I struggle with all of it: traffic, pushy people, self-checkout, and the overwhelming permeating odor of needing more, faster, better, and more expensive that fills the air around me.
What you don’t know about me is that I have a grouchy streak. It rears its ugly little head whenever I’m stuck in traffic or a long line for a coffee while I watch people order drinks that demand a twelve-step recipe. The concoctions, made with thirty-two ingredients that are not coffee, thirty-one of them constructed with some form of corn syrup or whipped cream, take forever.
There should be another line for that. At least, I think so. I also know in my heart-of-hearts that it doesn’t matter what the flannel-clad Grinch wants—not at all.
Coffee is easy to make quickly. That’s the idea. Black, with cream, sugar, or both, it’s a simple process. It used to be, anyway.
An icy, foam-encapsulated Ralph Macchio with skim milk, simple syrup, and coconut water is not a morning drink; it’s not even a drink; it’s dessert. No wonder you people have trouble sleeping.
Self-checkouts? I can’t stand it. It’s not a bad idea, but lately, two or three vest-clad people have been hovering over me as I run the scanner gun over my purchases.
Yesterday, when I scanned the wrong SKU on one of three boxes in my cart, not the small one meant for customers, the screen lit up with alarms so loud I thought the fire department would be dispatched.
Before I knew it, I was accosted by a pleasant woman who was only doing her job. I wasn’t ready for her to grab the box from my hand and professionally scold me, “That’s the wrong one,” as if two SKUs on their box were a pre-planned theft-deterrent technique.
I had a comment that reached the tip of my tongue and ended with “Sherlock.” But I stopped because it was Christmas, and everyone was miserable.
I said, “I know, ma’am, the alarm was a great indicator; I’ll get it.”
She stayed far too long, moving the box around to find the number I needed. I stopped the box ballet (a collapsable shower rod) with my hand and said, “Thank you; I’ll get it.” It was terse; I was wrong.
Down the line, only one cash register was piloted by a store employee. Otherwise, all that was available was a checkerboard of neon-lit self-checkouts and a small army of over-watchers intent on helping.
You already know what I said next; I’ve written about it.
“If someone had operated the cash register instead of watching me screw this up, we’d all be home by now.” I smile when I say it, but it’s a Grinch smile.
I brought this up to Sammy over breakfast this morning. He agreed and then shared his story.
“I was at Wally-World yesterday. I scanned all my stuff and walked out with the bag in my hand. I looked for my receipt and realized that I didn’t pay for it all.” He said he laughed but turned back to pay before he got to the big doors.
While en route, two employees followed him. As he put his card into the machine, one of the employees said they’d watched him when he walked away. She was kind and laughed about it with him as he pocketed his receipt after payment.
“Sammy, if they watched you skip payment and walk almost to the door, it could have all been avoided by one of them running the register, don’t you think?”
He agreed, and we moved on. After all, it was breakfast and supposed to be a pleasant time of reflection and rejuvenation.
Regarding the overzealous spending this season is known for, one person still manifests their past waste-not, want-not upbringing. That person is my dear Mama.
Mom arrived from her Island outpost yesterday amid all the construction mayhem in my home. My sister brought her on the ferry to knock out three appointments with caregivers, making the trip a three-fer.
It’s a busy day for anyone, for sure. I picked her up at the last appointment, and she will spend the weekend here, getting to see me (what a delight for her) and visiting her great-grandkids, arriving down here from the north country for an overnight. She’s not seen them for over a year.
So, I bought sandwiches to fulfill her nutritional needs last evening and passed her a gourmet egg salad on a paper plate.
We both love egg salad, probably because she made them for me as a kid. Even when derided by youthful lunch eaters, I never waivered in my delight of a good egg salad for lunch: ” Plug your noses, kids, cause Timmay is removing the wax paper from one of the best ways to eat hen’s eggs and bread, stink be darned.”
After she went to bed, I headed to the sink to clean up and found that she’d already done much of it. Her depression-era childhood is still embedded in her DNA as she’s known to rinse paper plates, and you can’t stop her.
If I mentioned that the trashcan would be a fine resting place, she’d say, “It’s still perfectly serviceable.”
We are in the eye of a Christmas hurricane, and no matter what you think, most of that “stuff” is wholly and utterly unnecessary. I’m not telling you not to buy Christmas presents; that would be silly. But learning to get by with a little less won’t hurt most of us.
Given how I’m currently saving on paper plates, I’ll be able to go a couple more days before I need to use the self-checkout again.
Merry Christmas, you rascals. Thanks for reading the stuff.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC