Saturday, February 10, 2007
Paper or plastic?
So I went to the grocery store today, the Saturday before Valentine's day, because I'm a fricken' genius. At the checkout I was faced with the world's most sullen high school student who ran my things through the checkout without so much as a word until he declared my total was $49.31 and I had saved such and such amount pronounced so quickly that I had no time to register how much before I was told to have a nice day and all but ushered out of the checkout line. BUT THEN! I heard the voice belonging to the very same sullen high school student pleasantly addressing the lady behind me as ma'am and asking her if she'd found everything alright. Now wait a second. Where was my ma'am and inquiry as to my ability to locate things? As a matter of fact, I did not find everything alright! I spent a good thirty minutes looking for frozen meatballs. I wandered up and down the aisles of a store bustling with frantic people buying things to make what I assume will be a fantastic dinner for singles awareness day while I puzzled over where frozen meatballs could possibly be kept. I had no trouble locating the "Bubba Burgers" or frozen apple gorgonzola cheese pizza. I was even so lucky to discover that you can purchase some sort of frozen patty appetizingly named "Tofurkey." I could not, however, locate the FUCKING MEATBALLS! When I had finally given up and comforted myself by declaring that I would no longer need to find the obviously hidden ricotta cheese because I would have no use for it without those damn meatballs, I found them. They were in with the frozen potato products. Of course! There's nothing like a tater tot so much as an Italian or even Swedish style meatball. After that I really did have to find the ricotta cheese which was cleverly placed with the coffee creamer in the refrigerators where they keep the milk. This was the obvious choice since it would have been so out of place with the cream, cottage and mozzarella cheeses cunningly placed among the cheddar and those sort of plastic-y American singles. And in those thirty minutes the checkout lines got fuller and fuller so that I was forced to pick the shortest one which was so cheerfully populated by the very essence of checkout boy aristocracy. So dammit, I am 24 years old and the mother of a toddler. I spend my days working through calculus problems and the travel expenses of football coaches. I think I absolutely deserve a ma'am and some questioning about product placement in the store thankyouverymuch you sniveling, self centered rodent boy! But then all was sunny again when I got home and realized that the sacking guy had two brain cells capable of being rubbed together and producing the thought that eggs should not be sacked with the liter of cherry juice.
Posted by Never A Plain Jane at 12:57 PM