"Hey, Hubby, I need to go pick up a few things. Do you want to come with me? We can make it a date!"
It was already past 8:00 on a weeknight. After a long day of cleaning up the yard (and by 'cleaning up the yard' I mean neatly arranging the hubcap collection and sprucing up the blue tarps,) Hubby had just sat down in his favorite chair.
At my request for a "date" we both took a glance at his attire: work boots, sweat pants, t-shirt and a Carhartt jacket.
"Just give me a second to make myself presentable," he cheerfully replied. At that, he licked the tips of both index fingers, smoothed his eyebrows and announced, "I'm ready!"
Off to the perfect start.
Wanna know just how white trash we are? Our "date" was a drive thru trip to Burger King (I'm sorry, Clarice--I know you'll be praying for me) and shopping in separate sections of Wal-Mart. And as much as we like to pretend that we're not really "Wal-Mart people," like a mullet at a NASCAR event, we blend in.
Little things about that store irritate me and when it's time for the ordeal that is check-out I'm usually a little bit grumpy. 'Cause you know how Wal-Mart has 60 check-out counters but 59 of them are self-check-out and the remaining counter with an actual human checker is reserved for people with 10 items or fewer? No? You don't know because you don't shop there? Trust me--I'm barely exaggerating.
It's not that the self check-out process is overly complicated. In fact, it's designed so any average 3rd grader can manage it. The real problem is that it takes 14 times longer for me to scan and bag my items than it would take a wild monkey.
Having never attempted the self check-out himself, Hubby misinterpreted my struggle with the bagging step as inexperience.
[The bagging step, by the way, is confounded if an item is either too lightweight or else not in exactly the right position and the sensor doesn't detect that it's been bagged and a supervisor is called and you stand there looking like a below average 3rd grader while the supervisor condescendingly gets you back on track and pats your little head. Meanwhile, the wild monkeys have finished their transactions and are halfway home . . . ]
Thinking I didn't know what I was doing, Hubby had the audacity to ask someone for help. The nerve of that man. I'll be damned if I'll allow strangers to labor under the misguided impression that I can't read instructions and figure out how to bag my own items.
Repeatedly thwarted by the faulty bagging sensor, I was beginning to lose my patience. And by 'lose my patience' I mean swear. A lot. In the middle of Wal-Mart.
And also? That husband of mine? Didn't stand in the right spot! He kept standing to my left. Why would he stand to my left when I was clearly telepathically instructing him to stand to my right and take the filled bags from my hands. Has he been married to me all these years for nothing?
When it was time to pay, I made the mistake of resting my purse on the bagging platform. And finally the sensor worked. Only it was an illegal maneuver to place a non scanned item on the bagging platform and a light started blinking and the computer started yelling at me and an alarm went off and a swarm of security guards suddenly appeared to arrest me and take me to Wal-Mart jail. Trust me--I'm barely exaggerating.
By the time we got out to the parking lot I was so fried at the lack of checkers or anything helpful that there was a visible blue cloud of newly minted obscenities trailing behind me as I briskly walked toward the car. I was so irritated that I spat my gum (oh yes, not only shopping at Wal-Mart but doing so while chewing gum . . . ) into the landscaped island in the parking lot. I know. I'm so sorry.
During the drive home, to calm my nerves and round out our white trash date, we cracked open the Honey Nut Cheerios and ate them dry--straight from the box. Not even waiting until we got home and could eat them properly out of bowls. With beer.