Let's Go Meijering

So I go to the grocery store last night. I'd spent my day first at my office, which is always a really fun and exciting way in which to spend a Sunday morning and afternoon. Then I went to a friend's house and helped him remove staples from his hardwood floors after he had ripped the carpeting up. This would explain the eraser-sized blister on the ring finger of my right hand. That's eraser-sized both in circumference and in length.

Then, Meijer. I usually like Meijer. Usually because I go at 8 a.m. on Sunday morning when everyone else in this godforsaken town is in church. Sunday night, not so much. I get into a one-sided screaming match with some guy at the stop sign. I was there first, dammit. So I yelled at him from the privacy of my car. Screeched, really. My throat hurt afterward.

Then I get it there. I get the cart with the wonky wheel. I'm surrounded by amatuers who can't get out of my way. Someone hits me in the back of the leg with their cart. They are out of my hair product. And I can't find the stuffing aisle. You'd think they'd have a special display somewhere for that this time of year, wouldn't you? At least the wine I like was on sale--I'd need it later.

After elbowing people in the produce section aside so I could buy real live cranberries (I saw some woman puzzling over cranberry jelly in a can and I wanted to cry), I finally made it to the register. The girl working it was really nice and had been there all day. I eavesdropped on her conversation with the woman checking out in front of me. They laughed together and it was my turn.

We chit chat. Small talk. She shows me a picture of her boyfriend on a pin in her pocket. He's okay. A little jail-baity for me. She tells me their mothers want to meet. All the time she's running my stuff through.

She tries to run the UPC for some rolls. Cheese twist rolls from the specialty bread shop. Runs it through. Runs it through again. She tries to type in the number. Nothing works. She finally decides to just put in the price under "Misc."

"$3.99? For these?"

"Let me tell you something, sweetheart. If I want your opinion on what I pay for my groceries, I'll ask you. The chances of this occuring are slim to non-existent. So, really, shut the hell up and tell me what I owe you."

Okay, I didn't say that. I just wrote a check.

Then I went home, drank wine and ate a cheese twist. And it was worth every penny.