In my comments yesterday, devil mentioned check writers as the bane of the supermarket checkout experience.
AMEN TO THAT.
Last Saturday morning Fred and I made our usual weekend run to Publix. We usually get there on Saturdays just as they open, but Fred had processed chickens that morning, and then we had to go to Lowe’s, which meant that we got to Publix about an hour after they’d opened.
It was fucking BUSY. We’re not the only ones who want to get our shit done first thing Saturday morning, I guess.
So we went our separate ways, each grabbed a few things from the list, and then met at the front of the store to check out. There was only one lane (aside from the “10 items or fewer”) lane that was open, and there was a slow couple slowly putting the stuff from their cart onto the conveyor belt, and then the cashier slowly rang everything up, and the entire time she was slowly ringing everything up, she and the woman were chatting it up. Everything was rang up and bagged, in the cart and ready to be taken out to the couple’s car.
“That’s $83.45,” the cashier said. The woman started digging around in her purse. And she dug and dug and dug some more. Then she pulled out her checkbook.
I turned to look at Fred. Now, look – when it comes to this sort of thing, I’m pretty patient (even more so when I have my iPod with me and can play Snood on it while I’m waiting), so my impatience the other morning was unusual for me. For the most part, I figure there’s no use in getting all worked up about slow people because THEY ARE EVERYWHERE. It’s usually only when I’m running late (or haven’t eaten and am dying of the starvation and JESUS CHRIST WILL YOU HURRY UP THEY’RE GOING TO STOP SERVING EGG MCMUFFINS IN TEN MINUTES) that I get impatient.
Fred is the least patient person on earth. He is pretty sure that the Earth is his and his alone and no one should ever be in his way and he should never have to wait for anything and no one should ever require him to do something he has no interest in doing. And when he gets all princessy and impatient, it stresses me out.
So when the woman finally pulled her checkbook out of her purse, I turned to look at Fred just to make sure the top of his head hadn’t popped off and his brain hadn’t gone bouncing into the ice cream section. Which is when I saw the woman standing in line behind him lean past him to put her groceries on the conveyor belt behind our stuff, and in her leaning, she got into his space, and I saw him cut his eyes to the left, all ALERT! ALERT! SOMEONE IS IN MY SPACE! SOMEONE HAS BREACHED MY SPACE! SOMEONE! IS! IN! MY! SPACE!
And I couldn’t help it, it was like he was in his own personal version of Hell, between the check writing lady and the lady all up in his space and me with my reusable grocery bags (he HATES the reusable grocery bags because they collapse when you’re trying to put groceries in them – what the fuck?), and I laughed and laughed.
But on our way out to the car after the check-writing lady had finally written her check, he said “Do people still WRITE checks?”
So devil, rest assured that you’re not alone! People do still write checks and, as I told Fred, “Did you know that not only do people still write checks, they also can’t write out who the check is to, or the date, or sign the check until they know the total?”
Speaking of our Publix trips, all summer long, every time we made our Saturday morning trips, the same guy was always stocking the dairy section. Every single time, there he was. He’d greet us, occasionally ask if we needed help finding something, and then go back to his stocking.
And then, two weeks ago, NO ONE was stocking the dairy section.
“Dairy guy wasn’t there,” I told Fred.
“Huh,” Fred said.
We were walking down the aisle of chips and sodas and I looked up and THERE WAS DAIRY STOCKING GUY.
NOT in the dairy section!
I had no idea that was even allowed. We passed him, then I nudged Fred and said “THAT WAS DAIRY STOCKING GUY!”
“I know,” Fred said.
“NOT IN THE DAIRY SECTION!”
“Yep.” The man could NOT have been less interested, damn him.
This chicken feather came in on the basket of eggs one evening, and Starsky spotted it and claimed it as his. He sat there and licked it. Then he glared suspiciously at any cats who came near, and then he decided there were too many cats around, so he picked it up and carried it into the other room and licked it some more.
These kittens crack me up – Starsky always looks like he’s suspicious of whatever’s going on, and Hutch has that sweet, open face. He reminds me a lot of Orange (aka Lorna Doone) from the Cookies, not only in temperament (sweet, willing to snuggle, friendly, and did I mention sweet?) but with the open little face. They are just the sweetest little monkeys.
(Did I say “sweet” often enough up there? THEY ARE SO SWEET SWEET SWEET.)
Loony Jake. Here’s something I don’t think I’ve mentioned about Loony Jake: he’s a growler. If he hears a sound that he doesn’t recognize, he growls. When I snapped this picture, we were upstairs in the foster room (when the fosters are given the run of the house, our cats LOVE it, because they really like hanging out in that room, playing with the toys, climbing the cat tree. All the fun stuff they can’t do when the door is closed!). The garbage truck was going by, and the entire time they drove by the house, stopped at the driveway, and picked up our garbage, Jake was growling. It’s not a hysterical growl or a particularly loud or scary growl he does, it’s almost under his breath, a warning growl. If the doorbell rings or someone knocks on the door, you can depend on Loony Jake to growl.
2009: Because I am such an utter badass, I ran in place and screamed.
2008: No entry.
2007: “I am NOT ‘ratty looking’ and YOU, M’dme, are a pure-d grade-a gutter slutting WHORE. Good day to you.”
2006: He’s such a know-it-all motherfucker.
2005: Elizabeth Wurtzel strikes me as spectacularly self-absorbed (pot! kettle! black!)
2004: Stuff I’ve bought.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: “Hey!” I said, shaking the cage. “Stop that!”
1999: No entry.