking up potatoes and carrots and some fruit for the grandchildren whose dietary needs escape me this visit, as mom is keeping them off sugar. Yeah, good luck with that at my house, my new hobby is baking and dad's is eating the results, so you may run into a little sugary road block there. But I tried. I got some organic peanut butter for them and yogurt made from dirt or something else so healthy they would at least survive the week. I hid the candy and the "bad" cereal in the bottom of the cart as if she were actually with me. "Honestly mom how did we not all have hyperactivity disorder living with you?" Because when you were hyper I smacked you and sent you to your room. You didn't do it too often. Quick learners. Suffice it to say I made the rounds, real butter, whole milk, right next to the cartons of fat free, sugar free, taste free, non dairy cream substitute for the rest of you. I found an enormous fresh Butterball and heaved him into the cart, score! I bought fresh pumpkin puree and made a promise that I'd  only use the stuff from the can if A. no one would see it or B. the effort failed. Upon arrival at the check out lanes...mayhem. 16 lanes the day before a snow storm and two days before Thanksgiving at rush hour and five of them are unmanned and closed. There are at least seven people at each open lane all of whom are feeding the poor judging by the contents of their carts. So I look west to that forbidden territory where lies the dreaded self check out. First let me say that if I am forced to check out my own groceries you should give me a discount, an incentive to do your job for you.  At the very least give me that key around your neck so that I can override the bitch who resides inside the register. Welcome, do you have a discount club card? Please scan it now. I scan it. Welcome do you have a discount club card, please wait. The clerk comes over with his handy little override thingy and frees me to continue. I went to school, I am not a dolt, but I never worked in a grocery store so I am not fully checked out (pardon my brilliant pun) on bagging. And my first question is why is the bagging area so small? I am going to need room for at least nine bags by anyone's guess, you have designed this area to accommodate two. But onward, I slide each heavy can, each large container, each gallon jug over the little camera and we are bleeping along quite nicely until she who resides inside the register asks me a question and then refuses my answer. Would you like to use your own bag? I don't need a bag for the potatoes, they're in a bag. Unknown item in the bagging area. No, you rang them up you even said, potatoes $4.49 now let me place them in the bagging area. Unknown item in the bagging area. And that voice, why so calm, you're saying it for the third time now, let's raise the pitch shall we? So the guy comes over with the magic card once more and my dilemma is over the second he scans it. Now we are up to the seventh bag and we reach the Butterball, whereupon I see no tag, no UPC code, no price per pound, no easy to look up number. Hey buddy, can you help me find the price on this thing? My estimate of Mr. Butterball's weight would be around 80 lbs and he lobs it to a considerably older associate who bravely lunges down the aisle carrying this thing like one of those women from Minnesota who do the husband hauling races over the frozen tundra. Now the woman behind me is mildly annoyed, she has two items and her cash at the ready. Go to the fast lane, this is clearly not going to be quick. Her preference is to wait and look condescendingly at me whilst we both wait for the return of our intrepid cashier/olympian. And she's back, sweating profusely and looking as if she might expire from the exertion she slams Mr. Butterball into the seat of my cart and rings him up. Unknown item in the bagging area. As if any of this is not enough, at the precise moment the nazi inside the register speaks I get a cramp in my right foot. The kind that sends you instantly hopping in every direction in a vain attempt to relieve it. I get these all the time and the only cure is to remove my socks and shoes and pull on my toe. Imagine the delight for the lady behind me when I begin this process. Times like these remind us of the mysteries of quantum physics, why 8 seconds can slow to the length of a Super Bowl game, I pull the offending toe and slip my shoe back on sans the socks and finally have the opportunity to check out. But not before I realize I can simply not get any more items in the tiny bagging area so I begin placing them into the heretofore useless cart at which time we hear this, please replace items onto the bagging area. COME ON you've got to be kidding me. I scanned them, I called for help when I needed it, I got so tense my feet stopped working and now when it's almost at an end you're gonna call me out for putting my own groceries into the cart? No just no. Hey kid get back here, here's my debit card you do the rest. I've had it.