This day is one for the books.
We woke up this morning to the tiny, breathy “woofs” from our terrier. It seemed he was busy barking at something in his dreams.
Later in the morning, we stopped at Sam’s Club® for baking soda and black olives. With so little to buy, we decided to take advantage of the self-checkout. That went smoothly until this screen popped up:
We waited. And waited. A good eight minutes passed, according to my watch. Then I tried to get the attention of four clerks as they passed by the checkout lines. Each kept her eyes forward and, I guess, didn’t see me waiving and beckoning them for help.
“How ‘bout that guy, over there in the white coat?” I asked my beau.
“That’s the butcher.”
“I know. Just kidding.” I started walking to the customer service desk. I tried to stop another clerk, but she turned her head and kept walking, sipping on a straw in a white Styrofoam cup.
“Excuse me—,” I started to say to another clerk, but she walked past me and over to a young man, and started talking to him. I got the impression he was her boyfriend.
By this time, I made it to the customer service line, and that was so long, I’d still be waiting as I write this article. I headed back to my beau who was still waiting for “an associate” to fix the receipt problem. So much for the motto on their vests that tout something about they are pleased as punch to help customers.
“No dice,” I said with a slow burn. “That line is almost out the door.”
“I. Have. Been. Waiting. For. Fifteen. Minutes. An. Associate. Has. Been. Informed. And. Help. Is. On. The. Way. To. Fix. This. Fifteen. Minutes. Ago, ” my beau bellowed as he read from the checkout screen, stabbing dramatically at every word.
The store went quiet. Most everyone turned towards my beau.
Within three seconds, an associate dashed over to our lane, apologizing with a smile. (By the way, she was one of the clerks I was trying to get the attention of to help us.) She got the receipt printed out, all with pleasant laughter and more apologies. We thanked her, wished her a Merry Christmas, and she did the same, and the customers around us smiled. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get something done.
At home, my beau unpacked the shredder we bought at Staples®. There was a dead cockroach in the plastic bag within the box. Bizarre. It got flushed.
Then we watched the live newsfeed of self-proclaimed “Champion of Women,” ex-Saturday Night Live jokester and current Minnesota Senator, Alan Stuart Franken, profess that “some of the allegations against me are simply not true, others I remember very differently.” Isn’t that a funny way to say, “I didn’t do it, but I did do it, but in different ways?” Bizarre. That whole thing is bizarre.
Moving along, we read an article that Jorge Mario Bergoglio (the guy sitting in the Vatican as a placeholder while we’re waiting for a Pope) is claiming the Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer) is not what Jesus taught the Apostles. Lord, help me. Can this day get any more bizarre?
For supper, I made pork with lemon and capers (an inspiration from a New York Times recipe). After we ate, and as I was cleaning off the table, I asked my beau where his lemon slice was. “I ate it,” whereupon I asked where the rind was. “I ate it all. It’s zest. And it’s fruit.” And he proceeded to stab the lemon slice off my plate and eat it.
Not my cup of tea, but what the heck. Remember, it was a bizarre day: One for the books.
©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.