Daily Gripe

Hello my name is Stu. Today my gripe is about some people who write checks at the grocery store. I have nothing against checks and occasionally I write them myself. I am a debit type person at the grocery store like the ads shown on T.V. A person paying in cash or writing a check slows the world down. We live in a world of rush, rush, rush and hurry up and get outta my way.
There is simply not enough time to stop and smell the roses anymore. If everyone would just rush through their daily life rush home and read my blog I would be happy. But there are times when it is required to make a trip to the grocery store. I need caffeine.
So here I be standing in line at the one and only register open in this huge store filled with lots of shoppers. The person two carts in front of me whips out her checkbook only after the entire order is rung up.
Then she states, “Do you have a pen?” You just know that’s a bad sign. The one and only pen in the store has vanished and the manager is called to bring forth a writing implement. Okay, if you are a check writer – why don’t you carry a pen with you? That issue should have been addressed in ‘check writing 101.

So she starts to write, looks up in confusion and says, “What’s the date tomorrow?”
The cashier politely tells her the store does not accept post dated checks. The entity writing the check starts the sorry saga of her life. I don’t need to hear about her boyfriend spending all her hard earned money on ‘whatever’.

My foot stars tapping and I search for another register to open. I try to think good thoughts. I scan the hotties on the tabloids. Who is leaving, who is staying, who is loving and who is going where. I stand there in silence going nowhere.

So obnoxious check writer finishes writing her check dated today although we all know it will bounce. She hands it over to the always pleasant cashier or I believe they are called Associates. Ms. Pleasantry asks for an ID. “Oh my,” says the demon check writer, “I left my ID in the car.”

My foot taps faster as I grip the cart handle. I hope I remembered to wipe the cart handle down. I don’t recall? They put those disinfectant wipes right there by the front door for a reason. Germs are everywhere but I did get my flu shot this year. I should be safe. I am safe from germs but not safe from people that are slowing down world progress. Doesn’t she know we are all in a rush?

“I’ll just run out to my car real quick and get my ID.” Ms. Pleasantry smiles and calls for the manager again. I notice that all the associates wear light green golf shirts and khaki pleated pants. The manager sports a dark green golf shirt. Oh to be one in the upper crust. I look down at my feet clad in Kino sandals. There appears to be creamy white blotches on my brown sandals? Perfectly round drops.

So here I am, standing in line waiting for the return of the devious demon check writer to finish her transaction so the rest of us can get along with life. I watch my ice cream – drip, drip, and drip through the metal cage that has confined it for all this time. I slip out of line to grab a disinfectant wipe by the entrance and hurry back to my cart. My cart has been pushed aside and blocks aisle 6. Some little old lady screams at me for blocking her way. “I’m in a hurry. Get out of my way before I run you over with this here electrified cart.”

I try to squeeze back in line with my cart, my melting ice cream and my dignity. Mr. Tattoo all over the body guy screeches at me, “Hey no budging.”

I reconsider my options. I look at the line. I am at the end. I look for another flashing light to say – I’m Open. I look at my melting ice cream. I look at the size of Mr. Tattoo all over the body guy. I look at the exit sign and I walk away. The automatic doors don’t work. I feel I am being held captive. I almost panic. But then there is Ms. Plump coming in the OUT. Apparently the IN door is too far away to walk. I slip outside - to freedom.

Parked right there, in the FIRE LANE – NO PARKING spot sits a brand new SUV. Climbing into the gas-guzzling, overpriced status symbol of our time is the obnoxious, devious, daunting, demon check writer. OMG. I walk over and kick her tire. I feel good.


Sincerely,

Mr. Pid